Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’ll tell you Limasawa is just an island.

Small, quiet, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. But locals—the ones who’ve lived here long enough, or maybe just believe in a little more than what they see—they’ll tell you otherwise.

They say Limasawa has a way of holding on to people. Not in the frightening, ghost story kind of way, no— more like, you leave but the island keeps a part of you. A laugh you left behind in the sea breeze, a quiet wish you whispered to the waves.

Some claim the island listens. That if you arrive with a heavy heart, the salt air will lighten it. If you come with questions, you might not leave with answers—but you’ll carry better questions with you when you go.

Who knows if any of that is true?

Maybe you’ll find out for yourself.

Welcome to Limasawa. Take your time. The island isn’t in a hurry, and neither should you be.

For Aiah and Mikha — as if you’ve always been real.
Because of you, we’ve shared these words, these quiet moments, and found a little bit of magic along the way. You were the thread all along.

Chapter Text

There is no single moment when Aiah Arceta realizes she can’t do this anymore.

It is all of them.

The flashing cameras that steal every inch of her face. The expectations that press against her like too-tight fabric. The endless scrutiny, the whispers laced with judgment, the feeling of being watched even when she’s alone.

It is the way she cannot breathe.

So when her manager hands her another schedule—another set of obligations, another interview, another event where she will have to smile until her cheeks ache—Aiah feels something snap inside her.

And suddenly, she is walking out.

Out of the meeting, out of the building, out of the life she has known for years.

She doesn’t know where she’s going.

Only that she needs to be somewhere else.

She shouldn’t be able to disappear.

She is Aiah Arceta.

Her face is on billboards, in magazines, on the lips of people who dissect her life as if it belongs to them.

And yet the universe lets her go.

The airport is busy, people lost in their own worlds. No one notices her as she pulls her hoodie low, as she slips past security, as she boards a flight with no return ticket.

Then a boat.

Then the sea, stretching endlessly before her.

Then— Limasawa.

The island greets her like it has been waiting.

Salt in the air. Sunlight filtering through the gaps in coconut trees. The hush of waves that sound almost like a lullaby.

No flashing lights. No cameras.

Just the steady rhythm of the tide, pulling her toward the shore like she belongs.

Like she was always meant to be here.

She expects the island to spit her out, to recognize her for who she is, to remind her that she does not belong.

But the people here— if they know, they do not say.

The woman at the hostel hands her a key without hesitation, calls her hija with a warmth Aiah has not felt in years.

The vendors at the small market smile when she passes by, not in recognition, but in acknowledgment—as if she is just another traveler, another wanderer drawn to the quiet.

And maybe that is what she wants to be.

Not a superstar. Not an actress.

Just Aiah.

For as long as the universe will let her.

But the next day, she wakes to the sharp trill of her phone.

For a moment, she forgets where she is. The bed is too stiff, the air too still. Then the scent of saltwater drifts through the open window, and it settles. The island. The sea. She left.

Her phone buzzes again, and the moment she sees the name on the screen, the spell breaks.

Manager.

She exhales, pressing the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Aiah—where the hell are you?” The voice is frantic, somewhere between anger and relief. “Do you have any idea how bad this looks? You just—disappeared! No warning, no calls, nothing! We thought—”

“I’m fine,” Aiah says quietly. “I just needed… time.”

A pause. She can hear papers rustling, the distant clatter of a keyboard. “Aiah. You can’t just vanish. What if someone saw you? What if—”

“No one saw me,” she says, and it’s true. Or if they did, they chose to let her go. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Silence. Then, a sigh. “Tomorrow,” her manager repeats, voice weary. “You promise?”

Aiah swallows. She thinks of the sand between her toes. The lull of the ocean outside her window. The way the island has let her slip into its rhythm without question, without demand.

But she also thinks of the world waiting for her. The interviews. The cameras. The expectations she left behind but never truly escaped.

“…I promise.”

The call ends, and Aiah lets the phone slip from her fingers.

Tomorrow.

But for now—just for now—the world can wait.

Chapter Text

It starts with rain.

Not the light, fleeting kind that dusts city sidewalks, but the kind that soaks through fabric and lingers in the air, turning the night thick with the scent of salt and damp earth. Aiah hadn’t planned for this—not the storm rolling in, not the missed boat, not the way Limasawa has tightened its hold around her like it isn’t ready to let her go just yet.

She should be frustrated. Should be calling her manager, making arrangements to leave first thing in the morning. Instead, she walks.

The streets are nearly empty, the rain driving most people indoors. The few who remain move with purpose—hoods drawn up, umbrellas tilted low, feet splashing through puddles without hesitation. Aiah doesn’t belong to this place, not really, but for a moment, she moves like she does.

Then, the glow of a cafe cuts through the dim.

She pauses, breath fogging in the cool air. The window is slightly fogged, the golden light inside warm against the storm-darkened street. A faint hum of music drifts through the door, the kind meant for slow evenings and quiet company.

Aiah steps inside.

The bell above the door chimes softly, and the scent of coffee wraps around her—rich, familiar. The place is small, with wooden tables and shelves lined with jars of beans, a chalkboard menu scrawled with looping handwriting. A few customers linger, but no one looks up at her entrance.

Behind the counter, a woman glances over.

She looks like she's the same age as Aiah—maybe even younger—but carries herself with an ease that makes her seem older, steadier. Her red hair is slightly damp at the ends, tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free. She wears an apron dusted with flour, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows.

Aiah expects recognition. A flicker of surprise, a widening of eyes.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, the woman leans against the counter, tapping a finger absently against the wood. “You look like you could use something warm,” she says.

Aiah hesitates. Then nods.

The woman hums, turning toward the espresso machine. “You’re our last customer,” she says over the quiet hiss of steaming milk. “That means you get to taste-test something new. No complaints.”

Aiah watches her work, movements practiced but unhurried. There’s something grounding about it, the way she measures, pours, wipes down the counter between steps. When the cup is finally set in front of her, Aiah wraps her fingers around the warmth, letting it seep into her skin.

She takes a sip.

It’s different. A little sweeter than she’s used to, with something floral lingering at the edges. Not perfect, not polished, but real.

The woman watches, expectant.

Aiah swallows. “It’s good.”

Something like amusement flickers across her face. “That’s all I get?”

Aiah exhales, the corners of her lips twitching just slightly. “It’s good,” she repeats, “and it tastes like…” She pauses, rolling the flavors on her tongue, searching for the right words. “Like a quiet evening.”

The woman tilts her head, considering. “Not bad.”

She reaches for a small notepad near the register, flipping it open and scribbling something down. Aiah catches the curve of her handwriting before she closes it:

Like a quiet evening.

She doesn’t ask why she wrote it down, and the woman doesn’t explain. The moment passes, slipping into the space between them like a secret meant to be kept.

Outside, the rain drums steadily against the roof.

Aiah doesn’t plan on speaking. But maybe it’s the warmth of the coffee, or the way the air feels different in this place, or the fact that the woman across from her doesn’t know her, doesn’t expect anything from her.

Maybe it’s the fact that, for just one night, she doesn’t have to be anyone but another customer in a cafe.

“I missed my boat,” she says finally.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Bad luck?”

Aiah huffs out a quiet laugh, but it’s humorless. “Something like that.” She stares into her cup, tracing circles against the ceramic. “Everything’s been… off lately.”

The woman doesn’t press. She just leans on the counter, arms crossed, listening.

Aiah exhales slowly. “Sometimes it feels like the whole world is watching me. Like I can’t breathe without someone picking it apart.” She doesn’t know why she’s saying this. Maybe because she’s leaving tomorrow. Maybe because she’s tired. Maybe because the woman isn’t looking at her like she’s something fragile, something breakable—just someone.

“And tonight,” Aiah continues, voice quiet, “I just wanted to be somewhere the world couldn’t reach me.”

The words settle between them, light as the steam curling from her cup.

The woman nods, as if she understands, even if she doesn’t know the weight of Aiah’s name, the gravity of what it means to be her.

“Well,” she says after a moment, “you found the right place.”

Aiah glances up.

The woman gestures vaguely to the cafe, to the rain beyond the window, to the stretch of island that seems untouched by the rest of the world. “No one’s watching here,” she says simply. “No one’s asking anything from you.”

Aiah exhales, something in her chest loosening.

For tonight, at least, that’s enough.

The next morning, Aiah wakes to the sound of waves crashing louder than before.

It takes her a moment to place herself—to remember where she is, why the air smells like salt, why the sheets feel different beneath her fingers. Limasawa. The cafe. The quiet evening that stretched long into the night, lingering like the taste of coffee on her tongue.

She turns over, eyes blinking toward the window. The sky is dull and heavy, thick clouds pressing low over the sea. The air feels different, charged with something restless.

Then she hears it.

The soft murmur of a news broadcast from the lobby downstairs. The clink of mugs. The voice of the hostel owner, low and steady as she speaks to another guest.

“Storm’s closing in,” the woman says. “Boats are shut down for the week.”

Aiah sits up, heart slowing to a strange, quiet rhythm.

So that’s it, then.

She pulls her knees to her chest, watching the sky through the streaked windowpane. She should feel frustrated, or at least anxious. This wasn’t part of the plan—not that she had one to begin with. But all she feels is a quiet sense of inevitability, as if the island itself has made its decision.

And maybe, for once, she’s willing to listen.

Her phone buzzes.

She doesn’t have to look at the screen to know who it is.

Aiah sighs, presses the device to her ear. “Before you say anything,” she starts, voice still laced with sleep, “I was going to leave last night.”

“Aiah.” The relief in her manager’s voice is palpable, but it does little to curb the frustration beneath it. “Jesus, do you know how many calls I’ve had to answer? Do you—” A deep inhale. A measured exhale. “You promised.”

“I know.” Aiah runs a hand through her hair, staring at the ceiling. “But there’s a storm. No boats. Nothing I can do.”

“A storm.” A pause. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m making it up for fun,” Aiah deadpans, rubbing her temple. “Yes, I’m sure. I just heard it on the news.”

Another silence. She can practically hear the wheels turning on the other end—her manager thinking through the logistics, checking if there’s any way to get her out sooner.

Aiah beats her to it. “I’ll come back when I can. Not like I have anywhere to go.”

Her manager exhales, long and slow. “Fine,” they mutter, resignation creeping in. “But Aiah—this isn’t happening again. You can’t just disappear.”

“I know,” she says. And this time, she means it.

The call ends, and the quiet rushes back in.

Aiah lowers the phone onto the nightstand, staring at it for a moment before turning away.

She should be restless. She should be pacing, checking updates, trying to find a way to do something.

Instead, she closes her eyes.

For the first time in a long time, there’s nowhere to go.

And strangely, she finds she doesn’t mind.

The scent of garlic and frying eggs lingers in the air as Aiah steps into the hostel’s small diner.

It’s a modest space—wooden tables, mismatched chairs, a menu scrawled in chalk above the counter—but there’s a warmth to it, something that reminds her of quiet mornings before the world wakes up. A radio hums softly in the background, crackling with the familiar voice of a national broadcaster.

She glances around. A few guests are scattered across the room, eating breakfast or nursing cups of coffee. By the window, the hostel owner—the same woman who had checked her in the day she arrived—sits at a corner table, a newspaper folded in her lap, a mug cradled between her hands.

Aiah hesitates, then steps toward the counter, ordering a simple breakfast. Toast, eggs, coffee—nothing heavy. The kitchen staff moves with quiet efficiency, their hands practiced and sure, and within minutes, her tray is set before her.

She turns, eyes flickering to the corner where the owner sits. Their gazes meet, and with a small nod, the woman gestures to the empty seat across from her.

“Storm’s stronger than expected,” the woman says as Aiah settles into the chair, flipping the newspaper so Aiah can see the headlines.

Fishermen Warned to Dock Early, Coast Guard Suspends Boat Operations Indefinitely.

Aiah glances out the window. The sky is still overcast, the wind carrying a slight chill, but the storm hasn’t fully arrived yet.

“How bad will it be?” she asks, picking at her toast.

The woman shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “Bad enough. But nothing the island hasn’t seen before.” She nods toward the dock in the distance. “The fishermen knew it was coming. They’re used to this—pulling in the boats early, securing the nets. Still, it’s never easy. No fishing means no fresh catch to sell, no income for a few days. Everyone will have to tighten their belts a little.”

Aiah chews her food slowly, thinking. In the city, storms were an inconvenience—traffic, canceled events, flooded streets—but life always moved on, powered by a machine too big to stop. Here, it was different. Life was woven into the tides, the weather, the sea itself. A single storm could ripple through the entire community, shifting the way people ate, worked, survived.

She clears her throat. “Is there… anything people do to prepare? Besides docking the boats?”

The woman gives her a curious glance, as if surprised by the question. Then she sets down her mug. “Families stock up on dry goods. Extra rice, canned food, things that keep. Most of the small stores will be selling out by now.” She tilts her head slightly. “You’ll be fine, though. The hostel’s prepared for guests staying longer than planned.”

Aiah nods absently, pushing her eggs around with her fork.

The woman studies her for a moment. “You don’t seem too bothered about being stuck here.”

Aiah pauses. She should be. She should be panicking, calling her manager again, trying to find a way out. But instead, she’s sitting here, eating breakfast, listening to a conversation about fishing and storms like she’s just… another person in a small diner.

“I guess I’m not,” she admits.

The woman hums, leaning back in her chair. “Maybe the island decided to keep you for a little while.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “Is that a thing that happens?”

A small smile tugs at the woman’s lips. “You’d be surprised.”

A silence stretches between them, easy and unhurried. Outside, the wind shifts, rustling through the palm trees.

The woman takes another sip of coffee. “Since you’re here a bit longer, you might as well see the island. Go down to the shore, visit the old lighthouse. Maybe stop by the market before the rain gets worse.”

Aiah considers this. She hadn’t planned on doing anything at all—hadn’t even thought about it—but the idea doesn’t sound so bad.

For now, at least, she has nowhere to be.

And maybe that’s a good thing.

Chapter Text

Aiah walks.

She doesn’t have a destination in mind—not really—but the hostel owner’s words linger in her thoughts, giving her enough direction to step outside and see where the island takes her.

The morning air is cool, heavy with the scent of rain waiting to fall. The wind carries the hush of distant waves, weaving through the narrow streets where life moves slow.

It’s the first thing she notices.

In the city, there was no such thing as stillness. Every moment had urgency—appointments stacked on top of rehearsals, interviews squeezed between flights, text messages left unanswered for too long. Days bled into each other, indistinguishable in the blur of movement.

Here, the world does not rush.

Aiah watches as an elderly woman sweeps the front of her small store, pausing now and then to chat with a passing neighbor. A group of fishermen sit by the dock, repairing nets with hands that do not hurry. A child crouches by the roadside, tracing shapes into the dirt with a stick, utterly unbothered by time.

Everything moves at its own pace, as if the island itself dictates the rhythm—and no one argues with it.

And, strangely, Aiah doesn’t mind.

She finds the shore first.

The tide is pulling back, leaving behind smooth stones and broken shells, remnants of a world that exists just beneath the surface. Aiah crouches down, fingers skimming the damp sand, feeling the earth solid beneath her touch.

