The Keeper

The Keeper

If I was a full Vis, a true Aswang with the shapeshifting skills, my animal form would definitely be a cat.

She would have purred if she was able. The coziness of being cradled by Rocco is purr-inducing. His left arm draped loosely behind her, cushioning her back from the stone wall. She had laid her head against his chest. He smelled of himself and night air. She closed her eyes, pretending to doze off. It was the best way to avoid engaging with the three people that invaded their private moments.

She's comfortably warm, both inside and out. She could stay like this until morning. No conversations, just being together. The sound of the waves, the cool breeze wafting from the sea, and the comfortable semi-darkness had a mellowing effect on her. Nothing Charisse or Charlie could say or do tonight could rouse her temper.

"Aww... she's so sweet. The poor kid had fallen asleep," cooed Charisse.

Except that.

"Has she?" Rocco said wryly.

She knows that Rocco knew that she is not sleeping, that she just does not want to socialise. The sudden tension in her body would have been impossible for him to ignore.

A lull in the conversation followed. She can feel their eyes resting on her. Perhaps they were making sure she was indeed asleep.

"So, what do you do, bro?" Diego asked, breaking the silence.

That was a good question. She also wanted to know Rocco's answer.

"I'm into asset recovery," Rocco replied. There was a hint of mirth in his tone.

Asset recovery? That made her peek under her lashes.

"Cool," Diego replied weakly.

"You're in finance, then?" Charlie piped in.

"Not quite," Rocco's reply made her want to press him for more explanation herself. But she cannot because she is pretending to be asleep.

"What type of assets do you recover? Properties? Vehicles?" Charlie asked.

"Only those of extreme value," Rocco replied, rearranging the cloth that had slid down her back. She wondered what valuables he refers to.

"How long have you three been friends?" Rocco asked, effectively ending that topic. She can almost see his slightly raised eyebrow, an unconscious habit of his when asking questions.

"Years," Charisse replied. "Diego and I have hung out together since grade school. Charlie and I met two years ago through Diego," she expounded. She heard Charisse shift in her position, possibly to find a more comfortable one, or she moved closer to Rocco.

"Are you and Anza blood-related?" Charisse asked boldly. She felt Rocco stiffen. He did not like the question.

"We are not," he replied. She wondered if Rocco's clipped response told Charisse that he was not about to divulge any information about her.

"So... what is your relationship with her?" Charisse asked.

"At the moment, I'm her keeper," Rocco said. The surrounding arm tightened so slightly that she was not sure it actually happened.

"Keeper? What is that? Like a babysitter?" Charisse was as intrigued as she was with that term.

"Or, a bodyguard?" Diego asked.

"Anza does not need a sitter, and she can take care of herself," Rocco said. There was pride in his voice, and a touch of disbelief, like it was a revelation to himself.

"So, what does it mean to be her keeper?" Charisse persisted.

"I will let Anza answer that," he replied, evading the question.

"But she's asleep... Can you just tell us?" Charisse cajoled.

Under her lashes, she saw her reach out to touch Rocco's knee. She was tempted to slap it away. She did not realise her hand sandwiched between them clench until Rocco laughed softly and squeezed her shoulder.

Rocco shook his head. "No, that would betray our keepership," he replied, chuckling.

Charisse released a slow breath of frustration. "How old are you, Rocco?" she asked instead.

"I'm 23," he replied, slightly surprised at the turn of her question.

"I'm turning 21," Charisse said, with a note of glee. "We only have two years age difference between us," she continued. "My cousin and Charlie here are both 19," she added when Rocco did not respond.

Rocco did not seem to understand where Charisse was going with that question. She sensed his puzzlement. She, on the other hand, does, and it annoyed her.

"Are we comparing manufacture dates? Measuring shelf life? Or counting down to our best before?" she said. All eyes swivelled to her direction, their expression of surprise identical.

