Chapter 136: Diary, Entry One
Chapter 136: Diary, Entry One
It was close to eleven by the time Cyrus Calder finally returned to his apartment.
Looking back on the day, he had somehow managed to stay busy from morning until night. St. Alder had taken over half the school day with physical exams and bloodwork. His evening shift had unexpectedly turned into a modeling job for Helena. Then, right when he thought he could head home and sleep in peace, Detective Rhea Maddox had apparently decided that pretending to be drunk outside his apartment was a perfectly reasonable way to end the night.
All things considered, it had been an unusually full day.
Cyrus unlocked his door and stepped inside.
The cool air in the apartment settled over him at once.
His shoulders loosened.
Nothing beat his own place.
The apartment was small, the furniture was cheap, and there was nothing impressive about the living room, but everything inside belonged to a life he had chosen for himself. Even the cold felt better here because nobody else had decided the temperature for him.
Cyrus dropped onto the little couch in a lazy sprawl and pulled out the new phone Helena had bought him.
The thing probably cost more than everything he owned put together.
Thinking about that still hurt.
He handled it with more care than he wanted to admit and only then noticed two notifications waiting on the screen.
One was a message from Daphne Whitlock.
The other was a new friend request.
Cyrus opened Daphne’s chat first.
Daphne: You are not home yet?
Cyrus typed back.
Cyrus: I just got in.
He had barely opened the profile attached to the friend request when someone knocked on his door.
Cyrus looked toward the entrance.
Daphne was still awake at this hour?
More importantly, had she seen his reply and immediately walked over?
A quiet laugh nearly escaped him.
He stood, picked up the personal alarm he kept nearby, and slipped it into his hand before approaching the door.
Then he adjusted his expression.
When he opened it, Daphne stood in the hallway.
Her attention moved first to his face, where fatigue from the long day still showed faintly, and then to the alarm in his hand.
A bitter feeling tightened inside her.
There was also a trace of cold drifting from his apartment, colder than the hallway should have been, but Daphne barely registered it.
Her mind was elsewhere.
She had spent the past several days thinking about the way she had treated him.
At the time, she had convinced herself that some of what happened between them was only retaliation. Cyrus had provoked her, teased her, pushed at her patience, and she had responded because she was an adult who had let impulse win.
That excuse had become harder to hold onto afterward.
Whatever games had come before, she had still crossed a line.
She had forced him into something he had not freely chosen.
That was why, when Cyrus had later shown a rare trace of vulnerability and asked whether he could trust her if he lost his memory, she had been unable to answer him with confidence.
The silence in the hallway lasted longer than either of them seemed to expect.
Cyrus had a rough idea of Daphne’s current state of mind, but not enough to relax.
He could not tell whether she had come over because she felt guilty, because she wanted to apologize again, or because some new impulse had pushed aside the regret she had been showing lately.
And if she suddenly decided to get physical, Cyrus knew exactly how badly that could go for him.
He could not overpower her.
That was the whole reason he had grabbed the alarm before opening the door.
Cyrus lowered his eyelids slightly and asked, "Did you need something, Ms. Whitlock?"
Daphne hesitated.
"I only wanted to ask whether you had eaten."
"Yes, I already had dinner."
His attention shifted away from her after he answered.
Daphne noticed.
The bitterness in her chest deepened.
When she spoke again, however, her voice was calm and gentle, almost like an older neighbor checking in after a long day.
"There is something I have been thinking about. What you said before about losing your memory, was that true?"
Cyrus lowered his eyes.
"Yes, that part was true."
He let a short pause pass before continuing.
"At first, I thought the memories I had already lost were because of some accident. Lately, it seems more like the problem is coming from me."
Daphne’s expression tightened.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"There is no need. You have already helped me a lot, and I appreciate it."
Cyrus did not accept the offer.
After their first exchange of eye contact, he had been carefully controlling both his face and where he looked.
Otherwise, he was worried he might laugh.
She believed him again.
Lying to most people would have left Cyrus with at least some discomfort.
Daphne was different.
Her interest in his childlike Frostborn form had already placed her in a category where his conscience became much less demanding.
Besides, Cyrus was not technically lying.
He really might lose his memory one day.
Calling a rare-blood relationship problem a rare-blood problem was not even inaccurate.
