Anri POV
The second Negroni hit differently.
Not because I was tipsy — I wasn't. But because it warmed something in me I usually kept buried. Made me bolder. A little less careful. A little more like the woman I was trying to become.
I watched him as I drank — the way he sat so still, so composed, like the world owed him peace and he never had to ask for it.
He didn't chase silence with small talk. Didn't fill the space between us with performance. He just let it stretch — easy, intentional, like a man used to being listened to without saying much.
Men like him didn't usually sit across from women like me.
Because I wasn't born into the kind of life that lets you sit still.
I grew up in a small rural town back in the Philippines. One of those places where the roads cracked in the heat and flooded with every storm, where neighbors knew your story before you did. You were expected to leave — not to chase dreams, but to send money back.
When I got the chance to come to Australia at eighteen — thanks to an aunt who let me crash on her couch in the suburbs — I didn't hesitate.
I studied nursing. Not because it was my calling, but because it was practical. Visa-friendly. Straightforward. International students didn't get to be artists or dreamers. We survived first.
I juggled work, school, and rent with no backup plan. Paid every inflated fee. Waited on every visa result like it might decide my entire life — because it did.
There were nights I cried in the break room during double shifts, cleaned myself up, and walked back out like nothing happened. I told no one. I kept going.
By twenty-one, I got my permanent residency.
No party. No rest.
Just breath.
And the quiet, terrifying question: Now what?
Because even then, I couldn't stop. Couldn't relax. Couldn't afford to.
My parents didn't support me — not when I left, not while I struggled. But I knew deep down, they'd expect support from me now that I'd "made it."
No one talks about the invisible debt. The pressure. The resentment.
How being "the one who made it out" turns you into a walking bank account with no boundaries.
I should be grateful. I should send money. I should live quietly and responsibly.
But mostly?
I want to be free.
Free from guilt. From obligation. From the version of myself that was only ever allowed to want what was sensible.
I want to be more than just a nurse.
That's why I started acting after I got my citizenship. Not because it was practical, but because it wasn't.
Because I needed something that was mine.
And maybe — just maybe — I'm finally allowed to want more.
Like joy.
Like art.
Like this.
This man.
This moment.
He shifted slightly, drawing my gaze again. He hadn't touched his phone once. Hadn't asked for mine. Hadn't tried to sell himself with empty charm. He just sat there — steady, composed, and completely unaffected by the way time passed.
"You always this calm?" I asked, tilting my head. "You haven't looked at your phone once."
He shrugged. "Everything important finds me."
I raised a brow. "That's either arrogance or privilege."
He met my gaze, unmoved. "Maybe both."
I laughed, surprised at myself. It wasn't cute or demure — it was real.
"Most men I meet try so hard to prove something," I said.
"Like they're worth the drink I'm having."
"And me?"
I let my eyes move over him — slow, intentional. The tailored coat. The cuff links. The kind of watch you only wear if you don't have to say how much it costs.
"You feel... expensive," I said. "But not in the obvious way."
He blinked once. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
He didn't react — not really. Just offered the smallest smile, like he didn't need validation to know it was true.
And for some reason, that intrigued me more than any compliment he could've given.
He made me feel curious.
Not charmed. Not flattered.
Interested.
And the alcohol didn't make me forget who I was.
It made me more of who I was trying to be — the version of myself that didn't ask for permission.
Because maybe this wasn't about giving something up.
Maybe this was about choosing something — for once — just because I wanted it.
I leaned forward slightly. "So. Are you staying nearby?"
He nodded. "Hotel. Few streets down."
"Of course you are."
"You sound disappointed."
"No," I said, finishing the last of my drink. "Just confirming you're exactly what I thought you were."
"And what's that?"
I stood, sliding into my coat. "A good mistake."
He looked at me then — really looked.
Not like a man trying to win, but like one who knew how close he was to something rare and didn't want to break the moment by naming it.
He didn't follow too quickly. Didn't rush ahead.
He walked beside me as we stepped out into the night — silent, still, present.
The Melbourne air was crisp, wrapping around my bare legs as we crossed the street, heels tapping softly on pavement. Streetlights stretched shadows around us. A tram rolled in the distance, its hum folding into the quiet.
And then — the corner.
I stopped.
So did he.
No touch. No questions.
Just that look.
The kind that asks everything without saying a word.
"I'm not bringing you home," I said.
"I know," he answered. No resistance. No smugness. Just calm.
I glanced toward the hotel entrance, then back at him.
"Your room?"
His gaze didn't waver.
"Only if you want to."
I nodded.
Because for once, I wanted something I didn't have to explain or justify.
I wanted to feel what it was like to choose someone without apology.
To say yes — without needing to earn it.
Even just for tonight.