Except for Rocco, amusement was dancing in his eyes. A slight warning entered it when she roused herself. With hands linked, she stretched them overhead, pulling on the muscles of her back. The hard rock and the cold air made it sore.

"We were discussing birthdates?" Charisse said defensively.

"Were you?" she said, not really caring about what she is saying. Charisse is so close to stating that she is too young for Rocco, and this was irritating to her.

"Back with us? Was that a good cat nap?" Diego said, his smile appreciative.

"Yes, it was... stimulating," she replied, smiling back. Of the three, Diego is the only one she liked. Marginally.

"Was there enough time for a dream?" Diego asked. He seemed bent on easing the tension that has built up between her and Charisse.

"Alas, no," she replied. Glad that he was being a peacemaker. That was gentlemanly of him.

"Would you like to stretch your legs?" Diego had stood up, offering her his hand. She hesitated. She felt cramped. But she did not want to leave Charisse to monopolise Rocco.

Charlie got up as well. "That's a good idea, Diego. I'm cramped myself," he faced Rocco and said, "with your permission, Rocco, can we accompany Anza for a walk?"

Rocco hesitated, looking at her, waiting for her to decide.

"Let them go, Rocco. My cousin and Charlie are harmless. They will take care of Anza," Charisse said, touching Rocco's knee again.

"Why don't we all stretch our legs?" Rocco said, standing up, and pulling Anza to her feet.

She did not realise that her butt had gotten numb from sitting so long. She winced and gasped as the blood resumed its restricted flow through the veins at the back of her thighs.

"Are you okay, little one?" Rocco asked. He heard her.

"Pins and needles," she said, trying to rub the sensation back on her rump. Rocco grinned. "I'm ready," she said, shaking off her legs.

With her hand crooked on Rocco's arm, they walked toward the end of the ridge, their steps slow and meandering. Diego had situated himself beside her, Charisse, as she expected, had placed her hand on Rocco's other arm. Charlie, it seemed, had lapsed into silence.

She really wished the three would leave them alone. She wanted to ask Rocco some questions, specifically what he meant when he declared himself her keeper. Was he just joking? Did it have any meaning?

Stop it, Anza. Stop assuming.

***

Rocco's patience is running thin. These three humans, their normal ways should not bother him, but it does. He does not like how Charisse is making Anza feel, and he specifically did not like how Charlie insulted Anza. It was a relief to see that her reaction to a potentially crushing comment made her hackles rise instead.

But most especially, he did not like that Diego got into Anza's good side. He had to admit that Diego is not as obnoxious as the other two. He reminded himself that making friends would be good for Anza, and that she wanted to do so.

During her brief stint here in Basco, she should have a chance at every human experience she could ever have, to create enough memories to last her a lifetime. So, she won't be wanting to do this again. Making them while he was around to protect her is the most ideal situation. He can help her assess which ones she could trust, and which ones she should stay away from.

Her instinct seems good with people, but her youth, and perhaps her desire to make connections will make her vulnerable. She's a pretty girl, and if tonight was any sign, attractive in every way teenage girls can be. She will draw that kind of attention wherever she goes.

He wondered now if her father ever taught her to defend herself. Most of the female of their kind, at least the Vis he knew, had some basic training. It goes with the territory. She does not look trained, her body slim and slight like a normal teenager. She does not strike him as athletic. Maybe it's the combination of her physique and innocent face that made him want to protect her, to make sure she was safe, unharmed, unhurt.

Anza's chuckle drew him out of his own musings. She was laughing at whatever joke Diego told her. The boy is getting more successful in drawing her out by the minute. It chafed at him, but he did not react. He would let Anza enjoy herself. This is temporary and she will not see him after tonight.

"I think my cousin and your... ward are getting along fine, don't you think?" Charisse said pointedly.

"Anza is friendly," he shrugged, glancing at Anza and Diego. Anza's hand is still hooked on his arm, even if her attention was engaged by Diego. That made him feel connected to her still. On an unconscious level, it anchors Anza to him.

