Police Officer

Gabie's POV

Before I could completely collapse, he stepped forward and helped me stand upright.

"C-Can you walk?" he asked.

I almost replied, "Of course I can, and I'm fully capable of communicating too," but I stopped myself. No use provoking him again.

"Yes," I simply answered.

Without another word, he gently guided me into his house. I followed like a scolded child—quiet and obedient—just to avoid trouble. Maybe this was my chance to talk to him properly. Maybe this time, he'd finally hear me out.

The moment we stepped inside, he turned on the lights. The place was neat and organized. Not that big, but spacious enough for someone living alone.

"Hmm… does he live with someone? A girlfriend? A wife? What if he's married and I just caused a huge fight between them because he brought a strange woman into their home?" I scolded myself mentally. "You idiot, Gabie. You walked away from all the chaos in your life, and now you're just dragging more trouble in. How much more damage can you do?"

He disappeared into the kitchen, which wasn't sectioned off, so I could still partially see him move around.

"So unfair. Even his house is neat and calm," I muttered in my head.

I quietly sat on the soft L-shaped sofa, my eyes roaming around. The walls were painted simple white. A large flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall, and a long console table held a few picture frames, though they were too far for me to see clearly. There was a staircase leading to the upper floor, but before I could continue scanning the space, he returned—with a first-aid kit in hand.

"Give me your right hand," he said curtly.

I obeyed without question. The dried blood from earlier at the hospital was still visible.

"Was this from the IV needle?" he asked.

"Ah… yes. I removed it myself earlier," I admitted, suddenly self-conscious.

He cleaned the wound in silence, then dabbed it with Betadine before covering it with a bandage. His eyes then flicked toward my chest. He paused, obviously uncomfortable.

"What about… that?" he asked, pointing hesitantly to the spot where blood had started to seep through my top.

"Huh? Uh—eh… it hurts whenever I lift my arm," I explained shyly.

"Then how did you even manage to get dressed?" he asked, baffled.

"I forced it. Even if it hurt. That's probably why it started bleeding."

"You're unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Wait… maybe it's not just the wound that's bleeding—maybe my nose too, from his flawless English."

"Doesn't he know how to speak Tagalog?"

"Seriously? You're bleeding and that's your concern?" he said, clearly annoyed.

"What do you want me to do?" I replied innocently. "It's not like I had a spare bandage or extra clothes. If I didn't change, I'd still be in my hospital gown."

"What the hell—" he stared at me in disbelief.

"Do you have to shout? We're literally this close! I'm not deaf, you know!" I snapped. His eyebrows drew together in frustration.

"I answered your question! I even explained how I got this wound." I pointed at my chest. "And then you get mad when I bring up the possibility of undressing so you can treat it? How else will you see the wound?"

He let out a string of curses under his breath and closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to calm himself.

"What's the big deal about me taking off my top? I'm still wearing a bra. It's not like I'm trying to seduce him. Ugh, what does he think I'm after—his body?"

He groaned and rubbed his temples, clearly frustrated.

I started feeling dizzy again, so I leaned back and closed my eyes.

"Hey! Are you okay?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Just tired," I murmured. "Or maybe I'm just drained from listening to you speak in flawless English. Nakakapagod din makinig sa'yo, you know." ("You know, it's tiring listening to you, you know."

He muttered another curse under his breath, then glanced at me again.

"Alright, let's just get this over with. I need to cook—I'm starving," he said calmly.

Then—without warning—he pulled out a pair of scissors and started cutting the right side of my top.

"Hey! What the hell? This is the only dress I have! Why are you cutting it?" I protested.

"Akala ko ba nahihilo ka? Nakakatawa naman at bigla kang nagka-energy magsalita." ("I thought you were dizzy? Funny how you suddenly have the energy to talk,) he shot back, annoyed.

I stared at him, blinking in disbelief. "Wait. You can speak Tagalog?!"

"I never said I couldn't," he replied coolly. "You just assumed because I didn't answer."

"Well, you could've answered sooner. I was confused, okay?"

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. If you pass out again, I'm leaving you on the couch."

I ignored him and let him do what he wanted. Even if he was rude, stubborn, and sarcastic, I was still thankful he chose to treat my wound.

I didn't even realize I had fallen asleep leaning back in the chair. All I remembered was...

"Hey. Miss, wake up. You have to eat," he said softly.

My eyes fluttered open, and I immediately rolled them when I saw how close his face was to mine.

"Sorry… I must've dozed off."

"It's fine. You're still weak. And you insisted on running away from the hospital like you weren't half-conscious," he grumbled, standing and heading to the kitchen before I could say anything else.