She exhales. It’s quiet here.

No cameras. No whispers. No expectations.

Just the waves rolling in and out, as they always have.

She doesn’t stay long. The lighthouse is next, standing alone at the edge of a rocky hill. The climb is short but steep, and when she reaches the top, she’s met with a view that steals the breath from her lungs.

The ocean stretches out endlessly, an unbroken expanse of gray-blue, the storm lingering on the horizon but still too far to touch. The island below looks small from here—houses scattered along the coastline, the dock lined with tethered boats waiting for calmer days.

She wonders what it would be like to live like this.

To wake up with nothing but the sound of the sea. To move through life without worrying about who’s watching, what’s being said, what new expectation will be placed upon her shoulders.

Would she be happier?

Would she be free?

She doesn’t have an answer.

By the time she reaches the market, the sky is beginning to darken. The clouds are shifting, the storm inching closer, but the island moves as if it isn’t concerned. Vendors still call out their prices, baskets of fruit and dried fish displayed neatly under makeshift tents. The scent of warm bread and grilled meat drifts through the air, and Aiah finds herself slowing her steps, drawn into the rhythm of it all.

She buys a small bag of dried mangoes from a woman with kind eyes. The woman smiles, hands her the change without a second glance, without hesitation.

Aiah is used to recognition. To the sharp inhale, the widening eyes, the murmured Oh, it’s her.

But here, she is just another passerby, another quiet visitor lost in the flow of the market.

And somehow, that feels more like belonging than anything else.

She walks farther—past the market, past the small tricycle terminal, just beyond the bend in the road, until the familiar building comes into view.

The cafe looks different in the daylight.

Last night, it had been a warm glow against the rain, a refuge in the quiet storm of her thoughts. Now, under the overcast morning sky, it feels softer, less like an escape and more like a place that simply exists—steady, unchanging.

Aiah hadn’t meant to come back. Her feet had simply taken her here, as if following an invisible thread, drawn by something she isn’t sure she wants to name.

She hesitates at the door, fingers brushing the handle.

Then, the bell chimes as she steps inside.

The scent of coffee greets her first, rich and grounding. A few customers sit scattered across the space, murmuring over steaming mugs, the slow hum of morning conversations blending into the background.

And behind the counter, red hair catching the soft light, is her.

The woman looks up, and for a brief second, her thick brows lift in surprise before settling into something softer—recognition, but not the kind Aiah is used to. It’s not wide-eyed shock, not the rush to grab a phone or whisper to a friend.

It’s just a quiet smile.

“Back again?” The woman asks, wiping her hands on a towel.

Aiah shrugs, stepping toward the counter. “Guess I am.”

She nods toward the menu. “Same as last night?”

Aiah pauses, then nods.

She moves with the same practiced ease as last night, measuring, pouring, frothing the milk with movements so natural they feel almost effortless. Aiah watches, studying the small details—how she tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear, the way she hums under her breath, a song Aiah doesn’t recognize.

When the cup is set in front of her, she wraps her fingers around it instinctively, the warmth seeping into her skin.

This time, the barista doesn’t ask for a review.

Instead, she leans slightly against the counter, arms crossed. “So,” she says, tilting her head, “are you just passing through, or is the storm keeping you here?”

Aiah exhales, glancing at the window where the sky remains heavy, the promise of rain thick in the air. “The storm,” she answers. “I was supposed to leave again today.”

She hums, as if she already figured as much. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, then.”

Aiah huffs out a quiet laugh. “Looks like it.”

She studies Aiah for a moment, then extends a hand. “Since you’re here a little longer, I guess I should at least know your name.”

Aiah stills.

She isn’t sure why she hesitates. Maybe because she’s spent so long hearing her name come with weight, expectation, reaction. A name that isn’t really hers anymore, but something owned by the world—written in headlines, whispered in gossip, tied to a version of herself that sometimes feels like a stranger.

Still, she reaches out, shaking the barista's hand. “Aiah.”

Her grip is steady, warm. She nods once, as if filing the name away in her mind, then releases her hand.

No flicker of recognition. No hesitation. No Oh, I know who you are.

Just a name.

Aiah swallows, something unfamiliar settling in her chest.

“And you?” she asks, her own voice quieter than expected.

The barista gestures vaguely to herself. “Mikha.”

Aiah nods, testing the name in her mind. It suits her—simple, steady, no need for anything more.

Mikha tilts her head toward the cup in Aiah’s hands. “What do you think?”

Aiah takes a sip, letting the warmth spread through her.

“Like a quiet evening,” she says, echoing her words from last night.

Mikha’s lips curve slightly, something unreadable flickering in her gaze.

She doesn’t say anything, but Aiah notices—this time, when Mikha reaches for the notepad beside the register, she writes it down again.

Like a quiet evening.

Aiah doesn’t ask why.

And Mikha doesn’t explain.

“You know,” Mikha says, leaning against the counter, “since you’re officially a stranded tourist, you get a free lunch. It’s a thing we do—comfort food for people stuck here because of the weather.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “Is that a real policy, or did you just make that up?”

Mikha smirks. “Guess you’ll never know.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t argue. She isn’t really hungry, but she doesn’t mind the idea of staying a little longer. There’s something about Mikha’s presence that makes her feel at ease—like she doesn’t have to be anything other than who she is in this moment.

Mikha disappears into the kitchen, and Aiah takes the chance to glance around. The cafe is small, but it feels lived-in, filled with details that hint at the person who runs it. Books stacked in odd corners, a corkboard with pinned notes and recipes, a guitar leaning against a wall.

After a few minutes, Mikha returns, balancing two plates in her hands. “Hope you like seafood,” she says, sliding one in front of Aiah before taking the seat across from her.

Aiah glances down. Grilled fish, garlic rice, and a side of pickled mango. Simple, but the kind of meal that feels real, like something made with care rather than routine.

“On the house,” Mikha reminds her, nodding toward the plate. “Better eat before I start charging you.”

Aiah smirks, but she picks up her fork. “Guess I should take advantage of this generosity while it lasts.”

They eat in companionable silence for a while, the sound of rain softly tapping against the windows. The storm hasn’t fully arrived yet, but the sky is heavy, the kind of gray that lingers before the downpour.

Eventually, Aiah glances up. “So… you’re not just passing through either, huh?”

Mikha shakes her head, swallowing a bite of rice. “Nope. Born here, actually.”

Aiah blinks, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Mikha says, leaning back in her chair. “My grandparents have been here forever. They own a couple of hostels. This island’s pretty much in my blood.”

Aiah tilts her head. “But you don’t sound like you’re from here.”

Mikha chuckles. “That’s because I grew up in the States. My parents moved when I was young, and I lived there most of my life.” She gestures vaguely. “They’re still there. My siblings too. I was the only one who came back.”

Aiah frowns slightly, curiosity piqued. “Why?”

Mikha shrugs, poking at her food. “I don’t know. I guess I just felt… pulled back, you know? Like no matter how long I was away, this place was always waiting for me.” She glances around the cafe. “I wanted something different. Something mine. And I love brewing, cooking—making something that brings people comfort, even if it’s just for a little while.”

Aiah watches her, the way she speaks about the island—not with grand declarations, but with something quieter, something sure.

“How long have you been back?”

“A couple of years now.” Mikha exhales, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But honestly? Feels like I never left. Like my time in the States didn’t even matter, because the moment I set foot here again, it was like no time had passed at all.”

She picks up her glass, turning it absently in her hands. “Maybe it’s the island’s magic.”

Aiah studies her.

She doesn’t know why the words settle so deeply in her chest, but they do.

She thinks about how easily the island has accepted her, how it hasn’t questioned her presence. How the people glance at her but don’t pry, how she’s allowed to just be.

Maybe Mikha is right. Maybe Limasawa has a magic of its own.

Or maybe, for the first time in a long time, Aiah is exactly where she’s meant to be.

The conversation drifts like the tide—gentle, unhurried, coming and going without force.

Mikha doesn’t pry, but after a while, she asks, “What about you?”

Aiah pauses, her fork hovering over her plate. “What about me?”

Mikha lifts a shoulder in an easy shrug. “Why were you supposed to leave today?”

Aiah takes a sip of water, considering her words. She could lie. It wouldn’t be difficult—spin a quick story about a spontaneous trip, a getaway cut short by the weather. But the truth is, she doesn’t want to lie.

She just doesn’t want to give too much.

“I had to go back,” she says eventually, vague but not untrue. “Work. Life.”

Mikha doesn’t push for details. She just nods, like that answer is enough.

Aiah glances down at her plate, toying with the edge of her napkin. “It’s… a lot, sometimes.”

Mikha tilts her head slightly, waiting.

Aiah exhales. “Feels like I can’t breathe without someone watching, someone waiting for me to mess up.” She lets out a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “And sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I just… disappeared for a while.”

Mikha’s fingers tap idly against her glass, considering. “And now you kind of have.”

Aiah huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

Mikha studies her for a moment. Then, she nods once and takes another bite of food, as if the weight of Aiah’s words doesn’t scare her, as if she doesn’t need more than what’s been given.

And Aiah realizes—Mikha is the kind of person who takes things as they are. No pressing, no reaching for more than what’s offered.

It’s… nice.

The storm is still gathering outside, the wind carrying a hint of something stronger, but in here, the moment is still.

Mikha leans back in her chair, stretching slightly. “Well,” she says, smirking, “if you end up stuck here longer, I could be your personal tour guide.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow.

“Y’know, if the weather clears up,” Mikha continues, feigning nonchalance. “Show you around, take you to the best food spots, give you the full Limasawa experience.” She tilts her head slightly, watching Aiah’s reaction. “I won’t even charge.”

It’s a joke—mostly. But there’s something in Mikha’s voice, something warm and quiet, that makes it feel a little more than that.

Like she actually wouldn’t mind.

Aiah meets her gaze, searching for something in the offer. Maybe for a catch, maybe for some kind of expectation. But there’s nothing like that in Mikha’s expression. Just a simple, easy sincerity.

Aiah exhales, setting her fork down. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mikha grins. “You do that.”

Outside, the rain starts to pick up.

But inside, Aiah thinks, maybe she doesn’t mind waiting out the storm after all.

Chapter Text

The rain comes and goes in waves.

By the time afternoon rolls around, the wind has settled into a steady rhythm, rustling through the trees outside the hostel. Aiah stays inside, curled up in the small common area, pretending to read a book she picked up from the shelf. She hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

It’s not that she’s restless, exactly. It’s just that, despite everything—despite the storm, despite being stranded on an island she barely knows—she feels strangely… at ease.

She isn’t used to this kind of stillness.

The front door swings open, and Aiah looks up instinctively.

A familiar figure steps inside, shaking the rain from her jacket. Red hair slightly damp from the mist, a plastic crate balanced easily in her arms.

Aiah blinks. “Mikha?”

Mikha startles slightly, eyes flickering toward her. It takes her a second to register Aiah sitting there, and when she does, her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Huh. Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

Aiah tilts her head. “You don’t live here, do you?”

Mikha chuckles. “No, but my family owns the place.” She shifts the crate in her hands, nodding toward the hallway. “I was just dropping off some supplies for the kitchen.”

Aiah’s eyes narrow slightly. “Wait… your family?”

Before Mikha can answer, a voice calls from the back.

“Is that you, anak?”

The woman Aiah had assumed was the hostel owner steps into view, wiping her hands on a dish towel. There’s a warmth in her expression, the kind reserved for someone familiar, someone loved.

Mikha grins. “Hi, Yaya.”

Yaya?

Aiah watches as the woman—stern but kind, all practical energy—walks right up to Mikha and pulls her into a brief but firm embrace. “You should’ve called. I would’ve sent someone to pick you up instead of making you carry all that in the rain.”

Mikha shrugs, setting the crate down by the counter. “I don’t mind. I figured I’d stop by anyway.”

The woman—Yaya—huffs but doesn’t argue. Then, she glances at Aiah.

“I see you’ve met our guest,” she says, amused.

Mikha follows her gaze. “Yeah, we ran into each other at the cafe last night.”

“Small island,” Yaya says knowingly. Then, to Aiah, “You’ve been getting along with our Mikha, hija?”

Our Mikha.

Aiah isn’t sure why the phrasing makes something settle strangely in her chest, but it does.

She clears her throat. “She makes good coffee.”

Yaya laughs, clapping Mikha on the shoulder. “That she does. Even as a child, she was always in the kitchen, trying to make something, burning things half the time.”

“Hey,” Mikha protests, but there’s no real heat in it.

Aiah watches the exchange, something warm curling at the edges of her thoughts.

Mikha fits here so easily, like she belongs in every corner of the island, tied into its history in a way that can’t be unraveled. It’s in the way she moves through the space, in the way Yaya speaks to her like she’s still the child she used to take care of.

Aiah shifts in her seat, tapping her fingers lightly against her book.

“You staying for a while?” she asks, the question slipping out before she can think twice.

Mikha glances at her, one brow lifting.

“You planning to kick me out?”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but there’s a small tug at the corner of her lips. “Just curious.”

Mikha grins, leaning casually against the counter. “Dunno. Maybe I’ll stick around.”

Aiah meets her gaze, and for a brief second, something lingers between them—unspoken, weightless, like the space between the tides before the waves crash again.

Then, Yaya clears her throat. “Since you’re here, you might as well stay for merienda.”

Mikha glances at Aiah. “You up for that?”

Aiah hesitates.

Then, finally, she nods.

Maybe she doesn’t mind staying a little longer, either.

Mikha rolls up her sleeves as she steps into the small hostel kitchen, moving with the ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before.

Aiah lingers by the doorway, feeling strangely out of place—not unwelcome, but like she’s intruding on something quiet and familiar.

“You just gonna stand there?” Mikha glances over her shoulder, smirking. “Or are you gonna help?”

Aiah folds her arms. “I didn’t realize merienda came with a labor requirement.”

“It does when you’re in Yaya’s kitchen,” Mikha says, reaching for a knife and setting it against a wooden chopping board. “C’mon, it’s just suman. You can handle it.”

Aiah sighs but steps forward, eyeing the small pile of banana leaves on the counter. The kitchen smells warm—coconut milk thick in the air, the faint sweetness of sticky rice simmering in a pot.

Yaya moves around them with the ease of years, preparing ingredients with a quiet efficiency. “Mikha used to be useless at this,” she muses, stirring a bowl of brown sugar with the back of a spoon.

Mikha scoffs. “Gee, thanks, Yaya.”

“You were impatient,” Yaya continues, unbothered. “Always wanted to rush things.” She glances at Aiah, amused. “She was convinced everything cooked faster if she watched it closely enough.”

Aiah smirks, shooting Mikha a glance. “Sounds exhausting.”

“You have no idea,” Yaya mutters, shaking her head.

Mikha rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, reaching for a banana leaf and folding it with practiced hands.

Aiah watches for a moment before attempting to do the same. The leaf doesn’t crease the way she expects, slipping awkwardly in her grip. She huffs, adjusting her hold.