"My cousin likes her very much. Charlie does, too. But since Anza seems to prefer Diego, Charlie has stepped back," Charisse said.

"We'll see. For the meantime, he'd better behave himself. Anza is under my care..." he said. It was a warning that he wanted her to know, and for Diego to heed.

As they stopped at the edge of the ridge, Anza pulled off the tablecloth that was draped around her shoulders. She laid it down on the grass and sat down. Charisse was quick to sit beside Anza, sandwiching her between herself and Diego. Charisse intention was obvious. She wanted him to sit beside her. He opted to be behind Anza, Charlie sat beside him.

Undeterred, Charisse twisted around, so she faced him instead. Her disinterest in the incoming sunrise clear. He sighed inwardly. He would have to deal with her conversations, and he would rather not.

"So, Rocco, do you have a girlfriend?" Charisse asked, her forwardness was not unexpected.

"No, I do not have a girlfriend," he replied. Anza overheard his response. She twisted to look back at him. He placed his hands on her shoulders and made her face forward, exerting a light pressure on her shoulder blades to keep her there. He did not want her to get a stiff neck.

"What traits do you find attractive in a woman?" she asked, her tone saccharine. Her flirtatious affectation exasperating him.

His response was a gentle shake of his head and a smile. Charisse pouted, unable to hide her irritation at his evasion. He does not care. The truth is, he had never made such a list. Falling in love is not in his priorities.

The rays of the sun started peeking from the horizon, lightening the night sky, leaving its midnight blue hues to transition to red violet. They were all transfixed at the sight. A welcome spate of silence enveloped them. He dug out his mobile phone and gave it to Anza, handing it over her shoulder quietly. She glanced back at him with a grateful smile. 

Another blast of cold air swept through them, making Anza shiver. Without a word, he grasped Anza's waist and lifted, pulling her back to him, close to his chest. His slightly bent legs served as her arm rest. She leaned back on him, his body protecting her from the wind, warming her. Her sigh of contentment echoed his.

With his chin resting at the top of her head, her back flat on his chest, they watched the sunrise on the horizon. Anza was holding his mobile phone, her elbows propped comfortably on his knees. His arm loose around her middle.

As the half globe of the sun showed, Anza's aimed the camera at the view, watching the sun at the screen. The colours of the horizon transitioned from varying shades of violets to reds and yellows. Her eyes focused on the display, her fingers clicking furiously. He watched her shots over her shoulders. She truly has an eye for photography.

"Two more minutes, Anza. You have enough beautiful shots," he whispered in her ears. A puzzled frown on her face as she glanced at him.

"Why?" her question a breath away from his cheek.

"So you can experience the sunrise. The photos can never capture that," he replied.

She nodded, lowering his cell phone. And for the succeeding minutes, they watched the sun until the whole globe of it emerged. The rays of yellow radiating from the centre sphere, painting the surrounding areas, layering it with red and orange. It was breathtaking.

Anza took a deep breath and released it slowly. He felt her smile on his cheek, triggering an answering smile of his own.

"Shall we go?" she whispered.

"Yes, let's get local breakfast along the way," he said. With a swift motion, he got up, pulling her to her feet.

The rest of the group got up with them. Anza seemed surprised at their presence. He cannot blame her. The complete silence and their shared moment earlier made him forget them, too. Not a good thing if he is to become a great Iztari. Losing awareness of your surroundings is a death knell to a warrior.

"Are you guys leaving?" Charisse asked, stepping off the cloth as Anza tugged at it.

"Yes. We have to be on our way," he said, taking the cloth from Anza and quickly folding it.

"Where are you off to next?" Diego asked. The question was directed at him, but his eyes were on Anza. She shrugged.

"We do not know yet. We will decide along the way," he replied. He understood Anza was as eager to leave their company as he is.

"Can we tag along?" Charisse asked. He saw the spark of temper in Anza's eyes. She was close to saying something rude. He squeezed her fingers to stop her.