"Come on! I'm hungry! Don't make the food wait for you!" he shouted again.

I didn't want him yelling at me a second time, so I stood up slowly and followed him to the table. I was hungry anyway—I hadn't eaten since I woke up earlier.

We ate quietly, though I caught him glancing at me every now and then. I pretended not to notice. I didn't want to start another argument, not while we were eating. That just felt wrong.

After the meal, he immediately took care of the dishes. He wouldn't even let me help.

"You need to rest. Moving too much might reopen your wound," he said firmly.

I went back to the living room and settled into the couch, exhausted. My doctor was right—my body still needed time to heal.

Later, I saw him quietly heading upstairs. I didn't dare ask where he was going. Maybe he was just done with me, and honestly, I didn't want to risk another scolding.

After a few minutes, he came back down—freshly showered and dressed. He walked over to me.

"Let's go upstairs so you can change and rest," he said. "Still dizzy? Do you think you can climb up?"

"Not too much anymore," I replied. "I think I can manage, slowly."

I stood up and walked toward the stairs. I could feel him trailing behind me as I climbed each step with caution.

"You can sleep here," he said, opening the door to a bedroom. "This is my sister's room, but she's not around. You can use it for now. The other room isn't cleaned—it hasn't been used in a while."

He pointed toward a neatly folded dress on the bed. "You can wear this. I don't know if it'll fit though—you're taller than my sister."

I hesitated. "Is it okay with your sister that I sleep here?"

"Yeah, sure. She rarely comes home anyway."

"Uh… okay. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Good night."

I stepped inside, but before closing the door, I asked, "Aren't we going to talk about how I ended up in your car without saying anything to anyone?"

"We can talk tomorrow. I'm off anyway. Right now, you need to rest."

He walked toward the other room. Just before he opened his door, I called out again.

"Good night. And thank you again."

He just glanced back at me, then entered his room.

I closed the door behind me, changed into the clothes he provided, and lay down.

But sleep didn't come right away.

I kept thinking about them. I knew they were worried by now—probably looking for me. I was sure Jhay had already told Miggy I was missing.

"What kind of mess is this? Of all the men I could have feelings for, why did it have to be... my father's son?"

"Should I be angry at myself? Or resentful?"

Only now do I understand what it means to love someone who's completely out of reach.

And Mom—"why did she lie to me? Didn't she think I'd find out eventually? Didn't she realize how much it would hurt?"

Now, someone else is hurting too. Someone who didn't deserve to be dragged into this.

"Who is Gab? What does he have to do with all this?"

"Why did she pretend to be me?"

I couldn't stop the tears from falling as those thoughts flooded my mind. Eventually, I cried myself to sleep.

***

The next morning, I wasn't sure what time I woke up. My hair was a mess, so I tried to smooth it down with my fingers as I got up.

When I stepped out of the room, I heard music coming from downstairs. And something smelled delicious.

From the stairs, I saw him in the kitchen with his back turned, busy cooking. I cleared my throat to make my presence known, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Good morning," I said instead.

He turned quickly.

"Morning. Just take a seat—food's almost ready."

He didn't seem grumpy today. I expected him to snap at me again, but he didn't.

He served tapa (a cured or dried beef), fried egg, and garlic rice.

"This is my go-to breakfast. I've been hooked since the first time I tried it," he said.

"Tapsilog (consist of tapa, sinangag or fried rice ang sunny side up egg or itlog) really hits the spot in the morning," I agreed.

He looked at me, surprised. "You like tapsilog too?"

"Yeah. My friend and I used to eat at this spot near school. It was our favorite."

He nodded, seemingly impressed. "Nice. Do you drink coffee?"

"Yes, I do. I can make it, if—"

"It's already done. I'll just get you a mug."

He hurried to the cabinet and grabbed another cup. "Sugar?"

"One spoon."

"Cream?"

"Yeah, with cream," I replied.

He took a container from the fridge. I watched him as he moved around the kitchen—so focused, so at ease.

"It feels like I'm imposing," I said quietly. "You've already helped me so much, and now you're even serving me breakfast…"

He didn't reply at first. He just placed the coffee in front of me.

"Here."

"Thanks." I smiled, trying to meet his eyes.

"I'm used to it," he said after a while.

"Huh?"

"All of this. Cooking. Cleaning. I've gotten used to it. I'm usually alone, so I do everything myself. And when my sister's around, she's too lazy to cook—so I end up doing it all."

"Your sister's lucky. You really take good care of her," I said.

"Let's eat first," he said, clearly trying to change the topic. "We can talk later. Food's getting cold."

After eating, he insisted on doing the dishes again, reminding me not to move too much.

