I sat in the dimly lit car, the soft hum of the engine the only sound keeping the silence alive.
Slavvy's eyes were fixed on the road, his jaw tight with focus. The faint glow from the dashboard cast shadows across his face, sharpening his chiseled features and sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.
"What's your name?" His voice was low—deep, edged with something unreadable that made my stomach twist.
"Testimony," I murmured, barely above a whisper.
"Testimony Broncos?" he asked, glancing at me briefly. There was a flicker of amusement in his gaze. I nodded, cautious.
"Yeah… how do you know my surname?" I asked, unease curling through my chest.
"I know everything about you, Testimony."
His lips curved into the faintest smirk, his tone light but laced with mystery.
"You should've been in detention. But you didn't show up. Why?"
I swallowed hard, fear slithering up my spine.
"I… I forgot my book at home," I admitted, my voice trembling despite my attempt to sound calm.
"Didn't you do your homework?" he asked, eyes narrowing, his words sharp as glass.
"I did," I said quickly, my fingers twisting in my lap. "But somehow the book stayed at home, and she gave me detention."
He nodded once, gaze drifting back to the road. "And why did you skip detention?" His tone softened slightly but still carried a dangerous edge, the kind that made it hard to breathe.
I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal.
"I… I didn't have the courage to face anyone after what happened at lunch," I finally confessed, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
For a moment, silence settled between us again. Then his expression shifted—subtle, almost gentle.
"I understand," he murmured, his eyes flicking to me.
"But you should learn to fight for yourself," he added, voice low, almost secretive, as if sharing something personal.
Unease prickled through me. Was he trying to help me… or was this some kind of game?
The car slowed as we turned onto my street. He parked in front of my house, killing the engine. The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
"We're here," he said, casual now, his tone carrying an effortless cheerfulness that didn't quite match the intensity from before.
"Uh… thank you for the ride," I said, reaching for my seatbelt. My hands shook slightly.
"My pleasure," he replied, his British accent smooth, unexpected—disarming.
"I… I should go," I said, reaching for the door handle.
"Wait."
I froze, glancing back at him.
"Can I get your number before you leave?" His voice was polite, steady—but his eyes, deep and unreadable, held mine in place.
I blinked, unsure why my heart suddenly felt too loud.
"Uh… sure."
He handed me his phone. My fingers brushed against his as I typed in my number—his touch was warm, fleeting, but it sent sparks racing up my arm.
"Here you go," I said, handing it back.
"Thanks," he murmured, his smile small, almost shy.
"Bye," I whispered, stepping out into the cool air.
I closed the door softly behind me and started toward my house, the rumble of his car fading as he drove away.
Inside, Dad sat on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.
"I'm back," I called, shutting the door behind me.
"Hey, honey. How was school?" His tone was polite but distant.
"It was okay," I said simply, heading upstairs to my room. I shut the door, threw my bag aside, and collapsed onto my bed. What a day.
My eyes drifted to the floor. My hospitality book lay there. Great. The same book I'd forgotten—now mocking me from the carpet. I picked it up and tossed it onto my desk before heading for a shower.
Warm water cascaded over me, washing away the day's exhaustion and the strange chill that lingered from the ride home.
By the time I changed into pajamas, it was only seven. Early enough to breathe.
I padded downstairs and sat beside Ashly on the couch.
"You smell amazing," she teased, flashing me a bright grin.
"Thanks," I said softly.
"We're back!" Mike called as he and Michael burst through the door, laughter and energy following them. Michael still held a soccer ball under his arm.
"Great. Now go wash up and join us for dinner!" Mrs. Broncos ordered, clapping her hands.
"Honey, Ashly, Testimony—food's ready!" she added.
"Coming!" Ashly and Dad replied in unison, laughing. Mrs. Broncos shook her head, amused.
"Testimony, can you help me with the table?" she asked warmly.
"Of course," I said, standing to help.
Dinner was a colorful spread—rice, chicken soup, bread, and pumpkin, surrounded by an assortment of dishes I didn't recognize. I filled my plate carefully and bowed my head.
God bless this food in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
When I looked up, no one else had prayed. I didn't mind.
"Michael," Dad started, his tone firm. "Your mother told me you got into a fight at school. Why?"
Michael froze mid-bite, irritation flashing across his face.
"Mom?"
"He's your father, Michael. I had to tell him," Mrs. Broncos said calmly but firmly.
Michael sighed heavily, rolling his eyes.
"Why did you pick a fight? Do you even know who the boy is?" Dad continued.
"The president's son," Michael muttered. "Yeah, I know. But he's so full of himself—"
"Michael!" Mum warned.
"That doesn't give you the right to provoke him," Dad snapped.
"He bumped into me and didn't apologize! What was I supposed to do?" Michael shot back, anger rising.
"Walk away," Dad said flatly.
"And let people with power run all over us? I'm not their puppet!"
"Watch your tone," Dad said sharply.
"Michael, go upstairs now," Mum cut in, exasperated.
I sighed quietly. Couldn't they wait until after dinner?
"Gladly," Michael muttered, pushing back his chair and storming upstairs.
"You should ask first before pointing fingers," Mike said under his breath before following him out.
"I'll be upstairs," Ashly said softly and left, too.
"Thanks for dinner," I murmured, standing.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Couldn't he have confronted his son later—when the family wasn't all together?
Back in my room, I closed the door and sat on the bed, opening my Bible.
Reading God's Word always grounded me—brought me peace when the world felt too loud.
I flipped to Matthew 11:28:
"Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
I underlined the verse carefully, then copied it into my notebook, adding a quiet prayer beneath it.
I ended my day with God.
Minutes slipped by. I checked the clock—11:00 p.m.
Time for sleep.
I turned off the lamp, sank into bed, and closed my eyes.
Then my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
The screen lit up.
Unknown Number.