"We have a few things we need to accomplish. So, we will say goodbye to you now. It has been a pleasure," he said firmly, offering his hand to Charisse. She looked at it, unwilling to accept his handshake of farewell. Charlie grasped it instead.

"The pleasure had been ours. Thank you, too," he said, shaking his hand. "Guys, I believe we have to get going, too. We do not want to take much of their time," Charlie said to his group. Rocco's dislike towards the guy lessened a notch. He's not that self-absorbed, it would seem.

Diego offered his hand to Anza, "It was great meeting you and spending time with you, Anza," he said as she took his hand and shook it.

"Likewise," Anza replied with a benign smile.

"Can I ask for your number, Anza? Perhaps we can get in touch when we get back to civilization?" Diego said hopefully.

Anza hesitated.

"Anza does not have her phone now. Give me your number and she can get it from me later," he said. Diego hesitated for a moment, but dictated his number. He saved it on the Notes page on his phone, not sure if he would be inclined to give Diego's number to Anza later.

"Can I have yours, Rocco?" Charisse asked, her phone at the ready.

He readily gave him her number. It's a burner phone, with a burner SIM card. It will suffice.

The three walked them to their bike. And just before Anza got on the bike behind him, Diego stopped her, "Call me, Anza, okay? I am truly interested to be your friend," he said. Anza smiled at him and nodded.

He did not like the feeling that bloomed in his chest. It faded slightly as they zoomed out of the parking lot and into the road, away from Diego, Charlie, and the persistent Charisse.

***

They stopped at a roadside eatery half an hour later. On the menu were fried rice, eggs with fried flying fish and the crispy, dried pork dish called Luñis. The meal comes with dark coffee with brown sugar. The seating was outdoors; the weather was perfect for it.

As they lay the plates down, her mouth watered at the scent of hot, fresh, garlic fried rice. Intrigued, she watched Rocco pour a quarter of his coffee on the rice. Rocco smiled at her expression.

"You should try it. It's fantastic. I learned this from the Batangueños. They all pour coffee on their fried rice," he said, tucking into his food with enjoyment.

She copied him, in a more cautious way, by spooning some of her coffee over the bit of rice. Combined with the egg and flying fish, she had to agree with Rocco. The smokiness of the coffee complemented the flavours and neutralised whatever oiliness there was in the fried rice and egg.

"That was delicious!" savouring the new revelation. It's such a simple variation on a common place dish, just a tweak, really. And yet, it brought her a new understanding of her world.

"That's what travelling does to you, it enables you to experience other cultures. And the best way to do that is through their food," Rocco said, watching her closely. "Have you travelled outside of the country before?"

"Yes, every year, with my parents," she replied. Somehow, her trips with her parents did not have the feel of a novel experience, an awakening. With them, it was commonplace, just in a different location.

He frowned at her lacklustre response. "And did that not make you perceive the people and their cultures differently?" he asked.

"It's hard to do that if they restrict you to being with your parents the whole time. It does not matter which attraction we visit, which restaurant we go to, I viewed my world through the narrow lens that my parents designed for me," she replied.

Rocco's focused gaze on her was contemplative, as if her viewpoint was something he had not considered.

"I think we view the world through a narrow lens of our own experience. Each lens is different for most of us, but the size of that lens is within our individual control. Yours is a distinct case, I must admit," he said.

They ate in silence for a minute or two, as she weighed whether she would raise her next question now or later. Her impatience won.

"Rocco, why did you say you were my keeper?" she asked the one question that she had been itching to ask him since she first heard him say it.

Rocco chewed slowly. It appeared deliberate to her, this buying of time before he answered her. But she wants her answer. So, she waited patiently.

"Well, that is the role I see myself in your life," he replied casually.

"What does it mean... to be my keeper?" That he saw it as a role in her life implied permanence. Considering the limited time they have, the statement confused her.

