The living room of the Narumi residence glowed with the warm, flickering light of the television. Jamie sat cross-legged on the couch, still in the same hoodie from earlier, half-watching the screen while scrolling through memes on her phone. Anthony was lounging upside-down on an armchair, legs over the backrest, sipping soda with a straw like a lazy acrobat. Stephanie sat on the floor with a bowl of popcorn between her legs, Droopy curled beside her like a curled-up comma.
The TV cut to a commercial—moody lighting, a guitar riff, then a deep voiceover:
"Basta't Tanduay... walang kapantay."
The screen showed a rugged man in a bar, holding a glass of dark rum while brooding like he just lost both a horse and a woman.
"Damn," said Anthony. "Tanduay really wants you to feel like a cowboy with depression."
"It's like a colon cleanse for your liver," Stephanie added, flicking popcorn at Droopy.
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Are they legally allowed to sell sadness in bottles?"
Before Anthony could answer with another dumb joke, the living room door creaked open. Thea entered, clutching a planner, a cold brew, and the look of someone who had already committed a crime and needed help covering it up.
"Hey," she said casually.
The entire room tensed. Thea never entered casually.
"What did you do?" Jamie asked instantly.
Thea put down her drink, sat on the edge of the couch, and opened her planner like it was a court summons.
"Okay, hear me out. Before you say no—which you will—I already put down a reservation under the name 'Gem and Burn.'"
Jamie squinted. "What is 'Gem and Burn'?"
Thea grinned. "Gem—short for Jamie. Burn—short for Bernard. It's poetic. Like, destruction and spark."
Anthony cackled from his upside-down position. "Sounds like a failed superhero team."
Jamie sat up. "You're trying to set me up with Bernard again?"
Stephanie perked up. "Oh, this is the dinner from hell. I want to attend."
"You said you hated him," Jamie pointed out.
"Yeah, but I also said I hated cheese, and now I eat it ironically," Thea said. "Look. It's just dinner. One dinner. At 'Grillita'—they have flaming steak skewers and mochi brownies. You love flaming things."
Jamie rubbed her temples. "Why would I agree to that?"
"Because," Thea said, "you're obviously both too emotionally constipated to talk unless tricked. Think of it as therapy—with appetizers."
Jamie hesitated.
Stephanie tilted her head. "Just go. You could use a distraction."
"Fine," Jamie muttered. "But if he wears a vest again, I'm walking out."
"Deal," Thea said. Then she grinned wider than she should have. "Also, don't be mad but... I may have texted Bernard already."
At the Medrano household, Bernard was lying on his bed in joggers, one arm over his face, headphones blasting a random playlist called "Mood: Why Am I Like This?" He was staring at the ceiling like it owed him money.
Then a knock on the door. Arnie burst in before he could say no.
"Get up," Arnie said. "We're going to Grillita. They have unlimited wings and half-priced cocktails. And someone's paying."
Bernard sat up. "Since when do you care about wings?"
Arnie hesitated, then cracked. "Okay, fine. It's a date. For you."
"No."
"Jamie will be there."
"... Still no."
"She doesn't know it's you. It's a blind set-up. Thea coordinated. And also—I told them you'd bring me if I pretended to be your emotional support friend."
Bernard buried his face in a pillow. "This is bad. This is a mistake."
Arnie sat on his legs. "It's chicken and closure, Bernard. One night. At worst, you end up with buffalo sauce on your shirt and more emotional trauma. But at best..."
Bernard raised his head. "At best?"
"You flirt. She laughs. You smolder. She flirts back. You ride into the sunset on Droopy."
Bernard blinked. "You need therapy more than I do."
"I have therapy," Arnie said. "She told me to be more proactive. You're my proactive project."
Bernard sighed, reached for his cleanest jacket, and muttered, "If this ends in karaoke, I'm deleting you from my emergency contacts."