Mikha leans in slightly, watching. “Not like that. Here—”

She reaches out, her fingers brushing lightly against Aiah’s as she adjusts her grip.

Aiah stills.

It’s brief, barely a touch, but she feels the warmth of it. The closeness.

Mikha doesn’t seem to notice—or if she does, she doesn’t comment. She just guides Aiah’s hands until the fold is right, then leans back as if nothing happened.

Aiah exhales, shifting slightly. “This better be worth the effort.”

Yaya chuckles. “Wait till you taste it.”

By the time the suman is wrapped and steaming, the sky outside has darkened further. The rain is falling steadily now, tapping against the roof, filling the silence between them.

Mikha sets a plate down in front of Aiah, the suman still warm, a small dish of latik on the side. “Moment of truth,” she says, grinning.

Aiah takes a bite.

The rice is soft, just the right balance of sweetness and coconut, the latik adding a caramel-like depth that lingers on her tongue.

She swallows, setting her fork down. “…Okay, yeah. Worth the effort.”

Mikha smirks. “Told you.”

Yaya watches them, shaking her head with a small, knowing smile before sipping her tea. “You two are funny.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “Funny how?”

Yaya hums, taking her time before answering. “You remind me of people who’ve known each other longer than they actually have.”

Mikha glances at Aiah, something unreadable in her gaze.

Aiah swallows, looking away. “It’s probably just the island’s magic.”

Mikha exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Probably.”

Outside, the storm rages on.

But inside, the warmth lingers.

The rain has softened into a steady drizzle by the time Mikha stands to leave, stretching her arms above her head.

“Well,” she says, glancing at Yaya, “supplies are delivered, merienda’s done. Guess I should get going before the rain decides to throw a fit again.”

Yaya waves her off. “Tell your Lola I said hi, and don’t forget to bring home some food.”

Mikha grins. “Wouldn’t dare.”

She turns toward the door, tugging her jacket over her shoulders. Aiah watches from her seat, absently tracing the rim of her cup, expecting the moment to end there.

But Mikha pauses.

She glances over her shoulder, a thought flickering in her eyes before she fully turns back around.

“Hey,” she says, shifting her weight slightly. “You doing anything later?”

Aiah blinks. “Later?”

Mikha nods. “The cafe’s got live music tonight. Just a local acoustic thing—nothing big, but it’s nice.” She shrugs, casual but deliberate. “Figured you might want to check it out. Y’know, something to enjoy before we’re all locked in by the storm.”

Aiah considers this.

She could say no. It would be easy—just a polite excuse, a half-smile, and she could retreat to her room, let the evening pass in solitude. That’s what she’s used to, after all.

But Mikha is looking at her—not expectantly, not like she’s waiting for something, but like she’s offering something.

A small bridge between them.

Aiah exhales, tapping her fingers against her cup.

“…What time?”

Mikha’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Seven. Come by whenever.”

She doesn’t wait for confirmation. Just gives a small wave, a nod to Yaya, and heads for the door, stepping out into the misty rain.

Aiah watches her go, the warmth of the kitchen still lingering in the air.

The room is quiet for a moment. Then—

“She likes you.”

Aiah startles slightly, turning toward Yaya, who is watching her with a knowing expression as she sips her tea.

Aiah blinks. “What?”

Yaya hums, setting her cup down. “Mikha. She likes you.”

Aiah scoffs, though it’s weaker than she intends. “She barely knows me.”

“Mm.” Yaya leans back in her chair, her gaze steady but kind. “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.”

Aiah doesn’t respond. She just grips her cup a little tighter.

Yaya studies her for a moment before sighing. “She’s always been like that. When she likes someone, she makes space for them. Finds little ways to keep them around.”

Aiah’s fingers still against the ceramic.

“She doesn’t invite just anyone,” Yaya continues, almost absentmindedly. “She acts like it’s casual, but Mikha has always been a little sentimental. She holds onto people in her own way.”

Aiah swallows.

Yaya picks up her cup again, shooting her a small smile. “You should go.”

Aiah exhales, staring at the rain streaking against the window.

She doesn’t know why she said yes.

But maybe she doesn’t mind finding out.

Chapter Text

Aiah stares at the small pile of clothes on the bed, frowning.

She tells herself it’s not a big deal. It’s just a cafe. Just dinner. Just live music in a small, dimly lit space where no one is expecting anything from her.

So why is she acting like it matters?

She exhales, running a hand through her hair.

She isn’t usually like this. Dressing up is part of the job—stylists pick her outfits, makeup artists decide her look, and all she has to do is wear whatever makes sense for the occasion. But now, standing in this little hostel room with only herself to decide, she finds herself hesitating.

Which is stupid.

It’s not like Mikha—or anyone, really—cares what she wears.

Still, she reaches for something else. A loose white button-down over a simple tank, paired with denim shorts. It’s effortless. Casual. Just another outfit.

She tugs at the hem of her shirt, catching her reflection in the small mirror by the dresser. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, a little unruly from the humidity. She presses her lips together, contemplating.

She could tie it back. Or leave it down.

Why does it matter?

She huffs, turning away from the mirror before she can overthink any further.

It’s just dinner.

She slips on her sandals, grabs her phone, and steps out into the evening air, pretending she isn’t paying attention to the way her heart beats just a little faster than usual.

The cafe is livelier than usual.

Aiah notices it the moment she steps inside—more people, more warmth, conversations humming softly under the glow of hanging lights. A small stage is set up in the corner, nothing grand, just a simple microphone stand, a stool, and a guitar propped against an amp.

Mikha is behind the counter, sleeves rolled up as she hands off a drink to a customer. When she spots Aiah, a small, knowing smile flickers across her lips.

“Look who actually showed up,” she teases, leaning on the counter.

Aiah lifts an eyebrow, slipping onto one of the stools. “What, did you think I’d back out?”

Mikha hums, handing her a menu. “Would’ve been a shame if you did. Colet’s playing tonight.”

“Colet?”

Mikha gestures toward the stage, where a young woman is now tuning her guitar, dark brown hair pulled into a half bun, eyes scanning the strings with quiet focus. “Childhood friend. Local star. You should be honored—I have a celebrity friend.”

There’s a playful glint in Mikha’s eyes, but for a split second, something shifts in Aiah’s chest.

It’s stupid. Petty. She knows Mikha’s just joking.

Still, she doesn’t know why it bothers her.

But then Mikha is turning toward the stage, waving a hand. “Oi, Colet! Got someone for you to meet.”

Colet looks up, eyes flickering between them before setting her guitar down and making her way over.

Up close, she carries the kind of presence that comes from confidence—not forced, not loud, just there. She glances at Aiah, something unreadable in her expression, before looking at Mikha.

“So, this is the one you’ve been entertaining lately?” Colet drawls, crossing her arms.

Mikha snorts. “You make it sound weird.”

Colet smirks before turning to Aiah, offering a hand. “Colet Vergara.”

Aiah shakes it, watching her carefully. “Aiah.”

There’s a pause—just a fraction too long.

Colet’s grip lingers before she releases it, something knowing flickering behind her gaze.

Aiah waits.

But Colet doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she just nods. “Nice to meet you.”

Aiah exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly.

Mikha, completely unaware of the silent exchange, nudges Colet’s arm. “Go do your thing, rockstar.”

Colet rolls her eyes but grins. “Yeah, yeah.”

She heads back to the stage, adjusting the microphone as the crowd settles. A few soft chords ring out, and then the cafe falls into a hush as she starts to play.

Aiah sips her drink, watching.

Mikha slides onto the stool beside her, chin resting on her palm. “She’s good, huh?”

Aiah nods. “Yeah. She is.”

They sit like that for a while, the music filling the space between them.

Then—

“Alright, alright,” Colet drawls between songs, shooting a look toward the counter. “I think it’s about time we drag a certain someone up here.”

Mikha groans. “No.”

The crowd chuckles. Aiah raises an eyebrow.

Colet smirks. “C’mon, Mikhs. It’s tradition.”

“I haven’t done this in forever.”

“Exactly.” Colet leans against the mic. “And besides, your very special guest should get to hear you.”

Aiah stiffens slightly.

Mikha glares at Colet but sighs in defeat, pushing herself off the stool. “You’re the worst.”

Colet grins. “Sure, sure.”

Mikha rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. She takes the second microphone, glancing at Colet. “What are we doing?”

Colet barely hesitates. “Old favorite?”

Mikha exhales through her nose. Then nods.

Aiah doesn’t expect the first familiar chords to hit the way they do.

Soft. Slow.

Come stop your crying, it’ll be alright…

Her breath catches.

Mikha sings the first line, voice steady, a little deeper than Aiah expected but warm in a way that settles into the air. Colet harmonizes easily, years of practice evident in the way their voices thread together.

Aiah grips her glass a little tighter.

The song—the one her father used to sing to her, the lullaby that used to carry her to sleep when she was younger, before life got too big, too loud.

Mikha doesn’t know.

She has no idea what this song means to Aiah.

But it doesn’t stop it from hitting like a wave, pulling her under before she can stop it.

She swallows, forcing herself to breathe.

Mikha’s eyes flicker toward her mid-song, just briefly, as if checking to see if Aiah is still listening.

Aiah looks away.

She is.

Too much.

Chapter Text

The cafe empties slowly, the night stretching thin around them. Guests drift into the cool air, their laughter dissolving into the hush of the waves, leaving only the ghost of their presence behind—chairs askew, the scent of coffee clinging to the air.

Colet is the last to leave. She slings her guitar over her shoulder, rolling out the stiffness in her arms before giving Mikha a lazy salute.

“Same time next week?”

Mikha smirks, dragging a damp cloth over the tabletop. “Like you’d ever let me say no.”

Colet chuckles, then turns to Aiah. There’s something unreadable in her gaze, like she wants to say something more, but whatever it is, she tucks it away.

Instead, she nods. “See you around.”

Aiah swallows, caught off guard by the certainty in her tone.

See you around.

Like it’s inevitable.

Like it’s already written.

She watches as Colet steps through the door, her silhouette swallowed by the night, until only the dim glow of the cafe lights remain. The quiet is different now—less like an ending, more like something waiting to be filled.

She could leave too.

She should.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she lingers, fingers tracing the rim of her half-empty glass, watching as Mikha moves through the space—stacking chairs, wiping counters, locking up with a kind of ease that suggests she isn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else.

Aiah doesn’t know what she’s waiting for.

But she waits anyway.

Mikha glances at her, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Didn’t take you for a night owl.”

Aiah shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going back yet.”

Mikha hums, setting dishes into the sink. “So, what’d you think?”

Aiah hesitates. She knows Mikha is asking about the night—about Colet’s voice, the music, the warmth of it all.

But her mind is still tangled in a voice that wasn’t Colet’s.

Still caught in You’ll Be in My Heart and the way it unstitched something inside her before she even had a chance to hold it together.

She exhales. “You sing well.”

Mikha chuckles, rinsing off her hands. “You sound surprised.”

Aiah tilts her head, watching her. “You didn’t tell me you sang.”

Mikha dries her hands on a towel, smirking. “You didn’t ask.”

Aiah huffs, shaking her head, but there’s no bite to it.

“It was a good song.”

Mikha nods, leaning against the sink. “An old favorite.”

Aiah hesitates.

“…Why that one?”

Mikha shrugs. “Dunno. Just reminds me of home, I guess.”

Home.

Aiah’s fingers tighten around her glass.

She could tell Mikha—could tell her that it reminds her of home too, but in a way that hurts. Because home isn’t a place for her anymore, isn’t something she can return to, just a memory wrapped in an old song, carried by a voice she will never hear again.

But she doesn’t.

She just nods.

Mikha studies her for a moment, as if sensing something unspoken. But she doesn’t ask.

She just leans against the counter beside Aiah, the space between them smaller than before, and lets the silence settle.

Neither of them move.

Neither of them need to.

Outside, the rain has stopped.

But Aiah stays anyway.

The walk back to the hostel is quiet.

The scent of rain still clings to the air, a lingering promise, a hush before the storm. The wind stirs the palm trees, threading through the empty streets, brushing against shuttered windows like a whisper. The island is slowing—lights dimming, voices softening, laughter fading into the night as doorways close, as footsteps disappear.

But Aiah and Mikha keep walking.

Mikha’s hands are tucked into her pockets, her steps unhurried. She doesn’t fill the space with words, doesn’t try to break the silence.

It’s strange.

Aiah is used to people moving around her, orbiting her life with careful precision. She is used to bodyguards keeping pace, to assistants hovering close, to someone always walking beside her with purpose—somewhere to be, something to do.

But this— this is just walking.

No expectations. No rush. Just the quiet rhythm of their footsteps, the road stretching ahead, leading nowhere in particular.

It feels… easy.

Mikha glances at her. “Didn’t think you’d stay ‘til closing.”

Aiah shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going back yet.”

Mikha hums, like that answer makes perfect sense. “Hope the show didn’t bore you.”

“It didn’t.” Aiah exhales, watching her breath curl into the cool air. “Your friend is good.”

Mikha smirks. “She’ll be thrilled to hear that. She lives for validation.”

Aiah huffs a small laugh, nudging a loose pebble with the toe of her sandal.

The silence settles again, light and weightless, like something that belongs between them.

Then—

“What if I’m actually someone else?”

Mikha turns to her, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

Aiah meets her gaze, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface. “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

Mikha tilts her head, considering. Then, after a moment—

“Well,” she muses, “that depends. Are you secretly a spy? A runaway princess? An heiress hiding from an arranged marriage?”

Aiah smirks, playing along. “Maybe all three.”

Mikha grins. “Now that would be interesting.”

Aiah exhales, rolling the thought over in her mind like a stone between her fingers.

“What if… my life isn’t as simple as it seems?”

Mikha doesn’t answer right away. She just watches her, something thoughtful in the tilt of her gaze, before shrugging.

“Then I’d hope it’s at least a life that makes you happy.”

Aiah stills.

It is a simple response. Too simple. No prying, no assumptions, no reaching for answers she isn’t ready to give—just a quiet wish, spoken into the night like a truth she wasn’t expecting to hear.

She swallows. Looks ahead. “And what if it’s not?”

Mikha doesn’t hesitate.

“Then I hope you find a way to change that.”

The words settle between them, weightless and heavy all at once.

Aiah doesn’t respond.

She just keeps walking.

Mikha matches her steps.

The first crack of thunder splits the sky just as Aiah and Mikha step onto the hostel’s front steps.

The rain follows in an instant—thick and relentless, swallowing the streets whole. The wind howls through the palms, bending their slender bodies, rattling windows, seeping through the wooden slats as if searching for a way in.

The storm has arrived.

The door swings open before either of them can react.

Yaya stands in the entryway, arms crossed, gaze sharp as she surveys the downpour. She sighs, long-suffering. “Well? Don’t just stand there like fools—get inside before you drown.”

Mikha huffs a quiet laugh, shaking water from her arms. “I was just about to leave.”

Yaya snorts. “Not anymore, you’re not.”

Mikha glances back at the rain, then at Aiah.

Aiah smirks. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Mikha exhales, resigned. “Guess I’m staying, then.”