"Like a bodyguard, I guess. A mentor, a guidance counsellor, a friend..." he replied.

"All those required constant presence," she wanted to point that out. When he leaves Basco, she will still be here. How can he be her keeper is he's somewhere else?

Rocco regarded her closely. There was a line of strain on his mouth, as if he was in pain. It disappeared when he smiled at her sadly.

"Yes, that is true. But with the current technology, there is really no way to lose contact with anyone you care about," he said.

That saddened her. Once he leaves here, there will be no way they can keep in constant touch with each other. For as long as she is hiding from her parents, she cannot turn on her phone. She planned to hide for two years as she wrote in her letter to them. She doubts if Rocco would still remember her in two years' time.

"For some people, yes. In my case, that is not possible," she said.

Rocco's frown was deep. "Why? Do you not want to be friends with me?"

"While I am in hiding, I cannot turn my phone on. That means I cannot text you at all," she said. Even if she goes back, her parents would never allow her to form a relationship with a human like him.

"And when you return home? Can we not keep in contact then?" he asked.

"No. My parents will never let me be friends with any human... being," she replied. Back in the Vis world, she will be back to her isolated life.

Rocco was quiet once again. He seemed to contemplate something. He took a deep breath and continued eating. When she did not do the same, he prodded her, "Eat up, little one. Your food is getting cold," he said.

She complied. It's no use forcing him to respond if he does not want to. She had heard and witnessed his evasion moves last night. She does not think she has it in her to make him open up.

Ten minutes later, as they were preparing for the ride back, a thought came to her, "If you are my keeper, does it mean that I am your keeper in return?" she asked. Roald paused from fixing her helmet.

"When I am ready to have a keeper, you will be my first choice," he replied. "There you go, all done," he said, turning to straddle his bike.

She had no choice but to follow his lead. She got behind him, like before, with her arms around his waist, her thumbs hooked inside his belt loops. But this time, it was the most natural thing to do.

Just before they moved, before he put his own helmet on, Rocco looked back at her and said, "Little one, you need to hold on to me a little tighter. You have had no sleep and I don't want you to fall off during the ride."

"Okay," she said, and leaned closer to him, her stomach pressed to his lower back, arms firm around his midriff, hands crossed and thumbs automatically hooked on his belt loops. Satisfied, Rocco strapped on his helmet and away they zoomed along the picturesque country road. The view zipped past them, a mixture of sea, quaint towns, and its people going about their daily chores.

She was content, her heart at peace. Her last conscious thought was hoping that she can smell his scent through the helmet.

The absence of the hum of the motorcycle woke her up. Disoriented, she realised that they have arrived back to the inn. She was still pressed along Rocco's back, and his left arm wrapped around her right arm, his hand clasped just above her right elbow.

Rocco straightened when she moved. His hand loosened, but he did not remove it, anchoring her to him still.

"You awake now, little one?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yes. Sorry, you were right. I fell asleep," she mumbled apologetically, straightening up. Her legs were wooden. She gasped when pins and needles attacked her limbs. Rocco looked back at her in alarm. "Pins and needles..." she mumbled.

"Don't move," Rocco said. He manoeuvred his long legs off the bike, removed his helmet and then hers. The strap had left a mark on her chin, and Rocco briefly massaged it away. He then grasped her by the waist, lifted her and set her gently on her feet.

She winced as the painful sensation of rushing blood flow to her veins assailed her, making her hop alternatively on each foot. Rocco's hands remained on her waist, steadying her. Eventually, the prickly feeling faded, allowing her to stand properly on her own. Rocco's hands went to her head and gently ran his hands through her hair, ruffling it.

Her hand went to his defensively, but before she can ask him what he was doing, he said, "Helmet head," and his hands dropped away.

"Thanks," she said self-consciously. "I think it is time to hit the shower, I am beginning to stink," she said, needing a brief respite from her rioting emotions.

"Yeah, me too. It's a wonder you were able to sleep on me like that. I must have stank to high heavens to you," he said, ruffling his own helmet-flattened hair.