Across town, at Sophia's apartment, a student radio podcast blared in the background as she painted her nails neon green and scrolled through Instagram stories.
She paused when she saw Thea's story: a blurry picture of Grillita's neon sign, captioned "✨GEM & BURN NIGHT✨🔥"
Sophia zoomed in.
Then zoomed in again.
Her lips curled into a tight, dangerous smile.
"Oh, no, no, no," she said. "Not on my watch."
She picked up her phone and texted Kael.
SOPHIA:
Bring your guitar. Emergency sabotage mission. Grillita. 7 PM.
KAEL:
What do I wear?
SOPHIA:
Something that screams 'tragic ex with great abs.'
KAEL:
That's all my outfits.
She smirked. "Good boy."
Then added lipstick to her bag like it was ammunition.
Back at the Narumi house, Jamie stood in front of the mirror, debating whether her current top made her look like she tried too hard or not enough. Anthony peeked in.
"Are you trying to impress Bernard?"
Jamie shot him a glare. "No. It's just dinner. With someone I detest. Who may or may not wear vests."
"You wore eyeliner," he pointed out.
"Shut up."
He backed away, hands up. "Just saying—looks like somebody wants dessert."
Jamie threw a hairbrush at him.
As she stepped into her heels, Droopy tilted his head, then huffed dramatically and flopped on her bed like a judgmental aunt.
Jamie sighed. "This is going to be a disaster."
From the kitchen, Thea yelled, "You look great!"
Jamie opened the door and muttered, "I better get a mochi brownie out of this."
----
Grillita, nestled between a vape shop and a questionable dental clinic in downtown Nueva Citta, was the kind of restaurant that tried very hard to look expensive while offering "Flamin' Fiesta Nachos" for ₱149. Red curtains framed every table. Decorative plastic roses hung from the ceiling. The lighting was low enough to hide bad decisions.
Jamie Narumi walked in at exactly 7:00 PM, armed with a sarcastic smirk and a black blazer that said "I'm here against my will." She paused at the host's stand, scanning the room.
It was—infuriatingly—romantic. Couples leaned close over sizzling plates. A neon sign near the stage read: DATE NIGHT: SING FOR YOUR DESSERT.
She turned to the hostess, a bubbly girl named Clarisse with a clipboard.
"Reservation under 'Gem and Burn'?" Jamie said, already regretting everything.
Clarisse's face lit up. "OH! The honeymoon booth!"
Jamie blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
Clarisse waved for a waiter. "Yes, yes! The special couple tonight! Right this way!"
Jamie opened her mouth to object—then saw Bernard Medrano walk in the front door, just in time to hear it.
He froze in the doorway like someone had slapped him with a bouquet of red flags.
"Don't," Jamie said immediately, pointing at him. "Turn around and pretend you're looking for someone else."
Bernard raised his hands in surrender. "I didn't know this place was a rom-com set. Arnie just said wings."
"You knew."
"I didn't."
They both turned as Clarisse beamed and gestured toward a circular booth tucked beneath a heart-shaped arch.
"The Honeymoon Booth, for our Featured Couple of the Night!" she said, as a mariachi remix of Something Stupid played softly overhead.
"I'm going to kill Thea," Jamie muttered.
"I'm going to kill Arnie," Bernard said.
Clarisse practically shoved them into the booth before either could argue further.
Red velvet cushions surrounded them. A candle flickered in the center of the table. On the wall behind them was a fake framed marriage certificate with blank names and the quote: "True love is a choice... and sometimes a reservation."
Jamie slumped in her seat, arms crossed. Bernard sat stiffly, scooting far to the edge.
They stared at each other like a duel was about to begin.
Across the room, behind a row of potted plants, Sophia adjusted her oversized sunglasses and slid lower in her seat. She wore a large sunhat, a scarf around her neck, and a trench coat—indoors. Kael, next to her, wore sunglasses and a turtleneck like he was auditioning for a low-budget boy band reunion tour.