The alarm had originally been brought along only to protect himself in case Daphne tried something. Yet her recent behavior had created a different opening.
She had spent days bringing him food, acting more carefully, and lowering the pressure between them because she regretted what she had done.
In Cyrus’s mind, that was the equivalent of voluntarily setting down the weapon she had been using against him.
Daphne wanted the younger version of him close.
She wanted to keep that vulnerable form beside her.
At the same time, her guilt over crossing the line made her try to repair the damage afterward.
That contradiction was useful.
The fact that she cared about whether he thought well of her meant Cyrus finally had a way to test something important.
Could Daphne be turned into a safeguard instead of another threat?
He kept his expression lowered.
"Was there anything else you wanted to ask?"
Daphne was quiet before answering.
"No, that was all. You should get some sleep."
Cyrus gave a small nod.
He watched as she turned and started back toward the apartment next door.
She had nearly reached her door when his voice stopped her.
"Ms. Whitlock."
Daphne turned immediately.
Cyrus had stepped one pace out of his apartment.
For the first time since opening the door, he raised his eyes and met hers directly.
His tone remained controlled enough that she could not read much from it.
"Starting tomorrow, and after that too, you do not need to bring me meals anymore."
Daphne froze.
"Why would I stop?"
The question came out without hesitation.
Cyrus let his expression falter just enough.
"If I am going to forget the things you have done for me, then I should not keep accepting them when I already know that."
Daphne stared at him.
"If you forget, then you forget. I do not care about that."
Her answer echoed through the quiet hallway.
Cyrus did not respond right away.
For several seconds, he stood there as though the certainty in her voice had genuinely caught him off guard.
Then he turned and went back into his apartment.
The door closed.
Daphne remained outside.
Her expression had dimmed, but beneath that disappointment, something else slowly appeared.
Expectation.
If he truly forgot what she had done before, then she would have another chance.
She could do better next time.
She would control herself.
She would make sure he never had another reason to look at her with the same caution.
And if his body ever became small again, she would make him choose to come to her instead of having to be pushed or cornered.
The thought restored something inside her.
It was not too late.
From Daphne’s perspective, perhaps nothing had properly begun yet.
Inside his apartment, Cyrus had already picked up on enough of her reaction to understand that the conversation had worked.
He took out his diary.
The first thing he did was check his memory against what he had previously written.
Nothing new appeared to be missing.
Satisfied, Cyrus recorded the events of the day.
The physical exam.
The blood draw.
Helena taking him shopping.
The expensive phone.
Rhea waiting outside his apartment.
The ride to her place.
And finally, the conversation he had just had with Daphne.
When he finished writing, Cyrus flipped back to the page where he had listed several names.
Daphne Whitlock’s name still had a question mark beside it.
Cyrus stared at the mark.
Then he erased it.
In its place, he drew a small star.
A sigh left him afterward.
He really was not a particularly good person.
If he had not discovered the memory loss, and if Daphne had not spent the past several days acting as though she were deliberately lowering herself after what happened, Cyrus would never have put this much effort into the performance.
The result, however, was better than expected.
If his memories truly disappeared later, Daphne probably would not repeat what she had done before.
More importantly, protecting him would fit naturally into the role she already wanted for herself.
That was excellent.
Cyrus could not beat Daphne in a direct fight.
If she ended up standing on his side instead, then someone with enough strength to make him nervous became a very convenient bodyguard.
Against Isolde, that could matter.
The thought sent another wave of confidence through him.
Apparently, he was getting very good at dealing with women.
Cyrus turned to the first page he had deliberately left blank.
Then he picked up his pen.
"To my future self, I am proud of you. I believe you will achieve even greater success from here."
His handwriting moved confidently across the page.
The sentence had the grand tone of someone leaving behind wisdom for a future version of himself, and Cyrus found himself quite satisfied with it.
Once he finished, he closed the diary and yawned.
The exhaustion from the day finally caught up with him.
He showered, brushed his teeth, changed into comfortable clothes, and returned to bed.
Tomorrow he was supposed to visit Faye’s house.
Maybe he should bring a small cake with him.
It could count as a little celebration.
With his eyes already closed, Cyrus pictured the visit and felt the corner of his mouth rise faintly.
At least tomorrow should be fun.
There was only one problem.
He had the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something.