"No, the helmet was on the way," she said unthinkingly. Rocco laughed.

"Okay, so that redeemed the helmet somewhat from its hair flattening flaw," he said, still laughing.

"I guess," she said. "Are we going somewhere else later?" she asked. It's mid-afternoon, there is still the rest of the day, and Rocco might have other plans for today. She needs re-energising. She feels lethargic.

"None for the day, but I will meet you here later at 6? Let's go out to dinner," he said.

"All right, I will see you later," she said, and walked to her room. She needs to wash her clothes today, or she will have nothing to wear tomorrow. Perhaps she will have enough time to go to the town centre and get herself a dress. She can afford one if she does not spend over five hundred pesos.

As she got into the bathroom, she realised that she is still wearing Rocco's long-sleeved shirt. She decided to wash it. It was only proper to return it to him clean. She rushed into the shower for a quick session. She wanted enough time to wash the clothes, go out to buy a dress and come back in time for dinner.

She laundered her shirt, underclothes and Rocco's shirt under the shower using the hand soap that was provided in the room. She hung them on the verandah of the room to ensure that it dries by morning.

With her wet hair combed into place, she rushed out. She needs to be in the town square as quickly as she can. It is a good fifteen-minute walk. And she has about three hours to get back. She wanted to have time to make herself look presentable.

***

Rocco jogged down the stairs, checking the instruction he had written on the piece of paper. The front desk staff had given him directions to the town centre's best shop. He wanted to get Anza her own jacket. As he got out of the lobby and turned left, he saw Anza up ahead, hurrying towards somewhere.

Where is she going? He followed her.

Three blocks on, Anza turned left to the main street. The shop that he wanted to go to loomed over the horizon. He had kept the one block distance between him and Anza, but lessened it as he might lose her inside the shop.

She just turned inside a clothes outlet when he got to the entrance. He glimpsed her back just as she disappeared inside. He stayed outside and watched her flick through the hangers in the clothes rack. She seemed to be looking for a dress.

For some reason, it struck him that Anza is a dress-wearing kind of girl, even if he has not seen her wear anything but jeans and T-shirt since he met her. He supposed that when she came with her parents for their holiday, a dress was something that was not appropriate in their log cabin of a house.

Her running away was an impulse. And yet, she seemed somewhat prepared. This tells him she had been thinking of this scenario for a long time. She was mentally and emotionally ready. But she had not quite gotten into the logistics of her elopement.

Anza had picked up a beautiful light and flowing, grey sleeveless summer dress with a tank top bodice and soft pleats under the breast. It had a profusion of tiny red, yellow and blue flowers embroidered on the hem that looked like it spilled from a basket. It was in her size.

Anza looked at the tag, and she looked crest-fallen. With a sigh, she put it back on the rack and determinedly walked away, but it compelled her to look back longingly one more time. In her characteristic grit, she squared her shoulders and walked away to the rack closest to the wall.

He watched her pick up a short, blue eyelet blouse and a skirt set. She held it against herself and examined herself in the mirror. He heard her ask if it came in another colour and asked for the green one instead. The sales lady came back with what looked like a sea foam green blouse. The lady pointed to the dressing room. Anza disappeared inside.

He should really let her shop in peace and not spy on her like this. But he was compelled to. He realised that he cannot see her properly from this location, so he moved inside to get a better vantage point when Anza comes out. Another sales lady approached him to assist.

"Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?" the saleslady was eager to help.

"I want to browse first. Can I go around for a bit? I will call you when I need you," he said, not looking at her. When the saleslady did not respond, "Is it all right?" he asked, exerting his charm. The sales lady blushed and nodded.

He positioned himself among the hanging clothes for males. Not really looking, but waiting with bated breath for Anza to come out. To his disappointment, she was not wearing the new clothes when she got out. She smiled at the waiting service staff and confirmed that she will get the set.

