I wasn't planning on seeing him again today.
Actually, scratch that.
I was hoping.
Wishing.
Manifesting.
But would I ever admit that?
Absolutely not.
Not even under oath.
Not even if Ryan Gosling himself was interrogating me while wearing the Kenough hoodie.
I just happened to be at the elevator lobby at the exact same time he usually leaves for a run.
Coincidence.
Totally.
So there I was in my casual-casual outfit:
Oversized Balenciaga shirt.
Tiny biker shorts.
Indoor sunglasses because privacy is important when you're emotionally unstable.
I leaned against the marble wall with a green juice in hand pretending to scroll through my phone.
The juice tasted like blended grass and regret.
But aesthetically?
Ten out of ten.
I watched the elevator numbers carefully while pretending not to care.
I was calm.
Collected.
A mysterious socialite.
Definitely not waiting for a man who barely smiles.
Ding.
Seventeenth floor.
The elevator doors slid open.
And there he was.
Mr. Raceboy.
Gray hoodie.
Gym bag.
Earbuds in.
Hair slightly damp like he'd just stepped out of a moody cologne commercial called Emotionally Unavailable.
He walked into the elevator without looking up.
Naturally, I followed.
But in a very dignified, not-obvious way.
We stood side by side in silence.
I looked straight ahead.
Then slightly left.
Then accidentally at his reflection on the elevator wall.
Research purposes.
A few seconds passed before he pulled one earbud out.
"You always wait for this elevator?"
I blinked.
Oh.
He noticed me.
"What?" I said eloquently.
He finally looked at me properly, one brow lifting slightly.
"I've taken this elevator three times this week," he said. "You were here twice."
Cue internal screaming.
Externally, I stayed cool.
I lifted my green juice casually. "Maybe the universe is obsessed with us."
He scoffed softly.
Not mean.
Just deeply unconvinced by my existence.
"I don't think that's how elevators work."
"You don't know. Maybe fate loves efficiency."
That earned me the tiniest twitch near his mouth.
Tiny.
But I saw it.
The elevator reached the ground floor.
He stepped out first, and I followed behind him toward the lobby.
Then he glanced back slightly.
"You seriously thought I caused your kettle to explode?"
I crossed my arms immediately. "The timing was suspicious."
"You heard one loud sound and accused me of terrorism."
"In my defense, your whole vibe is very 'main suspect.'"
He looked at me for a second before shaking his head under his breath.
And then—
He walked outside like conversations simply expired around him.
Rude.
Mysterious.
Annoyingly memorable.
Later that day, I was on set getting my makeup done for a three-second role in Las Malditas del Amor.
One line.
One outfit.
One opportunity to change Philippine television forever.
My line was:
"But what if forever isn't enough?"
Was it dramatic?
Yes.
Did I deliver it like my ancestors fought for this moment?
Also yes.
I practiced it three different ways in the makeup chair.
Soft and emotional.
Cold and heartbroken.
Rich girl discovering betrayal at a vineyard.
The director gave me a nod afterward, which in this industry is basically a standing ovation.
While waiting for my driver outside, I wandered toward a nearby sari-sari store for snacks and emotional support.
That's when I heard someone behind me say:
"Ate, isang Cobra nga."
I froze.
Cobra?
As in the snake???
For one horrifying second, I genuinely thought people were casually purchasing venom.
Then I saw the energy drink.
Oh.
Right.
I bought one too out of curiosity.
It tasted like poor decisions and unfinished dreams.
While I was still emotionally processing the Cobra experience, my phone rang.
My agent.
"The male lead's already attached," she said. "Some racer guy. Cairo Emilien."
I stopped walking.
Wait.
Racer?
No.
NO.
There was absolutely no way—
My brain immediately betrayed me.
Mr. Raceboy.
The hallway menace.
The man who looked allergic to joy.
Just assumption.
"Oh my gosh," I whisper-yelled to absolutely nobody.
We were in the same project?!
I nearly dropped my drink.
This had to be fate.
Or karma.
Possibly both.
By the time I got home that evening, my brain had already written an entire enemies-to-lovers storyline.
Which is why I ended up standing outside his unit again.
I knocked.
The door opened.
And somehow—
again—
shirtless.
At this point, I was starting to suspect laundry was his greatest enemy.
"We need to talk," I announced dramatically, holding my phone up like evidence in court.
He looked unimpressed. "About?"
"We got cast in the same project."
His expression barely changed.
"Okay."
"Okay? That's it?" I stepped inside before he could stop me. "We're coworkers now. We need professionalism. Respect. Chemistry."
That finally got a reaction.
One slow blink.
"Chemistry?"
"Yes," I said, pacing around his living room like I paid rent there. "We can't keep acting like enemies. The tension is becoming cinematic."
His mouth twitched slightly.
I pointed immediately. "See? That's chemistry."
"That's concern."
"Close enough."
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You always this intense?"
"You always this emotionally constipated?"
Silence.
Then—
"I don't hate you," he said flatly.
I gasped dramatically. "Wow. That's basically a love confession from you."
He rolled his eyes.
Progress.
I smiled proudly to myself before waving my phone at him again.
"Anyway, I just think we should be civil before filming starts."
"Filming what?"
"Las Malditas del Amor."
He frowned slightly.
Then:
"I'm not acting."
I blinked.
"…What?"
"I'm doing a background cameo for one scene."
Silence.
My entire fake rom-com shattered like my dignity during the kettle incident.
"You're… not the male lead?"
"No."
"Not even a supporting role?"
"Nope."
I stared at him.
Then at the floor.
Then at the universe.
So I really built an entire Novel plotline in my head over a man who was basically decorative.
Humiliating.
I straightened immediately because I believe in resilience.
"That's okay," I said confidently. "You still have screen presence."
He actually laughed at that.
A real laugh this time.
Short.
Quiet.
But enough to make me forget my own thoughts for a second.
I pointed at him accusingly. "You should warn people before doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Being likable for half a second."
He shook his head again, still faintly amused.
Then he nodded toward the door.
"Good luck with your one line."
I placed a hand over my heart.
"It's not just a line," I said solemnly. "It's a moment."
And honestly?
I meant it.