I sat back and watched him as he washed up and wiped the counters. From where I sat, I could see him clearly. He was efficient. Quiet. Focused.

I thought to myself—"his girlfriend must be lucky."

He can cook. He cleans. He's thoughtful in his own way.

"Who would've guessed that behind all that grumpiness was someone so decent?"

"If he hadn't been there yesterday… what would've happened to me?"

"Would I have been arrested? Hurt?"

"Who gets into a stranger's car without a word and just disappears?"

"Stupid. I was stupid."

"He could've hurt me. He could've done anything, and no one would've suspected him. He had an angelic face, the kind that made people trust him instantly. That made it more dangerous."

And yet, here I am, safe. In his house. Drinking coffee. Eating breakfast.

Still alive.

"Hey! Are you okay?" he asked softly.

That's when I realized why he had spoken so gently about being mean to me last night.

"U-uh, I'm okay," I stammered, still feeling a little out of sorts.

"You're spacing out," he teased lightly.

"I just remembered something," I said, trying to sound casual.

He leaned forward, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I guess it's time you tell me what really happened. I'm all ears now."

Without hesitation, I began from the beginning—everything I could remember until the moment I woke up yesterday. He listened quietly, occasionally looking away as if he was thinking deeply about what I was saying, then returning his gaze to me. His expression was unreadable, almost blank, but sometimes he nodded. I wasn't sure what to make of those nods.

"Maybe you think I made all that up—from novels, teleseryes, or movies?" I added, my voice shaky. "But it's all true. I never expected my life to get this chaotic."

He shook his head slowly. "No, I'm not thinking that. Actually, I'm familiar with that shooting incident you mentioned."

"Really? How?"

"I'm a police officer, part of the team investigating your case. That's why I was at the hospital yesterday," he explained. "I didn't continue going upstairs because my sister called to ask for a favor, and my companion didn't show up. So, I left without doing anything."

I widened my eyes, surprised and suddenly nervous.

"Hey, calm down," he said with a small grin. "I won't tell anyone—though I already knew who you are, Ms. Gabriella Therese Alonzo."

His words caught me completely off guard.

"W-What do you mean?" I asked, voice trembling.

"I said calm down. I got a call from a colleague last night. You were reported missing. No one knows how you got out of the hospital. When they checked the CCTV footage, there was nothing showing you getting into my car. You're good at sneaking around," he laughed.

A huge weight lifted off my chest and I let out a shaky sigh of relief. But I still didn't know what to say—he already knew everything.

"I understand why you want to stay away from your family," he said gently. "I'm not saying what you did was right, but I respect your choice."

I blinked, stunned. "Oh, my golly! You almost gave me a heart attack."

He chuckled softly. "Thanks for trusting me."

He looked at me thoughtfully. "So, what's your plan now?"

"I need time to think. My mind's a mess. I'm not ready to face Miggy—or especially Mama. I grew up surrounded by lies," I whispered.

"Miggy?" His voice was low, concerned.

"My boyfriend. But it didn't last. Because of... incest."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Sansebastian?"

"That's his real name. Miggy is the nickname."

"Right. I talked to him once when we took a statement from a guy. Jhay—your best friend and manager, right?"

I nodded slowly.

"He said you're doing commercials? Facial wash, phone ads?"

"Yes."

"Wow, that's impressive. You must be kind of famous."

"No, just a few small ones. Not really famous."

He raised an eyebrow. "So where do you plan to go now?"

I shrugged, embarrassed. "I don't know. Wherever my feet take me, I guess."

He looked shocked. "What? You don't have a plan? Or money?"

"I didn't bring my ATM card. Tomorrow, I'll try to withdraw from the bank."

"How? You need your passbook."

I tapped my forehead. "I don't have that either."

He smirked. "No ID either, I bet."

I nodded again.

"Don't worry. I'll figure something out. For now, stay here."

"Really? I can pay you back later."

"You don't have to. I'm not like that."

"I know, but everything costs something these days."

"Not always," he said quietly, eyes softening. "My mother taught me to help without expecting anything in return."

I wanted to ask more about his mother, but it felt too personal. I waited for him to share if he wanted.

"Oh! You never told me your name," I said suddenly.

"It's August Marquez."

"Sounds foreign. Are you mixed race?"

He grinned. "What, am I a different breed of dog now?"

I laughed. "You're the one who keeps teasing me."

"Just joking. Loosen up."

I frowned, but he laughed again.

"For the record, I'm pure Filipino," he said. "Born in California, raised there by my grandparents after my parents died in a car accident. I came here for senior high and college."

Our chat continued until two in the afternoon, when he told me I could shower and change into the clothes his sister left in the closet. He promised to check on my wound later when he got back.