I couldn't walk properly—not with Syron watching from the side of the bench like some bored model in a cologne ad.
Seriously, why was the entire SSC lounging around here right now like this was their personal hangout?
And my friends? Absolute traitors. Laughing like hyenas on the sidelines. It was dismissal time, and instead of going home like normal people, they stayed just to witness my public humiliation.
"You walk like a duck, girl! Fix it—you're embarrassing!" Jhay yelled loud enough for the whole football field and maybe the next barangay to hear.
I considered my options: strangulation or blunt force trauma via five-inch heel. Sadly, both were illegal. So instead, I settled for a death glare that could curdle milk.
That idiot!
I wanted to throw my heels at his face, but no—I had to keep it together. Mostly because he was still watching.
Of all places on campus, he just had to be here. His department's building is a fifteen-minute walk from this field. Why is he haunting this place like a hot ghost with good hair?
I muttered a curse under my breath as I nearly tripped over a bump on the grass.
"Oh, don't be stupid!" I snapped and flipped Jhay off without shame. Let Syron see, for all I cared—until I looked again and saw him deep in conversation with Kenzo.
I exhaled. Whew. Safe.
"Water break!" Our overly enthusiastic trainer shouted like we were in the Hunger Games.
The second the last candidate finished her runway walk, I tore my heels off and slammed them to the ground beside me like a warrior dropping her weapon after battle.
"See? Told you it hurts," Jersey called out smugly.
I turned toward them—Jhay, Mia, and Jersey—rage burning in my eyes. They were the reason I was in this mess.
Just because Yashina won last year and couldn't compete again, they had to volunteer me like I was some kind of pageant tribute.
"This is all your fault!" I hissed, massaging my aching foot. "I don't even have a talent!" I whined, clearly one breakdown away from losing it.
"Then dance, duh," Jersey said, barely glancing up from her phone like I wasn't having a whole crisis.
"I'm already dancing for the intermission! And now I have to dance again during the pageant? What is this, a dance-a-thon?"
"Then just sing," Yashina said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Susmita nodded, casually munching on a biscuit. "Your voice is nice anyway. Kinda like Olivia Rodrigo before heartbreak."
I paused. Okay... fair. Maybe singing wouldn't be a disaster.
"What about your sport?" Jhay asked, trying to be helpful for once in his life.
"Swimming," Jersey said with a smirk. "So she can look like a wet cat onstage."
I launched my sweaty tissue at her like a ninja star.
"EW, MACE! What is wrong with you?!" She screeched, flailing dramatically like I threw a live cockroach.
"That's what you get!" I smirked and turned to Jhay. "Maybe I'll go with golf."
He blinked. "You've never held a golf club in your life."
"I'll fake it. If beauty queens can pretend to love charity work, I can pretend to know golf."
Everyone groaned.
Eventually, they drifted back to the bleachers. I told them they didn't have to wait, but did they leave? No. Of course not.
At first, I almost thought, Aww, they care! ...until I heard them whispering about eating samgyupsal afterward. Our trainer literally just told us to cut back on food. Not even ten minutes ago!
Fast forward to the samgyup place. My so-called friends were eating like they'd been starved for weeks. Meat flying, lettuce leaves falling, dipping sauces everywhere. It looked like a K-drama mukbang gone feral.
Meanwhile, I was chewing on a sad piece of lettuce, pretending to be full. I had three days left before the pageant, and there was no way I was ruining my already fragile figure for pork belly.
Across the table, Jhay was giving me that look. The smug, teasing one that made me want to slap him with a sesame oil bottle.
"What's with that face, Mace?" he said, smirking. "You're eating like you're on death row."
"I am," I said. "I'm dying inside."
Jersey reached for more meat. "Live a little, girl."
"Tell that to my waistline and the zipper of my gown."
Mia chuckled. "Don't worry. We'll sew you into it if we have to."
"Like Cinderella but with industrial thread and panic sweat," I muttered.
When I finally got home, I peeled off my clothes and changed into leggings and a black crop top. I stared at myself in the mirror like I was in a movie montage.
Three days. Three more days of pretending I've got this.
I grabbed my tote bag, determined to make up for the gym session Mia and I missed last time. I needed to move. I needed to sweat out the samgyupsal guilt.
While waiting for the elevator, I fanned myself. My shirt was already sticking to my back. Was it just me, or was the whole country on fire today?
Seriously. Why is it so damn hot since this morning? As if the world wasn't already trying to kill me in heels.
When I got to the gym, it was almost empty—thank God. I wasn't in the mood to see perfect-bodied strangers lifting weights like fitness influencers on my For You page. I just wanted to sweat the guilt out of my system and not cry on the treadmill.
I scanned my card at the counter, gave the bored receptionist a tired nod, and headed straight to the treadmill area. I picked the one in the far corner, near the window—mostly so no one would witness me dying in peace.
I started with a warm-up walk, trying to hype myself up.
Okay, Mace. This is fine. You're fine. Just a quick jog. You're hot. You're mysterious. You're—
And then I accidentally bumped the speed too high.
"SH—!"
The machine jerked, and I nearly flew off. I flailed for the emergency clip like I was in an action movie.
I looked around in panic—and of course, there was one other person who had the audacity to witness my near-death experience.
Syron.
In a black hoodie. Hood down. Arms crossed. Leaning against the wall like this was a music video. Why is he everywhere?
He didn't say anything. Didn't even laugh. Just stared. Unbothered. Like he was watching a commercial break.
I did what any rational human would do. I grabbed my water bottle, towel, and dignity, and moved to the mat area like nothing happened.
Core workout. That's safe. No electronics. No danger of being thrown into space.
I laid down and started doing leg raises, pretending my stomach didn't feel like it was being shredded like cheese. I got to 14 before groaning.
"You okay there?" A voice asked. I turned my head.
Syron was suddenly beside me—now stretching. Seriously?! This gym has 30 mats and he had to pick the one next to mine?
"Peachy," I said through clenched teeth, trying not to die mid-crunch.
He didn't smile, but I swore the corner of his mouth twitched. Or maybe I hallucinated it because I was 95% dehydrated and seeing things.
"Don't overdo it," he said calmly. "It's not like you're being graded."
"Says the guy who just watched me almost fly off a treadmill."
"I was impressed," he said, not looking at me. "Not many people survive at speed 12."
I narrowed my eyes. "So you were watching."
"Hard not to." His tone was neutral, but I felt it—the weight of those three words.
I stared at him, unsure if he was being sarcastic, flirty, or just weirdly supportive. With Syron, I could never tell.
"Thanks... I guess," I mumbled.
He nodded and went back to stretching, his back muscles annoyingly visible through his shirt. I hated how he made even bending look cool.
I finished my set, wiped my sweat, and stood up.
"I'm heading out."
Syron looked up. "Take it easy."
"Tell that to my trainer," I muttered.
He didn't respond, but he didn't need to. The smirk was already forming as he went back to his stretches like we hadn't just shared whatever that was.
As I left the gym, I checked my reflection in the glass doors.
Hair: ruined.
Face: red.
Dignity: dropped somewhere near treadmill #4.
But hey—at least I burned a few calories and maybe, just maybe, made Syron look twice.
That counted for something, right?