The Secret He Hides -3- The Girl Reaching Out to Me

"Show me."

"Show you what?"

"Your hand."

The young lady glanced at her right hand, hidden behind her back, and spoke.

"I have no idea what you're ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠talking about."

Playing dumb, I whistled, and she hurled her beloved yellow rubber duck at me.

-Quack! The rubber duck met its heroic end.

I picked up the fallen duck toy from the floor and tossed it back at her.

"Quack!"

This time, a heroic death cry echoed from the young lady herself.

She glared at me fiercely.

Her hand outstretched toward me, fingers wiggling.

I'm not a dog—what, I gotta give her my paw now?

I crossed my arms, signaling my defiance.

Touching someone else's body without permission. And this is supposed to be the land of propriety... well, not really.

Anyway, this time, I couldn't play along with the young lady.

"Gimme your hand."

"No."

"Gimme."

"Nope."

It was like a thumb war standoff, straight out of some boribori rice battle.

She reached out to grab my hand, and I kept just out of reach, teasing her like I was dominating a game of thumb war.

As everyone knows, in thumb war, offense beats defense.

As a past-life master who'd flick elementary kids' foreheads into unicorn shapes with thumb wars, dodging her sluggish grip was easier than making those kids cry.

The young lady pouted and shot me a sulky glare.

She clearly hated being teased.

"Why hide it?"

"The chocolate's in the fridge."

"Oh...! I see."

The young lady perked up at the mention of her hidden treasure trove.

But spotting my ploy to change the subject, she shook her head vigorously.

"No! Not chocolate—I mean your arm. I definitely saw it!"

Definitely saw it?

I thought she hadn't noticed.

Usually so slow, but her eyesight turned sword master-sharp at a time like this.

I'd quickly hidden my hand behind my back, but in that split second, she'd spotted the scar on my arm.

One silver lining: she hadn't seen it clearly.

Her gaze was still fixed on my wrist, as if she'd only caught the faint silhouette through my wet shirt.

Maybe I can play this off naturally.

Ignorance is bliss for both of us.

Good is good, right?

I racked my brain for an excuse to feed her, but her piercing stare made it hard to spit one out.

Gotta talk my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way out of this smooth.

A lame excuse would only make her suspicious.

But why was she so curious anyway?

I glanced awkwardly at my right hand, still tucked behind my back.

The black silhouette, blurred by the water.

It piqued curiosity, sure, but nothing worth risking my life over.

Not a heretic symbol tattoo.

Not a Yuria fan club mark.

Not a family secret etched in ink.

Just a nasty scar that'd make anyone go, "Eww..."

Especially one I didn't want her to see.

Ugly to look at. Hate to show.

Of course, I figured it'd come out eventually.

Can't wear long sleeves forever.

Once time faded it, I'd claim a work injury and ease her into it gradually.

Didn't expect it'd get exposed like this.

But hey, silver lining: I'd prepped excuses.

Worried about getting caught while cleaning the mansion, I'd brainstormed them on the fly, and they stuck in my head.

No matter what she assumed, I could roll with a convincing response.

If she said it was gross:

-That's 'cause I haven't washed it.

If she asked about the big blotch:

-Got a huge mole on my forearm.

If she said it scared her:

-Ugh. Black flame dragon lives in my right hand...

Excuses like that. Not scary at all.

Though my heart was pounding like mad, I could play it natural.

She reached out; I awkwardly hid my hand.

Awkward glances crossed.

After a minute of silence...

Unable to wait, she spoke first.

"Ricardo."

"Yes."

"Actually, I already know everything."

She knew.

I swallowed hard.

How long ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had she known? I'd never let it slip.

I always wore non-see-through shirts, even in the heat.

Sweat-level dampness never showed through.

How'd she figure it out?

A whirlwind of thoughts raced through my head.

I hadn't planned for getting fully busted.

If exposed, the mansion's vibe would sour fast.

Tension hung thick in the bathroom.

With cold eyes, she said,

"You know, Ricardo, people make mistakes."

"...Yes."

"They have secrets they can't share."

"True."

"Sometimes they hit people like me, or baldify anyone who mouths off."

"That's a bit much, isn't it?"

She narrowed her eyes sharply.

"Listen to me."

Right then, she felt every inch the Desmont family baby girl.

The words sounded like a confessional at church, but her aura screamed family head.

She continued,

"I have secrets too."

