My heart was racing.
My forehead glistened with early-morning drama sweat.
My pink silk pillowcase suddenly looked like a tragedy prop from a telenovela.
I had just woken up gasping—and not the cute, "oh-my-gosh-I'm-late-for-my-shoot" gasp.
No.
This was the full-on, "I-just-watched-the-love-of-my-life passionately French-kissing another woman in dramatic slow-mo" gasp.
It had been a dream—obviously.
But why was it so vivid? So theatrical? So… specific? There he was: Cairo.
Not cold-brooding-Cairo.
Kissing-Cairo.
And not me.
Worse: vanilla-girl-with-bangs.
I sat straight up, blanket clutched to my chest like a warrior's flag.
"He cheated on me!" I whispered to the empty room.
Sure, we weren't officially dating.
I'd just staged that jealousy stunt with Ari yesterday.
But come on—our chemistry? Everyone knew. Justice demanded clarity.
I swung my feet onto the floor in my pink silk PJs and shuffled out into the hallway, my slippers squeaking against the floorboards as I marched straight to his door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
No answer.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Still nothing.
"My dream! OPEN UP! I saw your lips on hers!" I shouted at the deadbolt.
But silence answered.
A sudden panic bubbled up in my chest.
What if he ran away?
What if he's… unconscious from guilt?
Or—oh my god—kidnapped?!
I was genuinely about to call the police station.
I rushed back inside my unit and moved like lightning: Chanel hoodie? Check.
Pink phone? Check.
Mini-perfume for emergency spritzing? Check.
I booked an Uber just in case, but the moment I stepped back into the hallway, I heard a familiar tall, quiet voice coming from the lobby downstairs.
"CAIRO!"
I sprinted.
Down three flights of stairs, past the lobby, completely ignoring the stunned faces of the water-dispenser gossiping aunties.
There he was.
Standing right outside the main entrance—alive, gorgeous, and… infuriatingly calm.
"CAIRO!" I pounced, gripping his cheeks like a dramatic soap opera scene. "ARE YOU OKAY?"
He blinked at me like I'd just interrupted his meditative zen. "Elara," he sighed softly, "get your hands off my face."
No apology.
No explanation.
"Say sorry."
He looked genuinely confused. "For what?"
"For cheating on me!" I crossed my arms dramatically.
He exhaled, the realization hitting him. "In your dream?"
I huffed. "Dreams are the soul's trailer of truth!"
He rolled his eyes but didn't argue.
He just turned to walk toward his car.
"Where are you going?" I demanded, following him like a lovesick puppy.
"Basketball. I play every Saturday."
Wait—what? Cairo, my mystery-but-bad-at-mystery neighbor, the race-car simulator dude… plays basketball?!
"Can I come?" I blurted out, faster than I intended.
He paused, glancing down at me. "Sure."
Mission change: Time to pivot into full-blown girlfriend moves.
"Wait here," I chirped. "I'll be fashion-ready in five!"
He gave a thin nod and headed to his car.
I sprinted back to Elara HQ—a.k.a. my unit—and applied makeup in record time.
Lips? Popsicle-pink.
Highlighter? Surgical.
Outfit? Chanel dress, heels, matching bag—the ultimate walking Chanel logo.
Back in record time, I hopped into his passenger seat like it was a limousine.
He glanced at me, looking half-confused and half-like Santa who just got coal for Christmas.
"Don't ask," I whispered, flipping my hair. "Chanel is a lifestyle, not an option."
He didn't laugh.
Of course not.
—
As he drove, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. "So I had this dream. You and vanilla-girl-with-bangs were… it was an understandable scenario. But a French-kiss? Really?"
He raised an eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road. "Who were you with yesterday?" he asked suddenly.
My jaw froze. Uh-oh.
"Uh… Ari?" I bubbled, my voice dropping an octave. "My gay best friend?"
His face twitched.
Suddenly, the car went dead silent.
Womp womp.
I had just confessed the entire jealousy stunt.
Out loud.
To Cairo.
Who has the emotional range of a rock but somehow still manages to judge me with his left eyebrow.
