The cockpit of the Airbus A321 was a symphony of flashing lights, mechanical hums, and the steady, rhythmic breathing of two pilots. Outside the windshield, the Philippine sky was an expanse of bruised purples and deep oranges as the sun began its slow descent over the horizon.
Captain Kira Lawson sat in the left seat, her hands steady on the side-stick. Her uniform was crisp, not a single wrinkle dared to defy the sharp creases of her white shirt. Her short, dark hair was styled back with precision, and the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood clung to her skin—a scent that had become her signature, a warning, and a shield.
"Approach, PAL 182, established ILS runway 24," Kira's voice was like velvet over gravel—low, masculine, and entirely devoid of emotion.
"Copy, PAL 182. Wind 250 at 10 knots. Cleared to land."
Beside her, the First Officer, a young man named Leo, stole a glance at his Captain. He had been flying with Kira for six months, and he had never once seen her smile. To the aviation world, she was "The Stone-Cold Captain." To the thousands of subscribers on her vlog, she was a mysterious, handsome enigma who taught them about aerodynamics but never about her heart.
The landing was buttery smooth. The wheels kissed the tarmac of Ninoy Aquino International Airport with barely a shudder. As they taxied toward the terminal, the silence in the cockpit was heavy.
"Nice landing, Cap," Leo ventured, trying to break the ice.
Kira didn't look at him. She was busy flicking switches with practiced muscle memory.
"Checklist, Leo. Not compliments."
She was a workaholic because work didn't talk back. Work didn't promise forever and then leave you shattered in the rain. Work didn't lie.
KIRA'S POV
The moment I stepped out of the terminal, the humid Manila air hit me, but I didn't loosen my tie. I never do. People were staring—they always do. It's the uniform, the walk, the aura I've spent years perfecting. I look like a woman who has her life together. Inside, I'm a graveyard of three failed relationships.
I was heading to the parking lot when a familiar, irritating voice cut through the noise of rolling suitcases and shouting taxi barkers.
"Kira! Wait up!"
I closed my eyes for a brief second, my jaw tightening. Marco.
Marco Beckett. Fellow pilot, my most recent mistake, and a man who didn't understand the word 'over.' He caught up to me, his pilot cap tilted back at a cocky angle, his handsome face marred by a desperate, obsessive glint in his eyes.
"We need to talk, Kira. About last night. About us."
I kept walking, my boots clicking rhythmically on the pavement. "There is no 'us,' Marco. There hasn't been for three months. Move on."
He grabbed my arm. It wasn't a gentle touch; it was a claim. In a flash of movement—one I've practiced in self-defense classes—I twisted my arm out of his grip and pinned his wrist back, leaning into his space. My eyes were ice.
"Don't. Ever. Touch me again," I hissed.
"You're cold, Kira! You're a machine!" he shouted, unbothered by the stares of the passengers around us. "You think you're so tough with your vlogs and your masculine 'Astig' act? You're lonely! And no one is ever going to love a woman who refuses to be one!"
The words stung, more than I wanted to admit. I felt a pang in my chest—a dull, familiar ache that felt like a localized turbulence. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. I turned, got into my car, and drove.
I didn't go home. I couldn't. The silence of my condo was too loud tonight. Instead, I found a dimly lit bar in Makati. One drink turned into four. Then six. The sandalwood scent was now mixed with the sharp tang of whiskey. I wanted to drown the memory of Marco's voice. I wanted to drown the fact that he was right—I was lonely.
"To love," I whispered, raising a glass to the empty stool beside me. "The biggest lie ever told."
THIRD PERSON POV:
The world was spinning in slow motion. Kira Lawson, the woman who could navigate a 70-ton aircraft through a thunderstorm, couldn't navigate the hallway of her own condominium.
She reached the 12th floor. Or she thought she did. The elevator dinged, and she stumbled out, her vision blurred. She reached into her pocket, fumbling for her keycard. Her mind was a hazy mess of Marco's insults and the lonely hum of jet engines.
She reached Unit 1208. Her unit was 1108. But in the darkness of the hallway and the fog of the alcohol, the numbers danced. She swiped her card. It didn't work. She swiped again. Red light.
"Useless..." she muttered, her voice thick. She knocked—no, she pounded on the door.
"Open up... stupid door..."
Inside Unit 1208, a very different world existed.
YOKOMI'S POV (Anna Cristobal)
"Hay naku, Lord... sana naman po matanggap ako sa audition bukas," I whispered to myself as I folded my last t-shirt.
My name is Yokomi Tanaka, but back in the province, everyone calls me Anna. I'm just a girl with big dreams and a very old suitcase. My adoptive parents—the kindest people in the world—saved every centavo to send me here to Manila. They don't know that I'm actually the long-lost granddaughter of someone famous; I don't even know that yet.
To me, I'm just Anna, the girl who talks too much and laughs at her own jokes.
I was about to head to bed when a loud THUD came from my door.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
My heart jumped into my throat. Hala! Magnanakaw? Holdaper? O baka naman si Aling Nena naniningil na ng kuryente?
"S-sino yan?!" I called out, grabbing my only weapon: a heavy wooden rolling pin I brought from the province.
"Open the door..." a deep, husky voice groaned from the other side.
It sounded like a man, but... smoother? I trembled as I peeked through the peephole. I saw a person in a white uniform. A pilot? Is this a dream? Is a pilot delivering pizza?
