I booked another teleserye.
This time?
A racing drama.
I know.
Me.
In a racing series.
As if my greatest speed achievement wasn't tripping in heels across a wet parking lot last week.
But guess what?
I got the part.
Two lines.
TWO.
Whole.
LINES.
National television, baby.
I memorized them immediately because opportunities are temporary but screen time is forever.
My role?
"Girl by Pit Stop #2."
Very important woman.
Very layered character.
My job was to hand a bottle of water to a racer and say:
"You can do this."
And honestly?
I planned to deliver it with emotional depth.
So naturally, I decided I needed to study racing culture.
You know.
For the craft.
I
Which is exactly why I ended up Googling:
"public car races near me."
And to my absolute shock—
there was one happening that same day.
Open to the public.
Within driving distance.
Fate?
Or concerning behavior?
Hard to say.
"Kuya, faster please," I told my driver while fixing my lip gloss in the mirror. "I'm about to immerse myself in the world of… vroom."
The second we arrived at the racetrack, I realized I was emotionally underdressed for the environment.
Engines roared.
People shouted.
Tires screamed across asphalt.
And there I was in a pink off-shoulder top and glittery sunglasses looking like I got lost on the way to a pop concert.
Still, I walked in confidently.
Because confidence is free.
Then—
I saw him.
Oh no.
Cairo.
Mr. Emotionally Repressed Raceboy himself.
I literally stopped walking.
How did I forget this man actually races professionally?
Like yes, obviously he had the whole mysterious racer aesthetic going on, but somehow my brain categorized him as "annoying hot neighbor" first and "actual racecar driver" second.
Meanwhile, he looked completely in his element.
Race suit halfway zipped.
Helmet tucked under one arm.
Focused.
Calm.
Unfairly attractive.
The pit crew moved around him quickly while he stood there composed like he wasn't about to launch himself around a track at terrifying speeds.
I stared.
Unfortunately.
Then he looked up.
Our eyes met.
Well—
I stared dramatically.eg
He just looked mildly surprised to see me existing there.
I waited for a reaction.
A smile.
A nod.
A "what are you doing here?"
Nothing.
He looked away again like I was just another loud object in the environment.
Rude.
So naturally, I marched toward him.
"Cairo!"
He turned back this time, eyebrows lifting slightly.
"Elara?"
Okay.
The fact that he remembered my name?
"I didn't know you were, like… professionally race-car-y," I said.
He stared at me.
"You forgot?"
"In my defense, your personality distracts people."
"My personality."
"Yes. Very emotionally unavailable. Very exhausting. Hard to focus."
One of the pit crew guys snorted nearby.
Cairo ignored him.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Finally.
An opening.
I straightened dramatically.
"Research."
"For?"
"I booked a racing teleserye."
He blinked once.
"You race?"
"No," I said immediately. "I emotionally support people who race."
Silence.
"I have two lines."
Another pause.
Then:
"You came all the way here for two lines?"
"Excuse you," I said, offended. "Those two lines could change lives."
His expression stayed blank, but I caught that tiny twitch near his mouth again.
That almost-smile.
I KNEW I was funny.
"My character believes in the racer emotionally," I continued seriously. "I need realism."
"You hand someone water."
"Yes," I said. "But with depth."
Before he could answer, someone called him from the track.
He glanced toward the sound.
Then back at me.
"You should stay behind the barriers."
Wow.
Not romantic.
But weirdly caring.
Character development.
"I will," I promised dramatically. "I'm too pretty for tire-related injuries."
He shook his head once before walking toward the car.
And honestly?
Watching him get into that race car should not have affected me spiritually the way it did.
The helmet went on.
The engine roared.
And suddenly Mr. Quiet Neighbor transformed into this terrifyingly focused human missile.
Then—
he was gone.
Fast.
Like really fast.
I stood there blinking while the cars tore across the track.
Okay.
Maybe racing was a little hot.
Unfortunately.