“Guess so.”

They step inside, the warmth of the hostel wrapping around them like a steadying hand. The scent of tea drifts from the kitchen, a quiet contrast to the storm pressing against the walls, rattling the windowpanes as if demanding to be let in.

Yaya shakes her head, muttering under her breath. “Storm’s only going to get worse. You’ll stay in the spare room—just next to our guest here.”

Mikha grins, dragging a hand through her damp hair. “See, this is why I love you, Yaya.”

Yaya waves her off. “Flattery won’t get you out of mopping tomorrow.”

Aiah watches the exchange, something settling in her chest.

Mikha fits here.

Not in a way that is forced or earned, but in the way certain people belong to places, the way roots sink into soil without hesitation. She doesn’t just live on the island—she is the island, woven into its quiet rhythm, written into its story like she was always meant to be here.

Yaya hands them towels, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll make tea. Dry off before you ruin my floors.”

Mikha takes hers, shaking out her sleeves before glancing at Aiah.

“Well,” she says, a smirk playing at her lips, “looks like we’re neighbors for the night.”

Aiah tilts her head. “Is that a problem?”

Mikha leans in slightly, like she’s weighing the question. “Depends. Do you snore?”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Mikha chuckles, low and easy, but there’s something softer in her gaze, something that lingers.

Outside, the storm rages, pressing against the world.

Inside, the quiet stretches between them—charged, expectant.

And somehow, neither of them are in a hurry to break it.

Chapter Text

The kitchen is warm, the scent of tea steeping in the air as the storm thrashes against the walls outside.

Aiah wraps her hands around the mug Yaya sets in front of her, letting the heat seep into her skin, grounding her. Across the table, Mikha does the same, stretching her legs beneath the chair, looking entirely at home despite the fact that she wasn’t supposed to be here tonight.

The candle on the counter flickers, throwing shadows against the wooden walls. Outside, the wind howls, the waves crashing against the shore in a steady, restless rhythm.

Yaya stirs her tea slowly. “Stronger than they predicted,” she murmurs, glancing at the rattling windows. “You two might be stuck here longer than you think.”

Mikha chuckles, resting her chin in her palm. “And here I thought I was just stopping by for a delivery.”

Yaya smiles, something knowing curling at the edge of it. “That’s how it always happens.”

Aiah tilts her head, fingers tightening around her mug. “What do you mean?”

Yaya leans back in her chair, gaze distant, like she’s looking through the walls, through time itself, reaching for something old—something whispered in the wind, carried by the tides.

“This island,” she says, quieter now, “it doesn’t just let anyone in.”

Aiah stills.

Mikha, unbothered, smirks. “Here we go—your storytelling mood again.”

Yaya ignores her.

“Limasawa has always been different,” she continues, voice soft but certain. “It calls to the people who need it. The ones who are lost, even when they don’t know they are. The ones looking for something they can’t name.” She lifts her mug, takes a slow sip. “And once it has you, it doesn’t let go so easily.”

Aiah grips her tea a little tighter.

Mikha nudges Yaya playfully. “You’re going to scare her off.”

But Yaya’s gaze flickers to Aiah, studying her, peeling back the layers without ever asking.

“She doesn’t look scared.”

Aiah swallows. “Because I’m not.”

The words slip out before she can catch them.

Yaya tilts her head. “No? Then tell me—why are you here?”

It’s not a challenge. Not even curiosity. Just a simple question, hanging in the air between them, heavier than the storm outside.

Aiah doesn’t answer right away.

She could say the weather. She could say missed boats, bad timing, a simple twist of fate.

But she thinks of the moment she chose Limasawa.

Thinks of the name on the departures list, the way it had called to her before she even understood why.

Thinks of the stillness she has found here—how, for the first time in what feels like forever, she isn’t running.

“…I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Maybe I just needed to be somewhere else for a while.”

Yaya hums, as if that is answer enough. “Then it seems the island has decided to keep you.”

Aiah exhales, looking down at her tea.

Mikha nudges her foot beneath the table, grinning. “Welcome to the club.”

Aiah huffs a small laugh, but the weight of Yaya’s words lingers.

Outside, the wind thrashes against the walls.

And inside, something shifts.

Something quiet.

Something certain.

They finish their tea in silence, the warmth settling into their bones. Yaya rises first, gathering the empty mugs, moving with the ease of someone who has seen storms come and go.

“You two should get some rest,” she says, rinsing the cups. “Storm’s not letting up anytime soon.”

Mikha stretches, then tilts her head toward Aiah. “C’mon, neighbor.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but follows.

The hallway is dimly lit, lined with wooden doors, their rooms only a few steps apart. Mikha walks slowly, like neither of them are in a hurry to separate just yet.

When they reach Aiah’s door, she hesitates. Turns, finds Mikha already watching her.

The night feels thicker here, wrapped in Yaya’s story, in the hush of the storm, in something else—something unspoken, something neither of them have put a name to yet.

Aiah exhales. “Well. Good night.”

Mikha nods. But she doesn’t step back.

“Good night.”

She doesn’t move right away. Neither does Aiah.

And for a second—just a second—Aiah wonders what would happen if she didn’t open the door. If she stayed here, in this quiet, in this space where the air feels different now.

But the moment stretches too long.

Mikha steps back first, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Sleep well,” she murmurs, softer now.

Aiah nods, fingers curling around the door handle.

“You too.”

She steps inside, the air feeling heavier than before.

Outside, the storm rages on.

And in the space between them, something else begins.

By morning, the storm still hasn’t let up.

Rain lashes the windows, wind curls through the trees, and the sky stretches in an endless, unbroken gray. The world beyond the hostel is restless—pushed and pulled by the storm’s insistence—but inside, time moves at its own pace.

Slower. Softer. Unbothered by the chaos pressing at its walls.

A warmth lingers in the air, something rich and familiar curling through the hallways, slipping beneath doors, pulling Aiah from sleep before she even opens her eyes.

She takes her time.

No alarms. No call sheets. No one waiting for her to be anywhere but here.

She washes her face, changes into something comfortable, lets the quiet stretch unbroken.

By the time she steps into the small diner, the room is already alive in the way slow mornings are—subdued conversations, the scrape of wooden chairs, the soft clink of ceramic against tabletops.

The guests are waiting.

Not impatiently, not with the urgency of hunger, but with the kind of anticipation that feels earned. Aiah notices it—the way they glance toward the kitchen, the way their hands wrap around warm cups, expectant but patient.

And then there’s Mikha.

Standing behind the counter, sleeves pushed to her elbows, moving through the space like she’s always known how it breathes.

She’s wearing sweatpants, an oversized shirt that drapes loose on her frame, the kind of fabric softened by time. Worn, but not weary. Lived in. It looks like it belonged to someone else before her—maybe her grandfather’s, something with history folded into the seams.

Aiah watches as she stirs something in a pot, hair still tousled from sleep, shoulders loose, posture easy.

She isn’t performing.

And yet, people watch her like she is.

Not with the sharp, dissecting gaze of strangers, but with something softer. Something fond.

Mikha belongs here.

The thought settles into Aiah’s chest as she glances around for a seat.

Yaya lifts her mug from the corner of the room, already sipping her tea. A silent invitation.

Aiah makes her way over, slipping into the chair beside her.

“Good morning,” Yaya says, not looking up.

Aiah exhales, voice still thick with sleep. “Is it?”

Yaya chuckles, taking another slow sip. “It is if you’re eating.” She nods toward the kitchen. “Our girl is cooking.”

Aiah glances back toward Mikha. “She always do this?”

Yaya hums. “Not always. But often enough.” She sets her mug down, tilting her head slightly. “She likes feeding people.”

Aiah watches as Mikha plates a serving of garlic rice, the scent curling into the air as she carefully scoops dried fish onto the side. There is a rhythm to her movements—unhurried, steady, the way someone moves when they love what they do.

She belongs here.

And Aiah—Aiah is still trying to understand why she does, too.

She’s drawn from her thoughts when plates meet wood with a quiet clatter, the scent of garlic and salt curling into the air as Mikha sets down their breakfast—steaming garlic rice, dried fish crisp at the edges, eggs cooked just right. The kind of meal that doesn’t just fill, but grounds. The kind of warmth that gently nudges Aiah into full wakefulness, anchoring her to the moment, to the slow hush of morning.

Yaya nudges a mug of tea toward her. “Eat up. You need something warm in this weather.”

Aiah exhales, wrapping her hands around the cup, letting the heat bleed into her skin. “Didn’t realize this place came with room service.”

Mikha smirks, slipping into the seat across from her. “It doesn’t. You just got lucky.”

Aiah lifts an eyebrow. “You do this for all the guests?”

Mikha shrugs, breaking a piece of dried fish between her fingers. “Only the ones stuck here against their will.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

The storm presses against the walls, rain streaking the windows, wind murmuring through the gaps—but inside, it’s warm. The small diner hums with soft conversation, the gentle clink of utensils against ceramic, the occasional chuckle from a table across the room.

Aiah takes a bite, the salt and heat of the food settling on her tongue. And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself be.

No cameras.

No expectations.

No performance.

Just this.

Something real.

Something made by hands that care.

Yaya watches her, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You eat like someone who hasn’t had a decent meal in a while.”

Aiah swallows, pretending not to feel seen. “Maybe I haven’t.”

Mikha tilts her head slightly, gaze steady. “That bad out there in the real world?”

Aiah hesitates, rolling the words over in her mind. She could offer something vague. A deflection. A practiced half-truth.

Instead, she sighs.

“It’s… fast.”

Mikha doesn’t push, doesn’t fill the quiet with unnecessary words. She just waits.

Aiah pokes at her rice with the edge of her fork. “Like you don’t even realize how much you’re missing until you stop moving. And by then, it’s too late to go back.”

Yaya hums, sipping her tea, voice even when she finally speaks. “Then maybe you weren’t supposed to go back.”

The words settle between them.

Weightless and heavy all at once.

Aiah doesn’t respond.

She just keeps eating.

And Mikha—Mikha lets her.

Chapter Text

By late morning, the rain has softened into a steady rhythm, tapping against the windows like an old song, one that hums of patience, of waiting. The storm is far from over, but for now, the world moves in slow, unhurried motions—breakfast stretching long, voices hushed, the island settling into its own quiet lull.

There is nowhere Aiah needs to be.

And yet, somehow, she finds herself here.

Not tucked away in solitude, not behind a locked door where she could fold into herself unseen—but in the common area, where Mikha is perched on the arm of a worn-out couch, flipping through the pages of a faded paperback like she has nowhere else to be either.

Yaya has disappeared into the kitchen. The other guests have found their corners—reading, murmuring in half-formed conversations, watching the storm blur the edges of the world beyond the glass.

Aiah exhales, shifting where she sits on the edge of a wooden bench.

She doesn’t know how it keeps happening—how she keeps ending up near her.

It’s not intentional. Not really.

But Mikha is easy to be around.

And Aiah cannot remember the last time something in her life was easy.

“You bored yet?”

Aiah glances up. Mikha watches her over the edge of her book, eyebrows lifted, mouth curled in something like amusement.

Aiah scoffs. “Why? You planning to entertain me?”

Mikha smirks. “Depends. How desperate are you?”

Aiah rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer.

Mikha hums, shutting her book with a lazy flick of her fingers, stretching her arms over her head. “We could head to the kitchen. I think Yaya’s making something.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t we just eat?”

Mikha shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Island rule—there’s always room for merienda.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

But she stands anyway.

And she doesn’t let herself think too hard about how easily she does.

Because maybe she’s not really following at all.

Maybe, somehow, she was always meant to end up here.

The kitchen is warm when they stepped inside, steeped in the scent of simmering broth, the quiet sizzle of something crisping in the pan.

Aiah leans against the counter, watching as Mikha moves like she’s done this a thousand times—like the space bends to her will, like she knows exactly where everything belongs without having to think. There is something rhythmic about it, the way she reaches for ingredients without looking, the way the knife moves against the chopping board in clean, practiced motions.

She belongs here.

And Aiah is just there.

“You’re hovering,” Mikha says, not even needing to glance up.

“I’m observing,” Aiah corrects.

Mikha smirks. “You’re stalling.”

Aiah exhales, arms crossing over her chest. “I never said I’d help.”

“No,” Mikha muses, “but you also didn’t leave.”

She gestures toward the ingredients lined up on the counter, nudging a bowl closer. “So you might as well do something useful.”

Aiah eyes it warily. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with that?”

Mikha raises a brow. “You’ve never peeled garlic before?”

Aiah doesn’t answer, but her silence is telling.

Mikha chuckles—soft, teasing, but not unkind. She picks up a clove, presses the flat side of the knife against it, and the skin cracks, slipping off effortlessly beneath her fingers.

She hands the next one to Aiah. “Your turn.”

Aiah hesitates, mimicking her movements. She presses too lightly at first, barely making a dent.

Mikha watches, amused. “You won’t break it. Just press harder.”

Aiah shoots her a dry look before trying again, this time putting more force behind it. The garlic crushes too easily, splitting unevenly beneath the knife.

Mikha winces. “Okay, maybe not that hard.”

Aiah groans. “See, this is why I don’t cook.”

Mikha laughs, reaching for another clove. “Relax. You’re thinking about it too much.”

And then—without warning—she steps closer, guiding Aiah’s hand with her own.

Aiah stills.

Mikha’s fingers are warm, steady but unintrusive, her touch light over Aiah’s knuckles as she adjusts her grip. “Like this,” she murmurs, voice lower, slower.

Aiah swallows.

The kitchen hums around them—the low boil of the broth, the distant rattle of the wind against the shutters—but all she can focus on is this. The quiet press of Mikha’s palm against hers, the way her breath skims just close enough to touch.

She doesn’t step away immediately.

Neither does Aiah.

“There,” Mikha finally says, retreating as if the moment hadn’t stretched long enough to feel different. “Try again.”

Aiah exhales, forces herself to focus.

This time, the garlic peels cleanly.

Mikha grins. “Not bad.”

Aiah feigns indifference, dropping the peeled clove into the bowl. “Told you I could do it.”

Mikha laughs. “Sure you did.”

They keep going like that—Mikha guiding, Aiah learning, the space between them shrinking in increments too small to notice until it’s already happened.

And by the time the food is ready, Aiah isn’t sure when her reluctance melted away—when the simple act of cooking stopped feeling like a task and started feeling like something else.

Something warm.

Something easy.

Something she doesn’t mind sinking into.

The power goes out just as the sun begins its slow descent, sinking into the restless horizon.

One moment, the room hums with electricity—the faint whir of the ceiling fan, the soft glow of a flickering lightbulb. The next, silence settles in, thick and unbroken, as if the storm has finally swallowed the last traces of the world they knew.

Aiah exhales, leaning against the wooden wall of the common area, watching as Yaya moves through the dimness with practiced ease. A candle flares to life in her hands, its glow casting restless shadows along the walls, dancing against the quiet hush of the night.

“Well,” Mikha murmurs from across the room, arms crossed, entirely unbothered. “That’s island life for you.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “You sound too used to this.”