Her purchase done, she left the shop, but he noticed her throwing a glance at the grey dress that she looked at earlier. With her gone, he bought what he came here for - something warm for her to wear. He found a blue hoodie for her, with a zipper closure on the front. It was the thickest that he could find. On impulse, he bought the dress that Anza liked.

Satisfied with his purchase, he tucked the shopping bag inside his jacket and got out of the store. He hurried back to their inn, and within minutes, from a distance, he spotted Anza going the same direction.

He remembered the blouse and skirt pair she bought and wondered if she would wear it during dinner.

An hour and a half later, he sat at the lobby, waiting for Anza to show up, expecting her dressed in her new purchase. Ten minutes on, he's wondering what is taking her so long. She is uncharacteristically late. He approached the counter to call her room, but no one was answering. She could be on her way down now. It's a pity that she does not have any cell phone.

Another ten minutes without her showing up and he got worried. He knocked on her door. No one was answering. For a moment, he was tempted to kick the door in. Instead, he got the lock picking set that he always carried with him. A remnant of his childhood. He had kept it with him not for instances like this, but to remind him of his troubled past, of what he had escaped from. Every time he looked at it, it made him grateful of what he has now, the people who helped him, and what he overcame. Today, he was grateful for it for a different reason.

Within a minute, the door opened. Anza is lying on one of the two beds in her room, curled on her side like a child. Asleep. For a split second, he was relieved to find her safe, but he saw the flush on her cheeks and realised that she is running a temperature. He approached her and touched her cheek. Her fever is high. Heat emanated from all over her.

She had laid out the clothes she bought at the edge of the other bed, beside it were the jeans she wore earlier. She's wearing the T-shirt that she wore to the shop. It was a good thing that it was long enough to cover her decently. She was lying on the top of the sheets, and she was shivering.

He quickly pulled the cover from under her and draped it over her. He was tucking her in when Anza woke up, disoriented. She looked confused when she saw his face, her eyes darting around.

Alarmed, "Am I late?" she whispered, trying to get up. He pressed her back to the bed.

"You are fevered. We are not going anywhere, so you are not late for anything," he said, firmly tucking her in.

"Give me a few minutes' rest, I will be fine," she said weakly, her eyes already closing.

"Have you taken any medicines?" he said, prodding her lightly. She shook her head feebly. Her body trembled.

He called the reception and asked for some fever medicine. He does not carry them. While waiting, he lay down on the bed behind her and pulled her close, infusing her with his warmth, to stop the tremors that wracked her body.

The doorbell rang. It was the front desk staff, with two paracetamol tablets in hand. 

"Sir, these are the only two tablets we have. Do you need more?" the staff asked.

"Yes, please. Can someone buy them for us?" he asked. He is does not want to leave her. The staff nodded. "Is there a doctor in the island, just in case?"

"Yes, sir. Should we call him?" the staff was peaking behind Rocco. He did not want her to ogle Anza. He felt protective, and... possessive.

"Not yet. Let's see first if the medicine will work. If we need to call him, how soon can he come?" he asked. He wanted to plan, to prepare.

"If he is not in another call, around ten minutes. His home clinic is not very far from here," the staff said.

"Okay. Thank you very much," he said dismissively. He's impatient to have the paracetamol in Anza's system.

He lifted Anza's upper body and slid behind her, laying her back to his chest. Holy Prometheus, she's on fire! This medicine had better work.

He roused Anza by shaking her gently. She blinked up at him, her lids heavy.

"Take this, Anza. It's for your fever," he said, pushing the tablets gently through her lips. She complied, but it seemed to have taken most of her strength. She could barely swallow the tablets and the gulp of water.

He kept her pressed close to his chest until her shivering subsided. But her fever was still raging. He eased out from behind her and gently laid her down on the bed. His body heat is adding to her temperature. She needed to cool down.