I watched him fly through corners with this calm precision that made everyone around me scream.
Meanwhile, I was gripping my designer bag like I was the one driving.
Every time his car passed, the crowd erupted.
And somewhere between lap six and my second overpriced iced coffee, I realized something horrifying:
I was genuinely impressed.
Not pretend-impressed.
Actually impressed.
Which felt deeply inconvenient.
When the race finally ended, people exploded into cheers.
His car pulled in first.
Of course.
He climbed out sweaty, tired, and still annoyingly handsome.
Honestly, it felt disrespectful to humanity.
I clapped immediately.
Aggressively.
I even made eye contact with strangers while clapping just so everyone understood I supported local talent.
He spotted me near the barriers while pulling off his gloves.
Then—
he actually walked over.
Progress.
"Knew you'd win," I announced proudly.
"Uh-huh."
"That's it? No emotional speech?"
"I'm tired."
"That's fair. You did drive in circles aggressively for like an hour."
He stared at me.
I smiled sweetly.
Then I handed him my water bottle dramatically.
"It's alkaline," I informed him. "Very exclusive. Probably blessed."
He took it without arguing.
Our fingers brushed for half a second.
And suddenly my brain forgot how to function normally.
Embarrassing.
He drank some water before handing the bottle back.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome," I said calmly.
Internally, I was writing wedding vows.
We started walking toward the paddock together.
Well—
he walked.
I floated beside him talking nonstop.
"Do racers actually train by driving on mountain roads at night or is that just in movies?"
"In movies."
"Do you listen to sad music while driving?"
"No."
"You look like you would."
He glanced sideways at me. "You always ask this many questions?"
"Yes. It's part of my charm."
"That what you call it?"
I gasped softly. "Wow. Mean."
For a second—
he smirked.
Tiny.
Quick.
But REAL.
I pointed immediately.
"There! You smiled!"
"I didn't."
"You literally did."
"Hallucination."
"Don't gaslight me after accepting my alkaline water."
Another almost-smile.
Oh, I was winning today.
Then, out of nowhere, he stopped walking.
"Are you flirting with me?"
I nearly choked on oxygen.
"What? No."
A beat.
"Maybe a little."
"Elara."
Oh my gosh.
The way he says my name should genuinely be studied in laboratories.
"I'm just saying," I continued quickly, "you're very hard not to flirt with. It's the whole mysterious raceboy thing. Very psychologically damaging."
"I don't date actresses."
I blinked.
Okay.
Rude.
"First of all," I said, offended, "I'm not just an actress."
He waited.
"I'm also emotionally exhausting."
That actually got a quiet laugh out of him.
A REAL ONE.
I stared dramatically.
"You should warn people before doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Being likable for two seconds."
He shook his head again before looking toward the locker area.
"I have to go."
"Okay," I said. "But if you suddenly miss me later, just know I understand."
"I doubt that'll happen."
But he walked away still faintly smiling.
Which, honestly?
Counts.
Later that night, I was back in my condo wearing a silk robe and eating instant noodles straight from the container like a glamorous woman in crisis.
And yes—
before anyone asks—
I successfully made the noodles using hot water.
Growth.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
You forgot your water bottle.
A picture followed.
My bottle.
On a dark countertop.
His countertop.
I stared at the message for a full ten seconds. How did he get my phone number??? Is he a stalker? Oh my gosh, Cairo!
But then I immediately sat up straighter for no reason.
Cairo texted me?
I typed back fast.
Keep it. Maybe you'll absorb my personality.
A minute later:
I'd rather not.
I covered my face with my hands and groaned into my pillow.
Because why was that attractive?
Why was I smiling?
Why did this emotionally unavailable race man suddenly feel like the beginning of a problem?
I looked down at my phone again.
Then at the ceiling.
Then back at the message.
And somewhere between instant noodles and emotional instability, I realized something dangerous.
This was starting to feel less like coincidence…
and more like a story.