The drive back to the city was slower this time.
No radio, no talk.
Only the soft hum of the road and the echo of a day that had felt strangely weightless.
I had expected exhaustion.
Instead, I felt restless.
Every so often, Calix would glance at me.
Not searching for words, not asking for attention,just watching as though trying to understand something he couldn't name.
I pretended not to notice.
My fingers were busy tracing the condensation on the window, drawing invisible shapes I couldn't explain.
When we reached the condo, dusk was settling.
Manila's skyline shimmered in shades of orange and silver, the rain long gone.
I stepped out first.
He followed, locking the car, still silent.
We walked to the elevator side by side, close enough to sense each other's presence but not enough to touch.
Inside the elevator, he pressed our floor.
The small space filled with the faint scent of rain on his shirt, coffee, and something else, warmth, quiet, steady.
"Thanks for today," he said finally.
I turned to him, arms crossed. "For what?"
"For saying yes."
"I didn't say yes. You didn't give me a choice."
He smiled, that same infuriating curve of his mouth that always looked like trouble. "You could've slammed the door."
"I considered it."
"But you didn't."
I looked away. "You're annoyingly observant."
He chuckled, low and easy. "I'll take that as a compliment."
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
I stepped out first again, keys in hand.
"Goodnight," I said curtly, already turning toward my unit.
He hesitated. "Aurora—"
I stopped, half-turning. "What?"
He looked like he wanted to say something, then shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."
I frowned but didn't press.
I turned my key and pushed open the door.
But before I could step inside, he spoke again.
"You keep everyone out, you know that?"
I froze.
His tone wasn't teasing anymore.
It was quiet, almost fragile.
"You build walls so high no one even knows what's inside," he continued. "But you don't have to stay locked up forever."
I gripped the door handle, trying not to let the tremor reach my voice. "That's none of your concern."
"Maybe not."
His steps moved closer, slow, deliberate.
I didn't turn.
My heart was steady, at least I thought it was.
"And what if someone wants to stay?" he asked softly.
I finally turned.
He was closer than I expected, standing just a breath away.
The hallway lights framed him in gold.
I hated that he looked at me like that, like I was something worth holding on to.
"Then they'll learn," I said evenly, "that I'm not something anyone can fix."
"I'm not trying to fix you."
His voice was low, steady. "I just want to see you."
The silence that followed was a weight between us, heavy and electric.
I should've walked away.
I should've shut the door.
But I didn't.
Because for the first time, his words didn't sound like pity.
They sounded like the truth.
He reached out, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my face.
My breath caught before I could stop it.
The movement was simple, gentle, but it broke something open inside me.
I had been touched before, greeted, congratulated, even admired.
But never like this.
Never with care that asked for nothing in return.
"Calix," I whispered, more a warning than a name.
He smiled faintly. "Yeah?"
I didn't answer.
And then he leaned in.
Not fast.
Not hungry.
Just certain.
The space between us disappeared, and his lips touched mine, light, hesitant, asking.
It wasn't the kind of kiss that demanded anything.
It was the kind that waited to be accepted.
I didn't move at first.
My mind screamed to pull back.
To remind him what this was, a contract, a name, a convenience.
But my body betrayed me.
My hands, traitorous and alive, found his shirt.
My lips responded before thought could intervene.
It was soft.
Warm.
Unfamiliar.
And it terrified me.
Because I didn't know what love was.
I had studied emotion like a language I never wanted to speak.
I had mastered grace, control, discipline, but not this.
Never this.
When he finally pulled back, the world was still spinning, slow and heavy.
His eyes searched mine, waiting for something, anger, maybe, or rejection.
But I said nothing.
I just stared, heart hammering against ribs that had never known what it meant to ache this way.
He touched my cheek gently. "Aurora…"
I stepped back, breath shallow. "Don't."
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, though his voice wasn't regretful—just careful. "I didn't mean to—"
"Yes, you did."
He stopped.
I looked at him, calm again, expression unreadable. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"I did," he admitted softly.
The honesty hit me harder than the kiss itself.
I turned away, hand on the door again. "Goodnight, Calix."
He didn't move.
For a moment, neither did I.
The air between us felt too full, too alive.
"Goodnight, Aurora," he murmured finally.
—
When I stepped inside and closed the door, I leaned against it, exhaling a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
My hand lifted unconsciously to my lips, still tingling, still foreign.
I'd faced competitions, judgment, and disappointment without flinching.
But this?
This left me unsteady.
Because it wasn't about him alone.
It was about what his presence had unearthed, something soft, forgotten, terrifying.
I didn't know how to name it.
I didn't even know if I wanted to.
But alone in the quiet of my condo, the truth whispered like a secret I couldn't silence