"This is so obvious," Kael muttered. "We look like we're trying to smuggle endangered birds."
"Shut up," Sophia whispered. "We're undercover."
Kael peeked around a fake palm. "I thought we were going to mess with them. You brought props, right?"
Sophia held up her phone. "I brought humiliation. I'm filming this for my podcast."
Back at the booth, Jamie was stabbing her menu with a fork.
"So," Bernard said, forcing a casual tone. "How's your week been? Still surrounded by relatives who hate each other more than Twitter hates taxes?"
Jamie didn't look up. "Oh, you know. My dad picked a fight in a parking lot. My mom might be funding a bishop's offshore account. Typical Monday."
Bernard chuckled. "Well. My mom tried to sue your dad again this morning."
"Third time's the charm?"
"Nope. Judge asked if she had a 'backup reality' to go with her complaint."
They both smirked at the same time.
A waiter appeared.
"Can I get you two lovebirds started with our Lover's Lumpia Platter?" he asked.
Jamie nearly lunged across the table. "We'll just have water. And separate orders. Far apart."
The waiter blinked, bowed quickly, and vanished.
Bernard leaned back. "You do realize this will be all over TikTok by midnight."
"If it gets me free dessert, I'll live with the shame."
Just then, Kael swaggered onto the mini stage near the salad bar. He had a guitar. His sunglasses were still on. The room dimmed slightly, and a spotlight clicked on over him.
"Oh no," Jamie whispered.
Kael strummed a dramatic D chord.
"This is a song... for someone special," he said, voice loud and drenched in drama. "Someone who once told me my falsetto was 'a hate crime.'"
Jamie sank lower into her seat. "Please no. Please, God, no."
Kael began a painfully slow acoustic version of "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer.
Somewhere across the room, someone dropped a spoon.
Bernard raised an eyebrow. "I can't tell if I'm flattered or insulted."
Jamie groaned. "He thinks this is a Netflix moment."
Kael, undeterred, reached the chorus and pointed dramatically at Jamie. "Kiss me, beneath the milky twilight—!"
Sophia burst into laughter behind her napkin.
Bernard reached for the menu and whispered, "If you want to crawl under the table, I'll cover."
Jamie looked at him, startled—then actually laughed. A real laugh.
"This is... insane," she said.
"We're in a budget telenovela," Bernard said. "All we're missing is a food fight."
Cue Stephanie and Anthony—who walked in at that exact moment, following a tip-off from Thea.
Stephanie stopped cold at the sight of Kael on stage, Jamie glaring from the booth, and Bernard mouthing "help me" across the table.
She pulled out her phone. "Okay. This is better than cable."
Anthony looked around. "Is that guy singing for Jamie?"
"Worse," Stephanie said. "He's singing at her."
Sophia, seeing the siblings, gasped and ducked. Too late.
Anthony spotted her. "Why is Tita Sophia dressed like Carmen Sandiego?"
"EXPOSE HER," Stephanie shouted.
Chaos erupted.
Jamie stood up. "Okay. That's it."
Kael hit a sour chord.
Sophia leapt from her seat, knocking over a plant.
Stephanie took a picture. "This one's going on a shirt."
Clarisse, the hostess, rushed forward with a birthday candle in a brownie.
"Happy... uh... anniversary?"
Jamie grabbed Bernard's hand. "We're leaving. Now."
He followed without protest, ducking as Kael's final note rang out across the dining hall like a dying seagull.
They burst into the night air—gasping, stunned, weirdly exhilarated.
And, somehow, laughing.
----
The night air outside Grillita was thick with smog, jeepney fumes, and secondhand embarrassment. Jamie and Bernard stood under the neon glow of a nearby buko juice stand, both catching their breath, both unsure if they should scream or laugh—or both.
"That," Jamie said between wheezes, "was the worst dinner I've ever had."
"Second worst," Bernard said, resting his hands on his knees. "First was when Sophia's aunt made sinigang with Sprite."