Why—WHY—did I say Ari? I could've said anyone. My cousin.
My dentist.
My imaginary husband who works at NASA.
But no.
I went with the truth.
Like an idiot.
This is what happens when my mouth operates before my brain.
This is what happens when I think I'm mysterious but I'm actually just an open tab with bad Wi-Fi.
I retreated into the corner of the seat, hugging my Chanel purse like a shield.
When he finally pulled into the parking area, I almost fainted.
We parked by a full-on professional basketball court—jerseys, whistles, cheers, and an official marquee.
I whispered, "You… you play here?"
He nonchalantly tied his shoes. "I just play."
I gulped.
And then I saw them.
Cheerleaders.
Crowds.
And in the front row: vanilla-girl-with-bangs, holding a neon sign that read: TEAM CAI.
"Go, Baby Cai!" she screamed.
CAI?! BABY?! My heart screeched, Stop babying my baby.
I sank into the bleachers, relieved that he hadn't actually cheated on me in real life, but still weirdly heart-spicy.
I cheered like the supportive, fake-unbothered, ex-child-star that I was.
"Go... number eight!" I shouted, waving my mini purse like a fan, even though I knew his jersey number was seven.
Because of course Cairo would wear seven, that mysterious, aloof, brooding protagonist number.
He moved like a storm across the court, fast, focused, and annoyingly good.
His expression stayed the same the whole time: unreadable.
Stoic.
Classic Mr. Raceboy.
Not even a celebratory fist pump when he scored a three.
"Smile, you're hot," I mumbled under my breath.
By the second quarter, my feet were starting to burn. My
heels—these limited-edition blush Chanel stilettos—were absolutely not meant for outdoor bleachers.
My toes were on strike, my ankles were trembling, and I was getting a blister the size of Luzon on my heel.
But I kept clapping, fake smiling, and giggling at random things.
Until… disaster struck.
I got up to stretch, very glamorously, I might add, and suddenly—SNAP.
I looked down in horror.
One heel had bent like spaghetti.
The tip was barely hanging on.
I wobbled forward, arms flailing—"OH MY—" and collapsed right onto the gym floor in full, Elara-theatrical-slow-mo glory.
Gasps.
Whispers.
Cameras. "Is she okay?" someone muttered. "Yung artista ata yan," someone else whispered.
And then—him.
Cairo appeared above me, blocking the stadium lights like some tall, judgmental moon.
He didn't offer a hand right away.
He just… looked.
"I think I broke my heel," I said with a tremble in my voice. "And possibly my pride."
He blinked once. "That was loud."
"I have hollow bones!" I snapped. "Like a flamingo!"
Still, he crouched down and inspected my foot.
Then, to my absolute shock, he took my ankle gently in one hand and twisted the broken heel off with the other.
"What are you doing?!" I squeaked.
He ignored me. "You'll cut yourself." With one swift move, he pulled off the damaged heel, then the other one too.
Then—he handed me his slides.
His actual, sweaty, oversized basketball slides.
I blinked. "Are you giving me your feet?"
"No," he muttered, standing up. "Just the shoes."
I slid them on.
I looked ridiculous—like Barbie borrowing Ken's slippers—but my heart… stuttered.
Just a little.
"Thank you," I said softly.
He nodded. "You can sit by the bench. You'll see better."
I did.
Not because I wanted a better view, but because my feet felt like they'd been run over by a delivery truck full of feelings.
By the end of the game, they won.
Of course they did.
Cairo walked over, sweat dripping, a towel over his shoulder.
Girls were screaming, fans were waving signs.
I stood up awkwardly in his giant shoes.
He glanced at me, then down at his slides. "You walking home in those?"
"Unless you carry me," I quipped.
He didn't even blink. "Get in the car."
So I did.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Silently melting inside.
The whole ride back, we said nothing.
But somewhere between my broken heel and his quiet acts of nonverbal heroism, I realized something: Maybe Mr. Raceboy wasn't cold.
Maybe he was… just subtle.
And maybe that dream betrayal was just a dream.
But still—he definitely owed me an apology for dream-kissing vanilla girl.