Mikha shrugs, the firelight catching the sharp curve of her grin. “Happens every time a storm this strong rolls in. Could come back in an hour, could be out all night. No use fighting it.”

Aiah glances around. The other guests have already made themselves comfortable—some murmuring in low voices by candlelight, others retreating to their rooms. Outside, the rain falls steady, a ceaseless rhythm against the roof, turning the world into nothing but sound and shadow.

Mikha plops down beside her, the couch dipping slightly under her weight. She pulls out her phone, scrolling through something lazily.

“Good thing I came prepared,” she muses.

Aiah tilts her head. “With what?”

Mikha smirks, holding up her screen. “Downloaded movies. Classic power outage survival tactic.”

Aiah huffs out a soft laugh. “That’s your survival skill?”

Mikha grins. “That, and making sure Yaya doesn’t rope me into chores when there’s nothing else to do.”

Aiah shakes her head, amused.

Mikha nudges her lightly. “Wanna watch?”

Aiah hesitates. It’s such a small thing, so simple. And yet, there’s something about this—about sitting this close, about the space they occupy together in the dark—that feels heavier than it should.

Still, she nods. “Sure.”

Mikha scrolls through her downloads, stopping when she finds what she’s looking for.

“Oh, this one’s a classic,” she says, clicking play.

The screen glows between them, casting flickering light against their faces.

Tarzan.

Aiah stills.

The first few notes unfurl softly, threading through the room like a ghost of something long buried.

Her breath catches.

Because of all the movies Mikha could have chosen—

The song reaches her before the words even begin.

"Don’t listen to them, ‘cause what do they know? We need each other, to have, to hold—"

Her father’s voice, soft and steady, singing her to sleep in a childhood long lost to time. A lullaby wrapped in memories she hasn’t let herself touch in years.

She swallows, gripping the fabric of her sweater, grounding herself in something tangible.

Mikha glances at her. “You okay?”

Aiah forces a nod. “Yeah.”

But when the movie starts, she doesn’t watch it.

She watches her instead.

The soft curve of Mikha’s lips as she murmurs along to the lines. The way the glow of the screen flickers against her skin. The ease with which she settles into the moment, unaware of what this means to Aiah.

Or maybe—maybe she knows.

Aiah exhales, sinking deeper into the cushions.

She doesn’t know what to do with the way this moment feels.

So she does nothing at all.

The rain does not relent.

It moves in waves, a quiet symphony against the glass, threading through the cracks in the wooden shutters, pressing against the walls of the hostel as if the storm itself is restless.

But inside, time slows.

Suspended in the soft flicker of candlelight, in the shifting shadows that dance along the walls, in the low hum of a movie playing on a small screen between them.

Mikha glances down.

Aiah has fallen asleep.

She hadn’t noticed at first—too caught up in the familiar lines of the film, too used to the quiet presence beside her. But now, as she shifts slightly, she feels it—the gentle weight of Aiah’s head resting against her shoulder, the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.

Mikha doesn’t move.

She could wake her.

Could shift, could clear her throat, could remind Aiah that they are still here, still aware of the space between them.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she lets her stay.

The movie continues, but Mikha is no longer watching.

She is aware of other things now—the faint scent of Aiah’s shampoo, the way her hair brushes against Mikha’s arm, the warmth that lingers between them despite the cold pressing in from the storm outside.

Aiah stirs slightly, fingers twitching against the fabric of her sweater. She exhales a quiet breath, shifting just enough to press closer before stilling again.

Mikha swallows.

She doesn’t know why she’s being so careful—why she’s holding herself still, why she’s pretending that this isn’t something she could easily pull away from.

But the truth is, she doesn’t want to pull away.

The storm rages on.

The candle flickers.

The power remains out.

And yet, none of it seems to matter.

Then—

A small shift. A barely-there inhale.

Aiah stirs, blinking slowly, her body still heavy with sleep.

Mikha doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

She only watches as Aiah blinks again, as her gaze flickers with something hazy, something uncertain.

Then—realization.

Aiah stills.

Her breath catches, her body tensing just slightly as she registers the warmth beneath her, the way her head has found its place against Mikha’s shoulder.

The room remains dark.

The power is still out.

But Aiah does not pull away.

Mikha watches, silent, steady.

Aiah’s fingers curl slightly against her own sleeve, her body shifting—not in retreat, not in hesitation, just a quiet adjustment. A slow surrender.

A breath—long, steady, settling.

The storm still lingers.

But Aiah does not mind.

Chapter Text

A soft knock pulls Aiah from the last remnants of sleep.

She stirs beneath the covers, blinking against the pale light filtering through the window. The storm has quieted overnight, its fury now softened to a whisper, the wind no longer clawing at the walls, the rain reduced to a gentle patter against the roof.

Another knock.

Aiah exhales, voice still rough with sleep. “Yeah?”

The door creaks open, just enough for Mikha to peek her head in, eyes bright with something unshaken by the storm’s retreat.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Aiah groans, running a hand through her hair. “It’s too early for that much energy.”

Mikha grins. “It’s not early. You’re just slow.”

Aiah levels her with a half-hearted glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. Only the quiet warmth of familiarity, of something that doesn’t need to be named.

“What do you want?”

Mikha leans against the doorframe, as casual as ever, as if she’s been here a hundred times before. “Weather’s better.”

Aiah blinks, glancing toward the window.

She hadn’t noticed it at first—the way the thick gray has softened at the edges, the wind no longer carrying the weight of a storm but something gentler, something fleeting. The sky is still heavy, still waiting to unravel again, but for now—

For now, there is a moment. A pause between tempests.

Mikha tilts her head. “Come have breakfast with me at the beach.”

Aiah turns back to her, brows lifting slightly. “At the beach?”

Mikha nods. “Storm warning’s still up, but we’ve got a few hours before it gets bad again. Might as well make the most of it.”

Aiah rubs her temples, still fighting off the last threads of sleep. “Don’t you have a cafe to open?”

Mikha’s lips curve, easy, unbothered.

“That can wait.”

Aiah stares at her, searching for something in her expression. But Mikha is steady, looking at her like this is the most natural thing in the world—like she didn’t have to think twice about pushing work aside just for this.

Just for her.

Aiah exhales, shaking her head.

“…Give me ten minutes.”

Mikha smirks. “Five.”

Aiah glares at her. “Ten.”

Mikha chuckles, stepping back. “Fine. But if you’re not out in ten, I’m dragging you out as you are.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but even as Mikha disappears down the hall, she can’t help the small tug at the corner of her lips.

She doesn’t know why she said yes so easily.

But maybe—maybe she doesn’t mind finding out.

The sand is damp beneath Aiah’s feet, cool against her skin as she follows Mikha toward the shoreline. The scent of salt and rain clings to the air, the ocean stretching before them—calmer now, but still restless, as if it hasn’t quite decided whether to surrender to stillness or hold onto the remnants of the storm.

The world is washed in quiet shades of gray, softened by the lingering mist. Even the waves seem to hesitate, rolling in and out like an unspoken question.

And then—

Aiah stops short.

Beneath the lone curve of a coconut tree, a woven mat is spread across the sand. Plates are stacked with warm rice, eggs cooked just right, golden chorizo glistening beside crisp strips of dried fish. A small container holds slices of mango and watermelon, bright against the muted morning.

And in the center of it all—a thermos, two mismatched mugs waiting beside it.

Aiah blinks.

Mikha, completely unbothered, settles onto the mat and starts pouring hot chocolate, the steam curling into the cool air. She doesn’t look up as she says, “Took you long enough.”

Aiah hesitates before lowering herself onto the mat, her gaze flicking over the spread. “Did you invite the whole island, or…?”

Mikha grins, passing her a mug. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I just made everything.”

Aiah takes the mug, fingers curling around the warmth. She shakes her head, huffing out a quiet laugh. “You realize this could feed three people, right?”

Mikha shrugs, already reaching for a piece of dried fish. “Better too much than not enough.”

Aiah watches her, watches the way she moves so easily through this moment—unrushed, content, like she does this every day. Like it’s nothing special at all.

She exhales, lets herself settle into it. Takes a sip of the hot chocolate—rich, thick, perfectly balanced between sweet and bitter. The warmth seeps into her fingertips, grounding her.

The world quiets.

The only sounds left are the hush of the tide, the distant rustling of palm leaves, the occasional murmur of wind threading through the trees.

And Mikha.

Mikha sitting across from her, watching her with that half-smirk, like this is just another morning. Like Aiah being here is something that makes sense.

Aiah sets her mug down. “You do this for everyone?” she asks, gesturing toward the spread.

Mikha tilts her head, thoughtful. “Depends.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “On?”

Mikha takes a slow bite, chewing deliberately, then shrugs. “On whether or not I like their company.”

Aiah stills.

Mikha meets her gaze, unhurried, steady.

And just like that, the morning air feels a little warmer.

Aiah doesn’t realize how much she’s eaten until she sets her fork down, the weight in her stomach warm, comfortable. The remnants of hot chocolate linger on her tongue, sweet and grounding, her fingers still curled around the edges of the cup as if reluctant to let go of its warmth.

She exhales, stretching her legs out slightly, leaning back onto her palms. “I can’t believe I actually finished all that.”

Mikha smirks, spearing a piece of mango with her fork. “Told you there’s always room for more.”

Aiah shakes her head, amused. “Yeah, well, not everyone would agree.”

The words slip out before she can stop them. Thoughtless. Automatic. The kind of truth she has grown so used to, she forgets it isn’t normal.

Silence lingers for half a beat before Mikha glances at her, an eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

Aiah hesitates, staring at the scattered crumbs on her plate.

She could brush past it. Laugh it off. Offer some vague deflection like she’s done a hundred times before.

Instead, she exhales. “People watch what I eat. Comment on it. I’ve gotten used to it, I guess.”

Mikha doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t offer some throwaway joke about diet culture or how ridiculous it sounds.

Instead, she just watches her.

And then—softly, like an exhale—

“That sounds exhausting.”

Aiah blinks, caught off guard by the simplicity of it.

No questions, no prying. Just a quiet acknowledgment. Just someone who sees her.

Aiah swallows. “Yeah.”

Mikha hums, lifting her cup to her lips. The ocean hushes against the shore, the morning stretching between them in slow, steady waves.

“You ever wonder,” Mikha muses, “why people think they get to have a say in someone else’s life?”

Aiah lets out a quiet, breathy laugh. “All the time.”

Mikha tilts her head. “And?”

Aiah presses her lips together, considering. “I don’t know. I guess I stopped fighting it. It’s just how it is.”

Mikha leans back, gaze fixed on the horizon, her expression unreadable. “Doesn’t mean it has to be.”

Aiah looks at her.

It’s not just what Mikha says—it’s the way she says it. Uncomplicated. Certain. A truth so simple, so easy, Aiah almost doesn’t know what to do with it.

Like the world doesn’t have to be so difficult if you don’t let it be.

Aiah exhales. “You really don’t care what people think, do you?”

Mikha glances at her, smirking. “I care about the people I choose to care about.”

Aiah tilts her head. “And everyone else?”

Mikha shrugs. “They don’t get to decide what my life is worth.”

Aiah stares at her.

Deep, thoughtful, warm, carefree.

All the things Aiah has never quite allowed herself to be.

She looks down at her plate, at the last piece of mango left, and picks it up without thinking.

It’s sweet. Soft.

More than enough.

She exhales, barely realizing she’s smiling.

Maybe she could get used to this.

After a beat, Mikha stretches, arms lifting above her head, a slow sigh slipping past her lips as she gazes out at the sea. The morning light glistens over the waves, soft and silver, the sky still thick with clouds. The wind has quieted, the storm’s breath lingering but no longer raging—just resting.

Aiah follows her gaze.

The ocean is dark, deep, endless. The tide is high, moving in slow, steady rhythms, like a pulse, like something alive. It should feel foreboding, should feel vast and unknowable.

But today, it feels like it’s calling.

Then—

“I have an idea.”

Aiah turns to Mikha, instantly wary. “That sounds dangerous.”

Mikha grins, already standing. “Come on.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “Come on where?”

Mikha nods toward the sea, as if the answer is obvious. “The water’s warm when there’s a storm.”

Aiah blinks. “…And?”

Mikha tilts her head, mischief dancing in her eyes. “So let’s go in.”

Aiah lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, no.”

Mikha’s grin widens. “Why not?”

Aiah gestures vaguely toward the ocean, as if that should be enough of an explanation. “Because we just ate. Because it’s probably freezing. Because I don’t throw myself into the sea for no reason.”

Mikha steps closer, gaze glinting. “Do you trust me?”

Aiah stills.

The words shouldn’t make something flutter in her chest. But they do.

“…Not when you look like that.”

Mikha laughs, reaching for her wrist. “Oh, come on—”

Aiah jerks back. “Mikha—”

But Mikha is relentless.

She moves fast, hands finding Aiah’s waist before she can react.

The contact.

The warmth of Mikha’s palms against her skin, steady, firm—like holding her is the most natural thing in the world.

Aiah’s breath catches.

Her heart stumbles.

“Mikha—wait—”

But it’s too late.

Mikha lifts her effortlessly, as if she’s done this a hundred times before. Aiah yelps, hands flying to Mikha’s shoulders, clutching at her instinctively—too close, too close—but Mikha is already moving, carrying her toward the water, laughing at her protests.

“You’re insane—”

“You’ll thank me later—”

The waves rush up to meet them, salt licking at their skin, and then—

Mikha steps in, deeper, deeper, until the sea cradles them both.

Aiah gasps—not from the cold, but from the sheer shock of it, the sensation of being enveloped, surrounded, held by something vast and unshaken.

Mikha finally loosens her grip, letting Aiah plant her feet on the soft sand beneath them.

Aiah exhales sharply, hands still clutching Mikha’s arms, her fingers unsteady.

She looks up.

Mikha is already watching her—smiling, but not teasing. Not laughing.

Just watching.

“See?” Mikha murmurs, voice quieter now. “Told you.”

The water shifts around them, weightless and warm, the storm hovering somewhere beyond the horizon, waiting.

Aiah swallows, breath still uneven.

She doesn’t know if she’s trembling from the sea or from something else.

But she doesn’t pull away.

Not yet.

The waves cradle them, rising and falling in slow, gentle rhythms, the water curling around their waists like an exhale. Salt lingers on Aiah’s skin, the weight of the ocean pressing and releasing, pulling and letting go.

Mikha still hasn’t let go.

Not fully.

Her hands remain—a light touch on Aiah’s arms, steady, unintrusive. As if she’s making sure Aiah won’t drift too quickly, won’t disappear before she’s ready.

Aiah exhales, adjusting to the way the sea moves around them, how it feels to be held in something vast, something unshaken.

Mikha tilts her head toward the horizon, where the remnants of the storm still gather in the distance. The clouds are softer now, heavy but no longer threatening, the kind that hold rain like a secret instead of a warning.

“I used to do this all the time as a kid,” Mikha murmurs, voice carried by the hush of the water.

Aiah glances at her. “What, drag people into the ocean against their will?”

Mikha grins. “Only the ones who needed it.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh, but the amusement fades when she catches the look in Mikha’s eyes—something softer, something far away.