Jamie winced. "That's not sinigang. That's a felony."
They broke into laughter, the kind that shook loose the tension and made their shoulders finally drop. Bernard leaned against a parked tricycle, still smiling.
Jamie looked up at him. "You didn't plan this, did you?"
"If I did, I'd be dead by now," he said. "Arnie owes me five years of therapy."
Their shared moment was interrupted by the thundering clack of heels.
Sophia stormed out of Grillita's glass doors, trench coat flapping behind her like she was chasing a fugitive. Kael followed her, still cradling his guitar like it was a wounded animal.
"Oh, don't walk away from this!" Sophia snapped. "We're not done!"
Jamie turned, arms crossing tightly. "We were never started, Sophia."
Sophia scoffed. "Oh please. Spare me the moral high ground. Like you weren't going to brag about this night to the whole campus."
"I wasn't even supposed to be here!" Jamie shot back. "You think this is fun for me?"
Kael raised a hand. "If I may—"
"No," everyone said in unison.
He lowered it.
Bernard stepped forward, calm but firm. "What are you trying to prove, Sophia?"
"That I'm not stupid," she snapped, eyes sharp and bitter. "That I see through this... slow-burn rivals-to-lovers crap. You're not better than me, Bernard."
"I never said I was," he said, quieter now.
"You didn't have to."
For a second, nobody spoke. The air buzzed with unspoken history.
Then Kael, ever the wild card, tried to salvage the moment.
"Okay, emotions are high. Tension's through the roof. You know what we need?" He strummed a dramatic chord. "A karaoke duel."
Jamie blinked. "What?"
Kael pointed dramatically to the Grillita sign. "It says 'Sing for Your Dessert.' It's fate. We fight this out... with music."
Sophia looked at him like he'd offered to solve their issues with a magic bean.
"I'm not doing karaoke," Jamie said.
But Bernard was already smirking.
"Oh no," she muttered.
Bernard turned to Kael. "Fine. Let's do it. One round. Loser buys leche flan for the table."
Kael grinned. "Deal."
Sophia rolled her eyes. "This is peak heterosexual chaos."
Jamie groaned. "You're all idiots."
"Come on," Bernard said, nudging her. "Back me up?"
Jamie hesitated.
Then sighed. "Only because I want to see Kael cry."
Back inside, Clarisse looked up as the quartet re-entered Grillita. She was visibly sweating, but professionalism kicked in.
"Welcome back! Table or stage?"
"Stage," Bernard said.
The restaurant, still buzzing from earlier, watched as the group returned—this time, willingly. The other patrons leaned in. Someone started livestreaming.
On stage, Kael picked a power ballad: "Always" by Bon Jovi. It was loud. It was dramatic. It was, somehow, out of tune despite his best efforts.
He knelt during the second verse. A baby cried. Someone dropped a spoon again.
"He thinks he's in Glee," Stephanie whispered, recording every second.
Jamie and Bernard took the stage next. The staff offered them mics. Jamie looked deeply uncomfortable.
"What are we singing?" she asked through gritted teeth.
Bernard leaned in, voice low. "Something unexpected."
The instrumental began: "Breaking Free" from High School Musical.
Jamie blinked. "You are not serious."
"I'm very serious," he said. "Commit or die."
As the beat kicked in, Bernard started first:
🎤 "We're soarin', flyin'—there's not a star in heaven that we can't reach!"
Jamie covered her face, mortified. The crowd laughed. Stephanie was in tears from laughter.
But then, halfway through Bernard's second line, Jamie grabbed the mic and belted:
🎤 "If we're tryin', so we're breakin' free!"
Cheers erupted. A waiter dropped a tray of lumpia.
By the chorus, the entire restaurant was singing along. Kael slumped in a booth, defeated, his guitar forgotten beside him. Sophia looked ready to teleport.