"You, miss?"

"Yeah."

She rummaged in her chest again.

"Truth is, I stole chocolate today."

"?"

She flashed the melted goo with a grin.

"Three whole ones."

Her evil cackle made me want to flick her forehead for real.

-Under the bed.

-Inside the pillowcase.

-In my hair.

Spilling emergency ration spots, I realized: she was way off base.

I was the idiot for tensing up.

She'd always been clueless about subtlety.

The one hollering for jjampong while everyone else ordered jjajangmyeon.

Me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thinking she'd caught on? Foolish.

My tense brain kicked back into gear.

Lounging in the tub like a slime, she slowly spoke.

"Ricardo, you got a tattoo, right?"

Off-base as ever. Relieved by her consistency.

"..."

"It's a tattoo. You're hiding it 'cause I hate them, yeah?"

"Guess I got busted, huh."

She grinned at my sheepish smile, convinced her deduction nailed it.

Curiosity sated, she beamed.

I scratched my head awkwardly.

To dodge suspicion and let her think, "Oh, busted," I launched full-method acting.

"Was it that obvious?"

"Yeah. Pretending not to notice was tough."

"Tried my best to hide it, but your eyes see through everything, miss."

"Obviously. Who do you think I am?"

She thumped her chest proudly.

Thanks for falling for it hook, line, and sinker.

Might as well seal the con now.

Once she mistakes a lie for truth, turning it real ain't hard.

This scar secret was mine alone; keep quiet, and it's done.

Faking it changes nothing.

I smoothly recited my canned lie.

"Got a tattoo behind your back once."

"Right?"

"Sorry for hiding. It's kinda weird to show folks."

"Hmm... Yeah? When?"

Sharp question.

"Like... a year ago?"

"Eek! That long ago?! You butler bastard! Hiding it all this time!"

Betrayed, she chucked the rubber duck.

-Quack!

I dodged again.

"That attack was pretty fierce."

Thumbs-up, and she went "Eeek!" fuming.

Panting, she snapped,

"Next one hits for sure."

"Sorry. Dodging weak sauce is habit."

"Eeek!"

Time to bail from the bathroom.

Three hours soaked; she looked less human, more slime, groaning "Hooaack."

Tattoo talk forgotten, it seemed.

-Splash splash.

She bounced the rubber duck off the wall like catch.

-Quack!

"Huat-cha!"

-Quack!

"Ho-hit-cha!"

The duck's death squeaks grew with each wall-hit.

Pity for the toy with the wrong owner; I stood.

"Where?"

"Getting towels."

"Towels?"

She tilted her head, eyeing me like a startled, fluffed cat at "towel."

No backing down. Shift's ending.

I gestured clearly: pointed at her—"you"—door—"out"—floor—"now."

"Eeek!"

Rubber duck flew my way.

Sitting on the bed, the young lady entrusted her hair to me.

Dry it with aura, she demanded. Wasting premium talent on nonsense.

Hanna would've freaked and yanked Olivia off.

Fine aura control is no joke—even sword masters struggle.

Did she know how impressive this was?

Her drowsy eyes murmured "Aah, feels good," clueless as ever.

"Huuu... Nice."

"Like it?"

"Mhm."

While drying,

She said casually,

"Ricardo."

"Yes?"

"Can I ask what the tattoo is?"

Polite for once. Normally it'd be "Show me!"

Leaning into me all gentlemanly—growth spurt. Proud.

"Showing's tricky..."

"Mhm. Don't wanna see. Hate tattoos."

"Got it."

"Hate 'em."

Her "hate" stung.

Like a bearded dad chased off by his daughter. Hurt.

I pondered inwardly.

What'd my scar look like again?

Cracked like drought earth. Charred black spots.

What'd it resemble?

Lies stick better with truth as base.

Aim for plausible.

Three minutes pondering, I picked the closest match.

"Tree bark."

"What bark?"

"Tree."

She stared.

Her face shifted oddly.

Not her bath face.

Teary-eyed stare. Why?

Brushed too hard?

Stumped, she rasped,

"Why? A tree one?"

"Just."

Best match, but didn't expect the why.

Plausible answer:

"Sturdy, solid. Shade too."

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Suits you."

She spaced out at the ceiling.

Staring blankly awhile now.

I whispered,

"What're you looking at?"

"Huh? Nothing."

She mumbled,

"Just."

Olivia knew it all.