He realised she had unplugged the air conditioner in her room. No doubt she did not want to use it to save money. He turned it on to full blast, hoping that it will help cool her down. He toed off his shoes and sat on the other bed, watching her.

This is how it is to someone's keeper - to be in charge of their physical, mental, emotional welfare. It is such an enormous responsibility; he does not know if he wanted it, but at the moment he has no choice. For an hour, he waited patiently for the medicine to take effect, to control her fever.

Anza twisted suddenly, flinging the covers off of her. A long moan came out of her mouth. Fear struck his heart. She is close to convulsing. He tried to rouse her, but she was insensible. He hastily picked her up, hoisting her over his shoulder, and took her to the bathroom. He needed to have one hand free.

With one hand, he turned the shower on and tested the water. It cannot be ice cold, but just a few degrees cooler than her core temperature. She's burning up to a dangerous level. Heedless of his own clothes, he held her in his arms, letting the water run over both of them for a few minutes. One big hand held her head upright by the neck, so the water could cascade from her crown to her feet, so it won't get into her ears.

Immediately, they were both drenched. But it worked, Anza's fever left her, although she remained unconscious throughout. He reached behind her and turned off the shower. Still clasped tightly against his chest to keep her upright, he pushed the hair off of her face. Anza stirred and briefly opened her eyes.

"Rocco," she mumbled, and fell back into unconsciousness.

He walked both of them out of the stall where her towel hung. Beside it was the bathrobe provided by the inn. He took both. He wrapped the beach towel around her. And laid her on the bed, her feet dangling over the edge. He knew that he would have to get her out of her wet shirt. And while he's concerned about her sensibilities, right now, it is more important to keep her dry.

Without a second thought, he took the damp towel from her body, revealing the soaked T-shirt that was almost transparent. He closed his eyes, and with quick movements, he pulled the wet shirt off of her, and her underclothes followed. He did not want to think about anything else. He dropped the wet clothes on the floor and placed the dry bathrobe over her.

He did not realise that he was holding his breath as he undressed her blind. The air conditioner is blowing fiercely at him, sending shivers up his frame. He also needs to get out of his own sodden clothes. He peeled them off and took out the other bathrobe from the wardrobe.

He dropped both sets of soggy clothes at the bathroom floor and went back to Anza. He gently towelled her hair dry and ran her comb through the wet tresses, thinking it would be in a tangled mess in the morning if he did not do so.

He wrapped the bathrobe around her, lifted her and placed her back on her bed, under the covers, spreading her damp hair on the pillow. He gently touched her cheek. She still had a mild fever, but her temperature is now under control. Thank Prometheus for that!

He was on her way to her bathroom to take care of their wet clothes when the doorbell rang. It was Mrs Bassig, and she looked scandalised when she saw him - in a bathrobe.

"Please don't jump to a conclusion, Mrs Bassig," he said calmly, and stepped aside to let her in.

Mrs Bassig walked in, confounded and speechless. Looking at him from head to toe, the raised eyebrows laden with questions and judgmental thoughts that she dare not voice out.

"No doubt you came here because you heard that Anza is sick," he glanced at Anza, peacefully sleeping on the bed. "Her fever spiked so high she was a second away from convulsion, I had to put her under the shower to cool her down immediately."

Mrs Bassig said nothing but merely looked at him. He can tell that she was trying to curb her own initial assumption. The older woman's considerable bosom heaved.

"Mr Albareda, as far as I know you just met Anza the other day at the lobby. Why are you suddenly very close to each other? What are your intentions?" Mrs Bassig's questions were direct. His impression is that she will not swallow a lie and nothing will get past her sharp eyes and instinct.

"Mrs Bassig, my intentions are clean. I assure you I will do nothing that will harm her. And all I want is to protect her, keep her safe," he said, knowing that he meant every word.

"But why, what are you to her?" Mrs Bassig asked.

"I'm her keeper," he replied. And he can utter no truer words at the moment. And no one can make him unsay it. Not Mrs Bassig. Not even Anza's father.