The week had been relentless.
Practice.
Meetings.
Messages from my parents.
Every minute carefully accounted for, every moment dedicated to something I barely cared to define anymore.
Then came the knock.
Three light taps.
Familiar.
"Morning, Mrs. Lazaro," Calix's voice teased from the other side of the door.
I didn't bother to correct him.
It wasn't worth the energy.
When I opened the door, he was leaning casually against the frame, wearing a simple white shirt and dark jeans, hair slightly tousled, the kind of careless charm that irritated me only because it looked so easy on him.
"What?" I asked flatly.
He grinned. "Get dressed. We're going out."
I blinked at him, unimpressed. "Out?"
"Yeah. You know, outside. Where people do normal things. Eat. Walk. Breathe."
I crossed my arms, leaning against the door. "I have training."
"You have time," he said, eyes scanning mine, calm but insistent. "You've been burning yourself out. One day won't kill you."
"Spending it with you might," I muttered, but there was no venom in my tone, just quiet resistance.
Calix chuckled, unfazed. "Then let's test that theory."
I should've said no.
Every instinct in me wanted to.
I didn't do it spontaneously. I didn't do fun.
But something about the rain, about his persistence, about the faint exhaustion threading through my chest, made me hesitate.
Ten minutes later, I found myself slipping into a simple beige sweater, tying my hair loosely, and grabbing my umbrella.
We ended up in Tagaytay.
The drive was long, quiet, filled with the hum of the engine and the soft patter of rain against the windshield.
Calix didn't talk much, and I didn't either.
But the silence was different this time.
Not tense.
Not guarded. Just… still.
He played soft jazz on the radio.
The kind that filled the spaces between thoughts.
Occasionally, I caught him glancing at me, as if checking whether I was still there, or maybe if I was still myself.
When we arrived, the air was cooler, the mist clinging to the hills like something out of a dream.
He parked the car near a small café overlooking the ridge.
It wasn't one of the usual elite spots my parents frequented, no marble floors, no waiters in suits.
Just quiet charm, wooden tables, the smell of brewed coffee, and the faint laughter of strangers who didn't know or care who we were.
"Coffee?" he asked.
I raised a brow. "You drove all the way here for coffee?"
He smiled faintly. "No. I drove here to see you actually breathe for once."
I didn't have an answer for that.
He ordered two cups and a slice of burnt cheesecake to share, though I didn't remember agreeing to eat anything.
We sat by the window, the view stretching endlessly before us, rolling fog, streaks of green, a world that didn't demand perfection.
For a while, we didn't speak.
He just sat there, stirring his coffee absentmindedly, while I stared at the horizon, watching how the mist swallowed the trees below.
"You look like you're thinking too much," he said finally.
"I always do."
He nodded. "That's your problem."
"I don't see it as one."
"I know," he said, a small smirk playing at his lips. "That's the other problem."
Despite myself, I exhaled through my nose, something between a sigh and a laugh. Barely a sound, but it made him look up sharply, as if he had just seen a miracle.
"Was that—" he grinned, "—a laugh?"
"No."
"Definitely was."
"Calix."
"Yes, Mrs. Lazaro?"
"Shut up."
He laughed openly then, leaning back in his chair, utterly delighted by my annoyance. And for a brief second, I felt it, the smallest pull at the corner of my mouth, the faintest hint of warmth that surprised even me.
—
After coffee, he took me to the nearby stables, private, quiet, surrounded by green hills.
"You planned this?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"Not really," he admitted, "but I figured if you're going to relax, you might as well do it somewhere you feel at home."
I wanted to be annoyed.
I wanted to tell him that bringing me back to horses wasn't relaxing, it was routine, duty, expectation.
But when I saw the open field, the glistening rain on the grass, and the soft snort of the horses in their stalls, something inside me unclenched.
Calix approached one of them, a chestnut mare and reached out to stroke its muzzle, awkward but gentle. "They're calmer than people," he said quietly.
"They don't pretend," I murmured, running my hand along the mare's mane. "They just exist."
He glanced at me, smiling faintly. "You'd be surprised how much that sounds like you."
I looked at him, almost incredulous. "You think I'm calm?"
"No," he said with a laugh. "You just… exist. You don't perform for anyone. You don't fake smiles or pretend to be soft. You just are. And maybe that's why I like being around you."
I froze, not because of his words but because of how simply he said them, like they weren't meant to change anything, just to be honest.
"I didn't ask you to like me," I said quietly.
"I know," he replied easily. "I just do."
I turned away, stroking the mare again, but the tightness in my chest wasn't from discomfort.
It was from something far more dangerous, awareness.
—
By the time the sky began to clear, we were sitting on the hood of his car, watching the clouds part slowly to reveal faint streaks of sunlight.
Calix handed me a bottle of water. "You don't always have to fight, you know."
I looked at him, tired but calm. "I don't know any other way."
He studied me for a long moment, his expression softer than I'd ever seen. "Then maybe it's time you learn."
The words lingered.
Simple, quiet, and yet they dug deep into places I'd buried for years.
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
The silence between us spoke louder than anything I could have said.