“Whenever a storm passed, we’d come out here,” Mikha says, her voice quieter now, threaded with nostalgia. “Me, my cousins, my grandparents. The water’s warm after the rain, you know? We used to think it was the ocean making up for scaring us the night before.”

Aiah watches her, watches the way her expression shifts—open, unguarded, wistful.

Mikha doesn’t try to hide the longing in her words.

She doesn’t have to.

Not here.

“We kept the tradition for a while,” Mikha continues. “But then we moved to the States, and… yeah.” She shrugs, smiling like it’s nothing, but Aiah hears it—the ache of something lost, something distant but never really gone. “Kind of missed it, I guess.”

Aiah doesn’t speak right away, letting the moment settle between them, letting the ocean carry the silence.

Then—

“How was childhood like to you, Aiah?”

Aiah blinks, caught off guard.

Mikha doesn’t press, doesn’t dig—just asks it like it’s easy, like she isn’t expecting anything heavy.

“I bet it was fun, huh?”

Aiah exhales, rolling the thought over in her mind.

Was it?

Her childhood.

She hasn’t let herself think about it in a long time—not in a way that wasn’t tangled in everything that came after.

But now, standing here, weightless in the water, she lets herself reach back.

“It was,” she murmurs. “I was a daddy’s girl, you know?”

Mikha tilts her head, listening.

Aiah lets her gaze drift over the ocean, as if the past could be found somewhere in the tide.

“He used to pick me up from school, and we’d go to the park,” she says, the memory surfacing easier than she expected. “He’d buy me ice cream, even when my mom said no because it was too close to dinner. And we’d just… sit. Talk about whatever.”

Mikha hums softly. “Sounds nice.”

Aiah smiles, small, distant. “It was.”

Simple.

Before the cameras. Before the expectations. Before she had to be someone to everyone all the time.

Back when she was just his daughter.

No more, no less.

She exhales, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ve thought about that in a long time.”

Mikha watches her, something unreadable in her gaze.

Then, quietly—

“Maybe the island wanted you to remember.”

Aiah stills.

She turns to Mikha, searching her expression, but Mikha doesn’t elaborate.

She just smiles, lets the waves fill the silence for her.

And for some reason, Aiah doesn’t push for more.

She just lets the moment stay.

Chapter Text

The ocean clings to them as they walk back to shore—salt lingering on their skin, sand slipping between their toes, the warmth of the water still held in the fabric of their clothes despite the breeze cooling against them.

They move in quiet steps, the weightlessness of the moment still settling between them, the hush of the waves echoing at their backs.

Aiah lifts a hand to her hair, wringing out the seawater, fingers combing through the damp strands as she reaches for the now-empty thermos. “You know, you didn’t have to carry me.”

Mikha smirks, shaking out the woven mat. “You would’ve stalled for another ten minutes if I hadn’t.”

Aiah shoots her a glare. “That’s not true.”

Mikha hums, unconvinced.

Aiah rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue. Because maybe—just maybe—Mikha is right.

They gather the remnants of their morning, their movements unhurried, as if neither of them is in a rush to return to the rest of the world just yet.

The sky remains heavy with clouds, the air thick with the scent of the rain that has yet to come. The storm is waiting, holding its breath. Giving them this moment—this quiet, fleeting reprieve—before it all begins again.

By the time they reach the hostel gates, Aiah hesitates.

The ocean still clings to her, the salt-dried remnants of their morning pressing into her skin, into the fabric of her clothes. She shifts, adjusting the thermos bag on her shoulder. “I should probably shower.”

Mikha nods, adjusting the basket in her hands. “And I should probably open the cafe before people start thinking I’ve abandoned them.”

Aiah smirks. “You mean you haven’t?”

Mikha grins, but she doesn’t move to leave.

Not yet.

She lingers, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of the basket, like she’s holding onto something she isn’t ready to set down.

Then, quietly—

“I should change, too,” she muses. “At home.”

Aiah stills.

It’s such a simple statement, such an easy parting.

But somehow, it carries something else.

Something unspoken.

Mikha is leaving.

And for reasons she can’t quite explain, Aiah doesn’t want her to.

She swallows, fingers curling tighter around the strap of the thermos bag, feeling the weight of an absence that hasn’t even settled yet.

Mikha exhales, offering a small, knowing smile. “See you around, neighbor.”

Aiah nods, pretending the words don’t settle strangely in her chest.

“…Yeah.”

Mikha takes a step back, then another.

Then, finally, she turns.

And Aiah watches her go.

The ocean is behind them now. The morning is slipping into afternoon.

But Aiah is still there, standing by the gate, staring at a space that feels emptier than it should.

Like she’s lost something she never should have reached for in the first place.

The hostel is quieter now.

Aiah sits by the open window in the common area, watching the clouds drift lazily over the sea. The scent of rain lingers, thick and unshaken, clinging to the air as if the storm hasn’t fully decided whether to stay or go.

The wind is softer now, no longer howling, no longer pressing against the walls with restless hands—just weaving gently through the trees, murmuring secrets only the island knows.

Mikha is gone.

The thought settles strangely in her chest.

She hadn’t expected her to stay. There was no reason for her to. And yet—

Something is missing.

Something in the empty space beside her, in the air that still carries the echo of saltwater and laughter, the warmth of a morning that already feels like it belonged to another time.

Aiah exhales, shaking her head.

This is ridiculous.

She barely knows Mikha.

And yet—

“You two are getting close, huh?”

Aiah startles, turning toward the voice.

Yaya stands by the counter, drying her hands on a dish towel, her gaze casual but knowing. Like she’s seen this before. Like she’s lived through a story just like this, once.

Aiah frowns. “What?”

Yaya hums, setting the towel down. “Mikha. You and her.”

Aiah blinks, caught off guard. “I—we’re just—”

“Not saying anything.” Yaya smirks, unconcerned. “Just… noticing.”

Aiah presses her lips together. “Noticing what?”

Yaya shrugs, leaning against the counter. “The way she looks at you.”

The words land softly, but they ripple.

Aiah stills, something catching in her breath.

Yaya isn’t prying. She isn’t teasing.

She says it the way one might comment on the tide coming in, or the scent of rain thickening in the air—an observation as natural as the sea meeting the shore.

But to Aiah, it isn’t casual.

Because she hadn’t really thought about it.

Hadn’t let herself think about it.

She swallows, fingers curling around the fabric of her sleeve. “She looks at everyone like that.”

Yaya lifts a brow. “Hmm.”

It’s a knowing sound. A sound that says, If you say so without actually saying it.

Aiah exhales, glancing back out the window.

The horizon stretches endlessly before her, the storm still looming in the distance.

And yet—  

She has the feeling that something else has already begun.

Aiah has been looked at before.

She knows the weight of it, the shape of it, the endless ways in which people carve their expectations into their eyes.

Fans watch her with a kind of reverence, wide-eyed and longing, their gazes full of devotion for a version of her that is more projection than truth. To them, she is a dream, a light, a place where their hopes can rest.

Her love team partner looks at her with something else entirely—precision, calculation. There is always a script behind his eyes, a performance wrapped in every glance, every almost-touch, every carefully measured moment meant to sell a story. A romance that only exists under the stage lights.

The men in the industry watch her differently still. With interest, with amusement. A silent game, a quiet test. They wonder if she will play along.

She has been looked at before.

But not like this.

Not like Mikha.

Mikha doesn’t look at her with expectation or need. Doesn’t search her face for what she is supposed to be.

Mikha just looks at her.

Like she is here.

Like she is just Aiah.

And somehow, that is what unsettles her the most.

Because she isn’t used to this—not being seen, not like this. Not in a way that feels quiet, weightless, effortless. Like she doesn’t have to give anything, doesn’t have to be anything other than who she already is.

She exhales, pressing her fingers to her temple, as if she can press the thought away.

She has been looked at before.

But for the first time, she wonders if she has ever truly been seen.

Chapter Text

The sun has finally returned.

For the first time in days, the sky stretches wide and blue, the clouds peeling back like the tide, letting the warmth spill over the island. The scent of rain still lingers in the air, thick with the memory of the storm, but the streets are drying, life unfurling again in quiet motion.

Aiah walks with no destination in mind.

The town moves at its own rhythm, slow and familiar—shop doors left open to invite the breeze, children darting barefoot across damp pavement, laughter and conversation spilling from the small eateries tucked between market stalls.

It is different from the world she knows.

No one stares. No one whispers her name like it holds weight.

Here, she is just another face in the crowd.

She exhales, adjusting the strap of the tote bag slung over her shoulder as she steps into the market.

And then—

She sees her.

Mikha stands by the vegetable stall, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a basket hanging from the crook of her arm. She isn’t just shopping—she is talking.

To the vendors.

To the customers.

To everyone, it seems.

Aiah slows her steps, watching without meaning to.

Mikha listens—not in the way people listen when they are waiting for their turn to speak, but in a way that feels rooted, like she is planted firmly in this moment, in this place, in them.

The vendor, a middle-aged woman with laugh lines and bright eyes, speaks of the storm, of the delays in deliveries, of how her husband’s fishing boat is holding up after the strong winds. Mikha nods, asks a question, makes a joke that earns an easy laugh.

And then, when the woman hands over a bundle of leafy greens, Mikha does not simply take it and leave.

She lingers.

Asks about her children. About whether they have enough until the next shipment arrives. About things that are not hers to carry but that she holds anyway, simply because she cares.

Not because she has to.

Not because she is looking for something in return.

Aiah grips the strap of her bag a little tighter.

It is such a small thing.

But small things have weight, too.

Mikha is different.

Aiah knew that already.

But watching her now—watching the way she makes space for people, the way she holds them with her attention, never rushing, never taking up more room than she needs—Aiah feels it.

This isn’t just a place Mikha lives in.

It’s a place she belongs to.

Aiah glances down at her own hands, at the smoothness of her palms, untouched by the kind of life that shapes a person like Mikha.

She doesn’t belong here.

But for the first time, she wonders if she could.

Aiah doesn’t mean to linger.

But she does.

She stays at the edge of the vegetable aisle, fingers brushing absently against the strap of her bag, caught somewhere between leaving and—

Mikha turns.

Their eyes meet.

Aiah stills, but it’s too late—Mikha’s lips curve into something knowing, something easy, and before Aiah can even think of slipping away, Mikha is already making her way toward her, basket swinging lazily at her side.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Aiah clears her throat, reaching for something that feels like nonchalance. “Just picking up a few things.”

Mikha’s gaze flicks to her empty hands, amusement curling at the edges of her smirk. “Oh, yeah? What’d you get?”

Aiah hesitates.

Mikha hums. “Exactly.”

Aiah glares. “Maybe I was about to pick something up.”

Mikha hums again, clearly unconvinced. Then—

“Come with me.”

Aiah blinks. “What?”

Mikha nods toward the rest of the market. “I’ve still got a few things to buy. You might as well help me.”

Aiah opens her mouth to protest, but Mikha is already reaching for her wrist, already pulling her along like the decision was never Aiah’s to begin with.

And—strangely—Aiah doesn’t mind.

The market moves with a rhythm of its own—narrow pathways winding between stalls, voices rising and falling like the island is breathing in tandem with its people. Vendors call out their offerings, customers barter with familiar ease, the scent of grilled meat and ripe fruit thick in the humid air.

Mikha moves through it like she belongs to all of it.

She greets the vendors by name, laughs at their jokes, helps carry a crate of eggs without needing to be asked. She knows which fish was caught just this morning, which vegetables will keep best, which stall sells the softest bibingka.

Aiah trails beside her, watching.

She doesn’t usually like crowds. Doesn’t like being pressed in by too many people, too many glances, too many chances to be recognized.

But here—

No one stares.

No one whispers.

She is just another face in the market, pulled along by someone who walks like the world belongs to her but has no interest in owning it.

And somehow—Aiah enjoys it.

More than she thought she would.

Then—

“Oh, my God—wait. Are you—”

Aiah freezes.

The woman in front of her squints, head tilting slightly. There’s something in her gaze, something sharp and searching, something that makes Aiah’s pulse stutter.

The world tilts—just slightly.

But before the recognition can fully take shape, before Aiah can brace herself, Mikha steps in smoothly.

“She’s with me, Tita,” Mikha says lightly, nudging Aiah’s elbow like she’s done it a thousand times before. “Visiting for a bit.”

The woman blinks. The moment wavers. The familiarity slips, recognition scattering like grains of sand caught in the wind.

Then she smiles, easy and warm. “Ah! A visitor! Welcome, hija.”

Aiah exhales, tension bleeding from her shoulders.

Mikha doesn’t ask if she’s okay. Doesn’t press.

She just hands Aiah a pack of tomato, like nothing happened at all. Like she is protecting her without making it obvious.

And maybe that’s the moment Aiah realizes.

This island doesn’t just let her go.

Mikha does, too.

They reach the merienda stalls, where the scent of coconut and rice lingers in the air, thick and sweet.

“This is the best bibingka on the island,” Mikha declares, already ordering two. “Non-negotiable.”

Aiah arches a brow. “That confident?”

Mikha grins. “You’ll see.”

A few minutes later, they settle onto a wooden bench, bibingka warm in their hands, steam curling from the small cups of hot chocolate beside them.

Aiah takes a bite—

And—

Oh.

It’s soft, just the right balance of sweet and savory, the salted egg and cheese melting into something impossibly comforting.

Mikha watches her reaction, expectant.

Aiah rolls her eyes. “Fine. It’s good.”

Mikha grins in triumph, tearing off a piece of her own.

The market hums around them, voices rising and falling, but Aiah feels settled in a way she hasn’t in a long time.

Like she could stay here.

Like she wants to.

She exhales, wrapping her fingers around her cup, letting the warmth seep into her skin.

Somewhere beside her, Mikha nudges her knee lightly.

“See?” she murmurs, voice playful but soft. “Told you this was better than pretending you had errands.”

Aiah shakes her head.

But she doesn’t argue.

Because Mikha was right.

Chapter Text

“I’m not doing this.”

Aiah stands stubbornly at the entrance of the cafe, arms crossed, feet planted like the tide itself would have to move her.

Mikha, already unlocking the door, barely spares her a glance. “Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Mikha pushes the door open, stepping inside. “Too late. You’re already here.”

Aiah groans, dragging a hand down her face. “You tricked me.”

Mikha grins, tossing her bag onto the counter. “I persuaded you.”

“No, you dragged me.”

“Same thing.”

Aiah exhales sharply, but somehow, she still finds herself stepping inside, despite every instinct telling her she should have run the second Mikha mentioned the cafe.

The space greets her with warmth—the scent of coffee lingering in the air, something faintly sweet woven into it, like cinnamon and vanilla still clinging to yesterday’s baking. Morning light spills through the large windows, casting long shadows against the tiled floors. The quiet hum of the ceiling fans stirs the stillness.

It feels lived in. Loved.

Not just a place of business, but something that belongs to Mikha in the way the island does—effortlessly, wholly, without needing to be claimed.

