Gwendolyn Morris directed Marco Griffin to park the scooter near a subway entrance, where there was a designated area for scooters. After parking, I got off and checked my phone to see it was already 11:15 p.m. Compared to the daytime, there were noticeably fewer people around the subway station. A night breeze blew by, and Marco stepped forward to shield me from the wind.
Standing together, we made quite a contrast—one tall, one shorter; one in dark clothes, the other in light. In the stillness of the night, we stood out quite a bit. Marco wasn't wearing a jacket, just a sleek silver shirt that clung to his muscular frame, highlighting the energy beneath the fabric.
I glanced to the side and said, "I'm not cold. You’re not wearing much—maybe you shouldn't stay in the wind." Marco gave a small, knowing smile, perhaps unsure if I was playing coy or genuinely not understanding his gesture. Another woman might have interpreted his actions differently.
He lowered his gaze, studying my face closely under the dim light. With my hair slicked back and no bangs, my full forehead was visible. This hairstyle requires confidence in one’s looks, and thankfully, my oval face and slightly upturned eyes suited it, lending me an air of aloof elegance.
Perhaps it was one of those "contrast" moments people talk about. He chuckled lightly, his tone playful, "Miss Morris, are you worried about me?"
Startled, I looked up. That was bolder than when he’d offered to steady me earlier. Coming from a man to a woman, it was laden with implications.
"No," I clarified. "I have a boyfriend. I wouldn't be concerned about other men." Marco paused, with a flicker of interest in his eyes, as he stepped back to create some distance.
"Sorry," he said sincerely, without any irritation or embarrassment in response to my words, only regret. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just thought Miss Morris was being kind."
I looked at him, pondering whether he was as harmless as he seemed. But with him standing against the light, I couldn’t make out the subtleties of his expression, let alone any amusement in his eyes. I decided to drop the subject, stating flatly, "Mr. Griffin is kind as well."
At that moment, a black SUV slowly pulled up to the curb, hazard lights blinking. Marco's phone buzzed—Chandler Hunter had sent a WhatsApp message: "Waiting by the curb."
Marco pocketed his phone and nodded toward the parked SUV. "Our ride is here."
Boone Williams was driving, with Chandler Hunter in the passenger seat. I had no choice but to share the back seat with Marco. Boone, though not very chatty, acknowledged me with a nod. "Hello, Miss Morris."
I nodded in return, "Hello."
Chandler turned around, grinning. "Hey there, I'm Chandler, Marco's old buddy."
"Hi," I replied, smiling.
Chandler put on a mock pout. "Come on, I introduced myself—at least give me your name!"
"Her name is Gwendolyn Morris," Marco interjected with a hint of protectiveness I hadn't expected.
Chandler studied me again, the dim car light making it hard to see my features. Keeping his curiosity in check, he asked, "Gwendolyn Morris—nice name. Any special meaning?"
Marco glanced at me, waiting for my response.
"None," I replied softly. It wasn’t really my name, so how could I know its significance?
Marco shifted his gaze back to Chandler, gesturing for Boone to start driving.
Catching the warning look from Marco, Chandler sat up straight, an amused smile playing on his lips. He sent Marco a WhatsApp message, "So, you like the chase."
Marco read the message impassively, turning off his phone screen without a word.
The SUV pulled up at the hospital's entrance. As I moved to get out, Marco stopped me. "Wait a second."
My hand hovered over the car door, puzzled. "What is it?"
He smiled. "I've arranged for a wheelchair. It should be here shortly."
I was surprised and a bit flustered. "A wheelchair isn’t necessary."
Marco smiled again, stepping out as an older man—Mr. Johnson—wheeled one over. With a gentlemanly gesture, he presented the chair to me. "Miss Morris, please."
His voice was gentle, almost caressing, as if speaking to someone dear. The sensation of being treated with such care was strange, and I couldn't help but look at Marco with newfound caution.
Noticing my hesitation, Marco asked softly, "What's wrong?"
His sincere gaze almost made me question my doubts. I eased into the wheelchair and asked Mr. Johnson, "How is my boyfriend?"
He reassured me with a smile. "Everything is set. Once you're done here, you can go see him."
"Thank you," I said.
The doctor confirmed my foot injury wasn't serious, prescribing some topical treatments. He joked with Marco, “This kind of injury could take a while to heal. Perfect opportunity to play the caring boyfriend—make sure she doesn't walk too much.”
Marco blushed slightly, but I interrupted, "He's not my boyfriend—he’s the one who hit me."