Jamie and Bernard ended with an exaggerated final note, arms outstretched, harmonizing terribly—and gloriously.
Applause thundered.
Clarisse returned with a tray of mini leche flans. "Complimentary for the winners!"
Jamie took one, still panting. "This night is a fever dream."
Bernard grinned, face flushed. "But you smiled."
"I laughed. That's not the same thing."
He shrugged. "Close enough."
Back at their table, Stephanie and Anthony held up imaginary scorecards: "10" and "Also 10."
Even Droopy, who had arrived with Johnny at some point, barked once in approval.
Sophia glared at the stage, arms crossed.
Kael leaned over to her. "Well, at least we didn't get arrested."
"I should've brought eggs," she muttered.
Jamie looked across the table at Bernard—who was still buzzing, still lit up, still looking at her like this ridiculous night had gone... weirdly right.
And though she hated to admit it—she felt it too.
The night had cooled, but Nueva Citta was never truly quiet.
Street dogs barked in the distance. The halo-halo stand on the corner still had its fluorescent "OPEN" sign flickering like it couldn't make up its mind. Somewhere, a tricycle revved its engine unnecessarily, despite not going anywhere.
Jamie and Bernard walked side by side down the cracked pavement, their steps in sync without trying. Bernard carried a little styrofoam box of leftover kare-kare. Jamie cradled a small cup of leche flan, a plastic spoon tapping against the lid with every step.
They hadn't spoken in five minutes.
"I can't believe we sang Breaking Free," Jamie finally muttered.
Bernard shrugged. "You killed the high note."
"You pitched it half a key too low."
"You still harmonized. That's teamwork."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't make this a metaphor."
He smiled, but didn't push it.
They walked a bit more, passing shuttered sari-sari stores and sleeping stray cats. A lamppost flickered overhead.
Jamie glanced sideways. "So what was that... really?"
"What?"
"Tonight. The set-up. The sabotage. The ballads. Was that a date?"
Bernard looked up at the sky, scratched the back of his neck. "If it was, it wasn't a great one."
She smirked. "I've had worse. One guy brought me to a wake and said it 'made him feel grounded.'"
"Sounds romantic."
"It was his aunt's wake."
"Oof."
A beat.
Then Bernard added, voice gentler, "I didn't expect to enjoy it. But I did."
Jamie didn't respond right away. She just kept walking.
"Your mom's going to hate this," she said quietly.
Bernard snorted. "Yours might fund a Senate campaign to undo it."
Jamie looked down at her flan. "I don't want to be a political move."
Bernard stopped walking. "You're not."
She paused too, turning to him.
"I mean it," he said, eyes sincere. "I liked you way before the campaign. Way before the rivalry. You're intimidating. And smart. And sometimes cruel in a way that makes me want to be funnier."
She narrowed her eyes, but didn't step back.
"You're corny," she said.
"Deeply."
"I still don't trust you."
"That's fair."
"But tonight..." She exhaled. "It didn't suck."
He smiled. "It didn't."
They stood under the flickering lamppost, not touching, not talking, just watching each other like maybe—for just a second—the weight of their families, their history, their exes, their egos didn't exist.
Jamie finally broke the silence. "You still owe me a real dinner."
Bernard grinned. "Flamin' Fiesta Nachos don't count?"
"Absolutely not."
"Alright," he said, walking again. "Next time: no sabotage. No karaoke. Just you and me."
Jamie followed, the corner of her mouth tugging up. "And no vests."
He clutched his chest. "You wound me."
Behind them, a jeepney roared past, drowning the night in noise for a moment. When it passed, Jamie looked over.
"You still nervous?"
Bernard shrugged. "Always. But that's the fun part."
Jamie raised her flan like a toast. "To reckless choices and poor judgment."
He raised his kare-kare box. "And to singing badly under pressure."
Their utensils clinked lightly in the air.
And as they disappeared down the road, the flickering lamplight blinked once—then stayed on.