I slowly turned the lock, keeping the chain on. "Excuse me po? Wrong house po kayo—"
The door was suddenly pushed with a heavy weight. The chain snapped—it was cheap, anyway—and a tall, imposing figure tumbled into my small living room.
"Aray! Hoy!" I screamed, jumping back and brandishing my rolling pin.
The person groaned, face-planting onto my floral-patterned rug. I stood there, frozen. I realized this wasn't a man. It was a woman—but she was dressed so sharply, with those gold bars on her shoulders. She smelled like... wow. She smelled like expensive wood and a little bit of heartbreak.
"Hoy, Miss Pilot? Gising!" I poked her shoulder with my rolling pin.
She groaned, rolling onto her back. Her eyes flickered open—piercing, dark eyes that seemed to look right through me even while drunk. She looked at me, her brow furrowed.
"You're... not my cat," she mumbled.
"Cat?! Mukha ba akong pusa?!" I huffed, putting my hands on my hips. "Nasa maling kwarto ka, ate! 1208 'to! Baka 1108 ka o 1308!"
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached out and grabbed the hem of my pajamas. "Don't go... stay. It's too quiet."
My heart did a weird little flip-flop. Her voice was so sad. This strong, 'astig' woman looked like a lost puppy. I should call security. I should kick her out. But then I looked at her pale face and the way she was shivering.
"Hays, Anna... masyado kang mabait," I muttered to myself.
I struggled to lift her. Gosh, ang bigat niya! Ano bang kinakain ng mga piloto? Bakal? I managed to drag her to my tiny sofa. As I tucked a thin Malong blanket around her, she caught my hand. Her grip was firm, her skin warm.
"Don't leave, Marco," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"Hala, sino si Marco? Anna po pangalan ko, Miss Pilot," I whispered back, softening. I brushed a stray hair away from her forehead. Up close, she was incredibly handsome. Like a prince from a fairy tale, but... a princess.
I sat on the floor beside the sofa, watching her sleep. My life in Manila was supposed to be about finding a job, not babysitting a drunken pilot. But as I watched her, I felt a strange sense of mystery. Why was she so sad?
THIRD PERSON pov:
The night deepened. Outside, the city of Manila roared with life, but inside the small, cramped unit of a provincial girl, a stone-cold heart was beginning to thaw in the warmth of a stranger's home.
Yokomi eventually fell asleep with her head resting on the edge of the sofa, her hand still inches away from Kira's.
Kira, in her drunken stupor, felt a presence she hadn't felt in years. It wasn't the suffocating obsession of Marco or the cold expectations of her job. It felt like... sunshine.
Even in the dark.
But as the sun began to peek through the curtains, the reality of the world remained. Marco Beckett sat in his car in the parking lot below, staring at the GPS tracker he had illegally installed on Kira's car.
"You're not at home, Kira," Marco whispered, his eyes bloodshot and wide. He looked up at the towering condo building. "Who are you with?"
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
KIRA'S POV:
Light. Too much light.
My head felt like a turbine was spinning inside my skull at maximum RPM. I groaned, trying to sit up, but my body felt heavy. I realized I wasn't in my bed. My bed has 500-thread-count charcoal sheets. This... this felt like a scratchy sofa and smelled like... fried garlic?
I opened my eyes and bolted upright, ignoring the stabbing pain in my temples.
This wasn't my condo.
My eyes swept the room. It was small. There were colorful posters of provincial festivals on the wall. A small altar with a Santo Niño. And then, I saw her.
A girl was curled up on the floor, her head resting on the cushion next to my hip. She had long, messy hair and was wearing yellow pajamas with ducklings on them. She looked... peaceful. Innocent.
Then, memories flashed back. The bar. The elevator. The wrong door.
"Oh, no," I whispered, my face heating up.
The legendary Captain Lawson had just broken into a stranger's home like a common criminal.
I tried to stand up quietly, my boots making a soft thud on the floor. I needed to leave. Now. Before my reputation was completely destroyed.
I reached the door, but a cheerful, sleepy voice stopped me in my tracks.
"Aalis ka na, Miss Pilot? Di ka man lang ba kakain ng sinangag? Sayang naman, nag-saing pa ako."
I turned around. The girl was awake, rubbing her eyes and smiling—a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes. It was so bright it almost hurt to look at.
"I... I apologize for the intrusion," I said, my 'Captain' voice returning, though it was slightly hoarse. "I was... unwell. I will compensate you for the door."
She giggled. It was a bubbly, melodic sound. "Compensate? Sosyal! Okay lang po 'yun. Ako nga pala si Anna. Pero Yokomi talaga name ko, medyo Japanesey kasi 'di ba? Pero Anna na lang para 'di ka mahirapan."
She stood up and walked toward me, completely unafraid. She was much shorter than me, and I felt a sudden, strange urge to protect her.
"Kira," I said shortly.
"Kira... ganda ng name! Bagay sa'yo, mukha kang matapang pero feeling ko soft ka naman sa loob," she said, leaning in to sniff the air. "Uy, amoy sandalwood ka pa rin! Akala ko amoy alak ka na lang habang buhay."
I froze. No one spoke to me like this. No one dared to be this informal, this... alive.
"I have to go," I said, reaching for the handle.
"Wait!" she ran to the kitchen and grabbed a small plastic container. She shoved it into my hands. "Baon mo. Spam at rice 'yan. Masarap 'yan kesa sa airplane food!"
I looked down at the container, then at her. For the first time in years, I didn't know what to say.
"Thank you... Yokomi," I managed to mutter.
As I walked out and headed to the elevator, my heart was thumping against my ribs.