Mikha moves through it like it’s an extension of herself—switching on machines, stretching her arms above her head, rolling up her sleeves like this is just another normal day.

Except this time, Aiah is here.

And apparently, she’s part of it.

Mikha turns, mischief glinting in her gaze. “Alright, assistant. You ready?”

Aiah stares at her. “I am not your assistant.”

Mikha hums, pretending to consider. “Right, right. More like… an unpaid intern.”

Aiah scowls. “I hate you.”

Mikha laughs, tossing her an apron. “Come on, intern. Time to get to work.”

Aiah catches it, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t know the first thing about running a cafe.”

Mikha leans against the counter, smirking. “Don’t worry. You just have to look pretty and follow my lead.”

Aiah exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I swear, you’re impossible.”

Mikha winks. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Aiah opens her mouth to argue—to remind Mikha that she was forced into this—

But she doesn’t.

Because the truth is, she could have said no. Could have walked away.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she stayed.

And now she’s here, standing behind the counter, apron in hand, about to do something completely outside of her world.

For no reason.

Or maybe—

For reasons she’s not ready to name yet.

Mikha grins, pushing a tray of coffee beans toward her. “Alright, intern. First lesson—grinding beans without making a mess. Think you can handle that?”

Aiah sighs, shaking her head.

She’s going to regret this.

She just knows it.

And yet—

Somewhere deep inside her chest, a quiet warmth settles in.

Maybe she doesn’t mind.

Not as much as she should.

But it only takes approximately five minutes for Aiah to regret everything.

The cafe is small, intimate, but somehow, it still feels chaotic with Mikha weaving through the space effortlessly while Aiah fumbles through tasks she has never once done in her life.

“Here, take this to table four.”

Aiah grips the tray, carefully balancing two iced drinks, her steps slow and calculated.

She hates how much effort this takes.

She makes it halfway across the cafe before—

“Oh, crap—”

The tray tilts.

The glasses wobble.

Aiah panics.

She jerks the tray too quickly—overcompensating—one glass sliding, falling, slipping through the air in slow motion.

But before it hits the floor—

Mikha’s arm shoots out, catching it with ridiculous ease.

Aiah gapes at her.

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Reflexes.”

Aiah scowls. “You planned that.”

Mikha smirks, setting the drink back on the tray. “Sure, intern.”

Aiah groans, stalking toward the table before she can embarrass herself further.

Thirty minutes later, she almost breaks the espresso machine.

Mikha is mid-latte when Aiah calls her name, panicked.

“Mikha, it’s hissing at me.”

Mikha sighs, setting down the milk frother. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I pressed the button, and now it’s angry.”

Mikha walks over, takes one glance, then very calmly flips a switch. The machine stops immediately.

She turns to Aiah, smug.

Aiah scowls. “I hate you.”

Mikha pats her shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

Aiah sighs. “No, I don’t.”

By mid-afternoon, the cafe slows. The morning rush fades, leaving behind empty seats, the faint hum of music playing from the speakers, and the rich scent of coffee still lingering in the air.

Aiah leans against the counter, arms crossed. “This is way harder than it looks.”

Mikha chuckles. “I did tell you that.”

Aiah exhales. “So what now?”

Mikha glances around, considering. Then she nods toward the espresso machine. “You wanna learn?”

Aiah blinks. “Learn what?”

Mikha grins, tapping the counter. “I’m gifting you another life skill before we part ways.”

Aiah stills.

The words settle heavier than they should.

Part ways.

She looks at Mikha, at the easy way she leans against the counter, at the warmth in her gaze, and—

She doesn’t want to think about leaving.

Not yet.

“…Fine.” Aiah mutters, pushing herself off the counter. “Teach me.”

Mikha’s grin widens. “That’s the spirit.”

Aiah sighs, watching as Mikha grabs a fresh set of coffee beans.

She tells herself this is just another moment.

Just another small thing in a day full of small things.

Aiah doesn’t expect to enjoy this.

She doesn’t expect to care about learning the weight of the tamper in her hand, the way the coffee grounds need just the right pressure, how to angle the steam wand to coax the milk into the perfect swirl.

But then—

Mikha’s voice, steady and low, threads through the quiet space between them, patient in a way that feels careful, unrushed.

“Hold it like this.”

Aiah watches as Mikha presses the tamper against the coffee grounds, fingers curled around the handle with practiced ease. She makes it look effortless, like second nature.

Aiah mirrors the motion, pressing down too lightly.

Mikha clicks her tongue. “More pressure.”

Aiah presses harder.

Mikha hums approvingly. “Better. Here—”

She steps closer, reaching for Aiah’s hands, adjusting them slightly, fingers grazing over Aiah’s skin like it’s nothing.

Like it’s normal.

But Aiah feels everything.

The warmth of Mikha’s touch, the way their hands fit together just for a second, the soft exhale Mikha lets out as she nods, satisfied.

“There,” Mikha murmurs, stepping back. “You’ve got it.”

Aiah swallows, staring at the machine in front of her, focusing on the weight of the tamper instead of the way her pulse jumps.

She moves carefully, following Mikha’s instructions as the espresso begins to pull—slow and rich, dark liquid swirling into a small ceramic cup.

She watches, entranced.

Mikha tilts her head, observing. “Not bad, intern.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but a small smile tugs at her lips. “I’m not your intern.”

Mikha grins. “Says the girl making espresso in my cafe.”

Aiah exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

She didn’t think she’d care about this.

Didn’t think she’d find herself settling into it, enjoying it.

But she does.

Not just because of the coffee—

But because of her.

Because of the way Mikha moves in this space, confident but never careless, focused but never rigid. Because of the way she talks about coffee like it’s something alive, something to be felt, not just made.

Because of the way her voice is patient, unrushed.

Because of the way she guides without forcing, the way she teaches without making Aiah feel like she’s being observed too closely, like she has to perform.

Aiah exhales, setting the cup down. “You really love this, huh?”

Mikha glances at her.

And then—

A small, quiet smile.

“Yeah.”

No hesitation. No need to justify it. Just yes.

Aiah stares at her, something unfamiliar curling in her chest.

She wonders what it’s like.

To love something so simply.

To belong to something so easily.

Mikha tilts her head. “You wanna try latte art, or is that too advanced for my intern?”

Aiah scowls. “I swear—”

Mikha laughs, nudging her lightly before grabbing a fresh pitcher of milk.

And Aiah lets herself stay.

Lets herself learn.

Lets herself admire.

Because in all honesty, she doesn’t mind being here.

Chapter Text

The cafe is empty again, the last customers having trickled out an hour ago. The air hums with the quiet aftermath of the day—warm lights overhead, the scent of coffee still lingering in the walls, the distant sound of rain starting up again outside.

Aiah stretches her arms above her head, groaning. “I’m never working in a cafe again.”

Mikha snorts, wiping down the counter. “Not even for me?”

Aiah glares. “Especially not for you.”

Mikha smirks, tossing the towel aside. “Well, too bad. You’ve already been paid.”

Aiah blinks. “Paid?”

Mikha gestures toward the kitchen. “Dinner. Consider it your salary for the day.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “That’s illegal.”

Mikha grins. “So is me making you work here without a contract.”

Aiah groans but follows as Mikha heads to the kitchen.

She doesn’t know what she expects—maybe something quick and easy, something Mikha can throw together without much thought.

But when she leans against the counter and watches, she realizes—

Mikha is taking her time.

She moves with the same ease she does behind the cafe counter, but there’s something softer in the way she handles the ingredients. The way she peels the garlic carefully, the way she stirs the pot with familiarity, the way she tastes the broth without needing to measure anything.

Aiah frowns. “What are you making?”

Mikha hums, glancing over her shoulder. “Something I used to eat as a kid.”

Aiah tilts her head, watching as Mikha scoops steaming broth into a bowl, ladling over rice, pieces of shredded chicken, garlic, and green onions.

Aiah blinks.

“Arroz caldo?”

Mikha nods, setting the bowl in front of her. “My grandma used to make this when it rained. She always said it was food for the soul.”

Aiah stares at the bowl, the steam curling into the air, the scent of ginger and garlic wrapping around her like warmth itself.

She isn’t sure why it settles in her chest the way it does.

Mikha sits across from her, blowing on her spoon before taking a bite.

Aiah hesitates, then lifts her spoon, scooping up a bit of the thick, golden broth.

She tastes it.

And—

Oh.

It’s comfort.

Not just in the way food is supposed to be comforting, but in the way something familiar is. Something rooted, something tied to a memory, something that feels like it belongs to someone.

She swallows, glancing at Mikha, who eats like this is just any other meal, like she hasn’t just handed Aiah a small piece of her past without realizing it.

Aiah exhales, setting her spoon down.

“Your grandma was right.”

Mikha glances at her.

Aiah smiles, small but real. “It is food for the soul.”

Mikha huffs a quiet laugh, nudging Aiah’s foot under the table. “Told you I paid you well.”

Aiah rolls her eyes but keeps eating.

She doesn’t say it aloud, but this is the best meal she’s had in a long time.

Not just because of the taste.

But because of who made it.

Later, when their souls are fed and their bowls are empty, Aiah offers to wash the dishes.

Mikha leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Aiah stubbornly scrubs at the bowls in the sink.

“You don’t have to do that,” Mikha says for the third time.

“I want to,” Aiah argues, not looking up.

Mikha shakes her head, amused. “You don’t strike me as the dishwashing type.”

Aiah scoffs. “I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself, you know.”

Mikha smirks. “Oh, so you do know what hard labor is.”

Aiah flicks water at her without missing a beat.

Mikha laughs, but she doesn’t retaliate. She just watches.

Watches the way Aiah stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed in concentration like she’s determined to do this right. Watches the way the light catches the edges of her profile, the faint curl of damp baby hairs at her temple, the way her lips press together when she’s focused.

Watches—

And feels.

It started that first night.

Not love at first sight. Not anything as sudden or as dramatic as that.

No, it was something quieter.

Something deeper.

Something she didn’t realize was settling into her until much later.

Maybe it was the way Aiah walked into her cafe that night, shoulders drawn tight, eyes carrying a kind of exhaustion Mikha recognized but didn’t question.

Maybe it was the way she held that cup of coffee—her coffee, the one she’d been perfecting for weeks—and called it like a quiet evening, like she had unknowingly put words to something Mikha had only ever felt.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was the way she stayed.

Not just on the island, not just because of the storm, but in the little ways that mattered.

The way she let herself be dragged into market errands. The way she let herself learn how to make coffee. The way she let herself be here, even when she could have easily pulled away.

Mikha doesn’t know what to call it.

She only knows that Aiah is here, in her cafe, washing dishes like she’s always belonged in this space, and Mikha doesn’t want her to leave.

She doesn’t say it.

Doesn’t let it linger too long in the open.

She just leans back, watches Aiah rinse the last bowl, and smiles to herself.

Because for now, Aiah is here.

And maybe that’s enough.

Chapter Text

The cafe is quiet as they close up for the night.

Aiah wipes down the last table while Mikha locks the front door, rolling her shoulders as she exhales. The day has been long, but the air between them is settled—easy in a way that feels earned.

Mikha stretches, tilting her head toward Aiah. “You gonna miss your barista gig?”

Aiah scoffs. “Not even a little.”

Mikha chuckles. “Shame. You could’ve been my full-time intern.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “We are never using that word again.”

Mikha grins but doesn’t push it, gesturing toward the road. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Aiah hesitates—just for a second—before falling into step beside her.

The walk back to the hostel is different this time.

No storm. No rain.

Just the quiet hum of the island at night, the sound of the tide in the distance, the occasional flicker of light from a streetlamp or an open window.

It feels slower.

Not in a way that drags, but in a way that stretches—like the universe is giving them more time, more space to fill with something.

They reach the hostel gate too soon.

Mikha slows her steps, hands in her pockets. “Well. Home sweet home.”

Aiah exhales, fingers curling around the strap of her bag. “Yeah.”

Mikha nods, lingering for a second. “Guess I should—”

“Stay.”

The word is out before Aiah even thinks about it.

Mikha pauses.

Aiah’s pulse kicks up, but she doesn’t look away.

She doesn’t know why she said it.

Doesn’t have a reason.

But somehow, that doesn’t matter.

Mikha studies her, something unreadable in her gaze. “You sure?”

Aiah swallows.

No storm. No rain.

Just her.

Just Mikha.

And yet—

“…Yeah.”

Mikha’s lips curve into something small, something almost knowing.

She exhales, shifting on her feet. “Alright.”

Aiah nods, stepping back toward the door. Mikha follows, slow and easy, like this was always going to happen.

Like neither of them were ever really planning to say good night.

The hostel is still.

Most of the guests have retreated to their rooms, leaving only the dim glow of wall sconces and the flicker of a candle Yaya must have left burning on the common area’s table. The rain has picked up again—not a storm, just a steady rhythm against the windows, threading through the silence between them.

Mikha sets down two cups, sliding one toward Aiah before settling into the chair across from her.

Aiah glances down at the tea—warm, faintly sweet, the scent of ginger and honey curling into the air.

She exhales, fingers brushing the ceramic. “You always make tea for people you keep hostage?”

Mikha smirks. “Only for the ones I like.”

Aiah huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. She takes a sip, lets the warmth spread through her, lets the silence stretch between them.

It isn’t uncomfortable.

Not like it should be.

But there’s something else in it. Something unspoken, something waiting.

She watches Mikha—the way her fingers curl loosely around her cup, the way she looks comfortable here, like she’s always belonged.

And then—before she can think twice—

“Do you like girls, Mikha?”

The words slip out, quiet but deliberate.

Mikha pauses, her cup halfway to her lips.

Aiah doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

Mikha tilts her head, studying her for a beat. Then, without hesitation—

"Yeah."

Aiah swallows.

No shift in tone, no nervous glance, no explanation.

Just yeah.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Aiah looks down at her tea, fingers tightening around the ceramic.

Mikha doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask why she’s bringing it up. Doesn’t fill the silence for her.

And maybe that’s why, before she can stop herself—

Aiah exhales. “I’ve been struggling with it.”

Mikha stays still.

Aiah’s grip tightens. “For years now.”

She doesn’t know why she’s saying this.

Doesn’t know why it suddenly needs to be said.

Maybe it’s the rain. Maybe it’s the tea. Maybe it’s the way Mikha looks at her—not with curiosity, not with expectation, but with something patient, something safe.

She swallows.

“My work doesn’t really allow me to be… me.” A small, humorless laugh escapes her lips. “Doesn’t allow me to love who I love.”

The words settle between them.

Aiah feels exposed, like she’s peeled back something she’s spent years hiding, like she’s just handed Mikha a part of herself no one else is supposed to hold.

Mikha doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches her.

Then, finally—

"That must be exhausting."

Aiah lets out a slow breath.

It is.

She doesn’t say it aloud, but it sits there in the quiet, in the space between her exhale and Mikha’s steady presence.

She isn’t sure what she was expecting.

A reaction. A question. A pitying look.

But all she gets is this.

A warm cup of tea. A quiet, unshaken truth.

And Mikha, sitting across from her, like she isn’t planning on going anywhere.

The tea has gone cold.

