The silence that followed Marcus's soft, trembling words—"I don't know him"—was deafening. Every face on the bus turned toward Vincent, suspicion heavy in their eyes.
"Leave the poor boy alone!" an older man barked from the front, his voice echoing over the rattling engine.
"He looks terrified. Can't you see?" another woman chimed in, clutching her purse closer.
"Someone call the police," a teenager muttered, already fishing out his phone.
Vincent's pulse thundered in his ears. He still had his hand clamped on Marcus's shoulder, but the younger man winced and hissed in pain, twisting under his grip.
"Please," Marcus whimpered, wide eyes swimming with confusion. "I don't know him! Why is he doing this to me? Please make him let go."
A middle-aged man in a pressed shirt barked, "Driver, stop the bus! We can't let some stranger harass him."
"Yeah!" another passenger, a young woman with a sharp tongue, chimed in. "He looks terrified. Why are you grabbing him like that?"
Vincent's chest tightened as the crowd's murmurs swelled. Words like kidnapper, creep, abuser buzzed around him like hornets ready to sting.
"No, no, no—you don't understand!" Vincent's voice cracked as he raised his hands, finally releasing Marcus. "He has Alzheimer's! His memory glitches—it happens all the time. One second he knows me, the next he doesn't. He knows me."
"Convenient excuse," the man sneered.
"Where's your proof?" another woman demanded from the back.
The bus driver had slowed to the curb, ready to pull over. "Yeah the miss is right, prove it," he snapped through the rearview mirror.
"Yeah, show us something," the old woman demanded, arms crossed. "If you're telling the truth, prove who you are to him."
Vincent's mind raced, panic gnawing at him. He couldn't exactly whip out Marcus's ATM card and declare he was after his millions. No—he needed something else, something believable. Then he remembered.
The notebook.
[ REFERENCE FROM CHAPTER 6 ]
That little worn-out thing Marcus clutched like it was a lifeline. He carried it everywhere, scribbling reminders, names, addresses—fragments of the memory he was losing.
Vincent swallowed hard, his words tumbling out fast. "Check his right pocket. There's a small notebook—he always keeps it there. Open it. You'll see… you'll see my name written. Tom. I'm Tom. His boyfriend."
Gasps fluttered through the bus. All eyes swung toward Marcus, whose hands twitched nervously at his side.
The old woman leaned forward, brows knitting. "Is that true? Do you have such a book?"
Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tight. He didn't deny it.
And slowly, deliberately, he reached into his pocket.
Marcus blinked, confused. A hesitant old woman leaned forward, her gnarled hands shaking as she slipped into his coat pocket. The bus went dead silent, everyone watching as she pulled out the small, worn notebook.
"Open it," Vincent urged, his voice cracking with the strain of desperation.
The old woman flipped through the pages, her lips moving as she read. "Tom… 'Don't forget Tom.' … 'Tom will come back.'"
The passengers shifted, murmurs buzzing like a hive. Vincent seized the moment, plastering a soft, almost pleading smile on his face.
"You see? I'm Tom. I'm his boyfriend." He tilted his head toward Marcus, lowering his tone. "Sometimes he remembers, sometimes he doesn't. But he's mine. And I promised I'd look after him no matter what."
The air thickened. Some looked touched, others skeptical, but the fire of suspicion had cooled. Marcus, still disoriented, clutched the notebook as though it were a lifeline.
The driver cleared his throat. "Alright, folks, enough drama. Let's settle down."
"Fine," the man in the pressed shirt muttered, folding his arms. "But you'd better keep your hands gentle, Tom."
Vincent swallowed his pride, forcing a meek nod. "Of course."
The bus lurched to a stop at the next junction. Vincent wasted no time. He pulled Marcus to his feet, ignoring the curious glances, and all but dragged him down the aisle.
Fresh air hit his face as they stepped off the bus. Vincent's chest rose and fell with sharp breaths. His grip on Marcus's wrist was tight enough to leave a mark.
The passengers watched through the glass as the bus pulled away, their faces a mix of pity and relief.
Vincent didn't wave, didn't thank them. He leaned close to Marcus's ear, his words a hiss of venom and frustration.
"You nearly got me killed back there, Cariño."
Marcus blinked up at him, notebook still clutched against his chest, his expression calm and unreadable.
Vincent exhaled through gritted teeth, pulling him toward the stolen motorcycle. His jaw was tight, but behind his mask of anger was something he refused to admit to himself: relief.
His memory glitched again , now considering Vincent as Tom, "I'm sorry Tom, you will forgive me right , baby ? My memory lapsed again" he hung his face lower feeling embarrassed and ashamed for almost making Tom ( Vincent) a criminal infront of others.
Vincent huffed in annoyance,"it's okay .. it's okay cariño..now now don't cry over this we don't want another set of crowd , calling me out and yelling me for making a young man cry" .
He chuckled to lighten the tension.
Marcus too chuckled with him , without warning he linked his hands with his hand.
Vincent didn't expect a sudden intimacy , his heart beating wild, he couldn't understand his own heart.
He have been with several most attractive woman before , none of them made his heart beat like this. Why is he feeling like this ?
------
PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH PROOF ,
VINCENT 😮💨
WITH ... UMM I DON'T KNOW ,
MARCUS 😶