Neither of them moves to drink it.

Aiah’s words still linger—not heavy, not suffocating, just there. A quiet truth, finally given room to breathe.

And Mikha—Mikha doesn’t rush to fill the silence with reassurances or promises.

She just lets it be.

Aiah exhales, fingers ghosting over the rim of her cup. There’s an understanding between them now, unspoken but settled—woven into the way Mikha looks at her, into the way Aiah holds her gaze without needing to explain anything more.

They don’t talk about it.

But they know.

And somehow, that’s enough.

For now.

Mikha tilts her head toward the hallway. “Come on, intern. Time to call it a night.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she stands anyway, following Mikha out of the common area.

The air shifts between them as they walk.

It’s subtle—so subtle—but it’s there.

The space between their shoulders feels charged, like something lingering just beneath the surface, something waiting.

By the time they reach Aiah’s door, neither of them moves to open it.

They just stand there.

Lingering.

Longer than before.

Aiah swallows. Her pulse hums in her throat, in her wrists, in the inches that separate them.

She doesn’t know why she does it.

Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the weight of everything unsaid. Maybe it’s the way Mikha is standing so close, watching her with that unreadable expression—the one that makes Aiah feel seen in ways she isn’t sure she’s ready for.

Or maybe—

Maybe it’s just because she wants to.

So she does.

Aiah steps forward, closing the space between them before she can think twice.

And then—

She kisses her.

It’s soft, barely more than a press of lips, but it sparks.

Mikha inhales sharply, caught off guard, but she doesn’t pull away.

Aiah’s hands curl into fists at her sides, every nerve alight, her heart pounding so hard she thinks Mikha might feel it.

She doesn’t know if it’s a mistake.

Doesn’t know if she’ll regret this when the moment breaks.

All she knows is that she’s been dying to kiss these lips, to taste the space between them, to close the distance that has been growing tighter and tighter with every second they spend not doing this.

And now, finally—

She does.

Mikha doesn’t hesitate.

For a second—just a breath—Aiah wonders if she will.

If she’ll pull away, if she’ll blink at Aiah with something unreadable, if she’ll step back and let the space between them return, wider than before.

But then—

Mikha exhales, soft and sharp, like something breaking open inside her.

And she kisses her back.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just certain.

Like this is something she’s been waiting for.

Like this is something she’s known was coming.

Aiah swallows a quiet sound, her hands twitching at her sides before instinct takes over, before she reaches for Mikha—fingertips grazing the fabric of her sleeve, curling into it just enough to hold on.

Mikha tilts her head, deepening the kiss just slightly, like she’s tasting something she doesn’t want to let go of.

Aiah feels it in her chest, in the space between her ribs, in the way something inside her shifts.

It’s not just about the kiss.

It’s about the fact that Mikha is meeting her there.

That for all of Aiah’s uncertainty, for all the ways she doesn’t know what this means, Mikha isn’t hesitating.

She’s choosing this.

Just like Aiah is.

And maybe that’s what makes it terrifying.

Maybe that’s what makes it real.

Mikha’s lips are warm, steady. She doesn’t push, doesn’t rush. Just lets the moment be what it is.

And Aiah lets herself fall into it.

The kiss lingers, even after their lips have parted.

Aiah’s breath is uneven, her fingers still curled into Mikha’s sleeve, as if she isn’t sure whether to let go.

Mikha doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t break the silence too soon.

Just watches her—steady, unreadable, something soft in the way her eyes search Aiah’s face.

Then, finally—

“Well,” Mikha murmurs, tilting her head slightly, lips twitching in the smallest smirk. “Didn’t think you’d beat me to it.”

Aiah exhales—part relief, part something she doesn’t want to name.

Trust Mikha to say something first.

To ease the weight of this moment without dismissing it.

Aiah swallows, but she doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to.

Mikha studies her for a second longer, then exhales, the smirk softening into something quieter.

She lifts a hand, fingers brushing lightly against Aiah’s temple.

Then—

A kiss.

Gentle. Barely there.

Pressed against her skin like a quiet promise, like I won’t push if you’re not ready.

Aiah blinks, her breath catching.

Mikha lingers for just a second before stepping back, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Good night, intern,” she murmurs.

Aiah doesn’t answer.

Just watches as Mikha turns, walking away without another word.

And even after she’s gone, Aiah still feels the warmth of her lips against her skin.

Still feels the weight of everything they didn’t say.

Chapter Text

Aiah lies awake.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the sliver of moon beyond the rain-streaked window, the only sound the steady hush of water meeting glass. A quiet rhythm, soft, relentless.

But sleep doesn’t come.

She turns onto her side, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling, fingers grazing her lips as if she could still feel it.

The kiss.

Mikha’s lips on hers.

The warmth of it. The certainty of it.

The way Mikha didn’t pull away.

The way she kissed her back, slow and steady, like she knew. Like she understood.

Like she had been waiting for this.

Aiah presses her palm against her chest, as if she can quiet the restless hum beneath it.

Because it wasn’t just a kiss.

Not for her.

Not when it means something she’s spent years trying to suppress, trying to make sense of, trying to bury so deep that maybe—just maybe—it would disappear.

But it hasn’t.

It’s here.

Alive, undeniable, pressing into her ribs, curling in the space between her breaths, in the way her heart hasn’t settled since Mikha stepped away.

And Mikha—

Mikha just let it happen.

Didn’t question it. Didn’t pull answers from her. Didn’t ask, What does this mean?

Aiah exhales, rolling onto her back again, eyes tracing the darkness above.

Because that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

She doesn’t know.

What it means.

What she wants it to mean.

All she knows is this—

Mikha kissed her back.

And the world tilted.

And now, Aiah can’t pretend things haven’t changed.

Because they have.

Because she kissed a girl.

Because she kissed Mikha.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel afraid of it.

She just felt.

Aiah swallows, pressing her fingers to her temple.

What now?

What happens now?

The question lingers, thick in the air, folding into the shadows, slipping into the rain.

Outside, the storm has passed.

But inside her—

Inside her, something is only just beginning.

Morning comes slowly.

The storm has passed again, leaving the island in that brief, delicate quiet before the next shift in weather. The air is cool, thick with the scent of damp earth and sea breeze.

Aiah barely slept.

Her body feels sluggish, but her mind is sharp—too aware, too restless, replaying the feel of lips against lips, the warmth of it, the way Mikha didn’t pull away.

The way she kissed her back.

She rubs her face, exhaling before finally pushing herself out of bed. She doesn’t know what today is supposed to feel like.

But she knows that nothing is the same.

Mikha is already in the common area when Aiah steps out of her room.

She’s seated on the couch, legs crossed lazily, flipping through an old book Yaya must have left on the coffee table.

She doesn’t look up right away.

Doesn’t react right away.

But Aiah feels it—the awareness between them, the shift in the air, the weight of something that has been settled but not spoken.

Then—

Mikha looks up.

And smiles.

Not hesitant. Not questioning.

Just—

There.

Aiah’s breath catches, but she doesn’t let herself linger too long in it. She moves toward the dining area, finding Yaya setting up breakfast.

Mikha follows.

Not in a way that presses, but in a way that keeps close.

Aiah feels it in the smallest ways—

The way Mikha walks beside her instead of behind.

The way she pulls out the chair next to Aiah instead of across from her.

The way her knee almost brushes Aiah’s under the table, like she’s not quite ready to let space exist between them.

It’s subtle.

So subtle.

But it’s there.

Aiah grips her mug, staring into her coffee as Yaya chatters about the storm, about how the island will recover, about how people will go back to their routines.

Mikha hums in response, casual, easy—normal.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything did.

And Aiah—

Aiah doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know what to do.

But she doesn’t pull away either.

And Mikha—

Mikha doesn’t push.

She just stays.

By midday, the storm warnings are lifted.

The sky is clear again, the sun stretching over the island as if the past few days of rain and uncertainty had never happened. The air smells like salt and damp earth, fresh and clean, like the world has been given a second chance.

Aiah hears the news over breakfast—boats will remain docked until tomorrow, just to be safe. The sea is still restless, not dangerous, but not entirely welcoming either.

One more day.

One last day.

The thought settles in her chest, heavy in a way she doesn’t understand.

She tells herself it’s fine. That this is what she’s been waiting for—the chance to return to her world, to step back into the life she left behind, to slip back into the role she knows.

But then—

Mikha nudges her knee under the table, casual, unhurried.

Aiah glances up, and Mikha is watching her, something unreadable in her gaze.

Then, lightly—

“Come with me.”

Aiah blinks. “Where?”

Mikha tilts her head toward the door. “One last tour.”

Aiah stares at her, searching for something in her expression. But Mikha just smiles, like she isn’t thinking about what comes after today.

Like this is just another morning, just another casual offer, just another moment.

And maybe it is.

Or maybe it isn’t.

Aiah exhales, setting her mug down.

“…Okay.”

Mikha grins, pushing herself up from the table.

Aiah follows.

Neither of them says what this really is.

Neither of them asks if it means something.

But as they step out into the sunlit streets, walking side by side, Aiah knows—

This isn’t just a tour.

This is something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Mikha takes her to places she hasn’t seen yet.

A small, hidden cove tucked behind a winding cliffside road, where the water is impossibly blue and the waves hush against the shore like a secret being whispered.

A quiet garden near the town’s edge, where locals plant herbs and flowers in mismatched pots, the scent of basil and lemongrass thick in the warm air.

An old pier, long abandoned, where the wood creaks under their feet but the view stretches endlessly, the sky and the sea blurring together in a perfect, weightless horizon.

Aiah follows without question.

She doesn’t ask why Mikha is showing her these places now, why she hadn’t brought her here before.

Maybe because she already knows the answer.

Maybe because some places aren’t meant for just anyone.

Maybe because some things are only meant to be shared when you know time is running out.

They sit on the edge of the pier, their feet dangling over the water.

The sun is lower now, the sky deepening into that quiet, golden haze, everything around them stretching into something softer.

Mikha is quiet beside her, hands resting loosely on the wood, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the surface.

Then—

“You’re leaving tomorrow, then?”

It’s said so easily.

So simply, like it’s just a question.

But Aiah feels the weight of it settle deep in her chest.

She swallows. “Yeah.”

Mikha hums, nodding once. She looks out at the horizon, like she’s taking in the sight of it, like she’s memorizing the way the light reflects off the waves.

Aiah watches her.

And then, before she can stop herself—“What about you?”

Mikha tilts her head slightly. “What about me?”

Aiah hesitates, fingers curling against the wood.

She doesn’t know exactly what she’s asking.

But maybe she’s asking if Mikha has ever left this place.

If she’s ever wanted to.

If she ever will.

Mikha exhales, tilting her head back slightly, letting the wind brush through her hair.

“I used to think I’d go back,” she murmurs. “To the States. To my family. I thought maybe this place was just something I’d return to in passing.”

A pause.

Then—“But the longer I stayed, the harder it was to leave.”

Aiah stares at her.

Mikha glances sideways, offering a small smile.

“The island has a way of keeping the people who need it.”

Aiah swallows, looking away.

She doesn’t know why that makes something twist inside her.

She doesn’t know why it hurts.

She doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Mikha.

But the silence between them shifts—something fragile, something unspoken.

Something not quite ready to be said out loud.

And so they sit there, the wind brushing over them, the waves beneath them stretching toward the shore.

Waiting.

For something.

For whatever comes next.

The night is impossibly still.

The kind of quiet that presses into the walls, into the spaces between heartbeats, into the air between two people who know this is the last time.

Aiah doesn’t know how they ended up here.

Side by side, lying in her bed, the sheets cool against her skin, the weight of the moment heavier than the night itself.

Mikha is close.

Close enough that Aiah can feel the warmth radiating from her body, can hear the slow, steady rhythm of her breath, can see the faint reflection of the dim bedside light in her eyes.

For a moment, they don’t speak.

They just look.

Like they’re memorizing each other.

Like they’re trying to capture every detail, every breath, so they won’t forget.

Mikha’s gaze moves slowly over Aiah’s face, lingering in a way that settles something inside Aiah’s chest and unravels something all at once.

And then—

“You’re quiet.”

Aiah swallows. “I guess.”

Mikha tilts her head, studying her. “You okay?”

Aiah should say yes.

But the words don’t come.

Mikha shifts, gaze soft, searching. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says lightly, like she knows Aiah won’t. “But if there’s something keeping you here…”

She lets it hang in the air.

Aiah lets it hang too.

Because there is something keeping her here.

And it’s right in front of her.

Then—

Mikha reaches out.

Soft. Unhurried.

Her fingers brush against Aiah’s forehead, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

The touch is barely there.

But it shatters something.

Aiah exhales, slow and trembling, like she’s trying to hold something back but doesn’t know how.

Mikha’s hand lingers.

Not pressing, not pushing—just waiting.

Aiah swallows.

And then, before she can think, before she can second-guess, she leans forward.

And Mikha meets her halfway.

The kiss is slow, soft, full of everything they haven’t said.

Mikha shifts closer, fingers brushing against Aiah’s jaw, her breath warm against Aiah’s skin.

And Aiah lets herself sink.

Deeper, deeper, into the space between them.

Because this is their last night.

Because tomorrow, the boats will leave, and so will she.

Because right now, in this moment, nothing else exists except this.

Them.

Here.

Now.

And Aiah doesn’t want to let go.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

Aiah wakes to warmth.

Not the sun, not the soft glow of morning filtering through the thin curtains—but Mikha.

The steady rise and fall of her breathing, the weight of an arm draped over Aiah’s waist, the quiet, unshaken presence of someone who, even in sleep, stays close.

Aiah doesn’t move.

She stays there, still and quiet, letting herself feel it.

How easy this is.

How right it shouldn’t be, but somehow is.

The weight of the night lingers in the air between them, in the way their bodies fit together without thought, in the way Aiah can still feel the press of lips against hers if she closes her eyes.

She breathes in.

Mikha’s scent—something faintly sweet, something warm, something hers—wraps around her.

She could stay.

The thought comes unbidden, slipping into the space between wakefulness and reality.

She could.

She could stay on this island, let herself get lost in its slow rhythm, in its quiet pull, in Mikha.

She could let this become something more.

Something real.

But—

Her chest tightens.

She loves her craft.

Loves the way performing makes her feel, loves the connection she has with the people who support her, loves the life she built for herself even when it feels too much.

And now that she’s had time to breathe, now that she’s stepped away for a moment—

She misses it.

Not the suffocating parts. Not the scrutiny. Not the expectations that weigh too heavily on her.

But the art. The people. Creating something meaningful.

Her world is outside this island.

And yet—

Mikha shifts beside her, sighing softly in her sleep, and the weight of leaving settles into Aiah’s chest.

She exhales, pressing her lips together.

She knows she’s going.

Knows she has to.

But right now, in this moment, in the quiet before morning truly breaks—

She lets herself stay just for a little while longer.

The dock is quieter than Aiah expected.

No fanfare, no rush of people pushing their way onto the boats. Just the gentle lapping of the tide, the soft murmur of travelers gathering their things, the distant calls of fishermen already preparing for the afternoon’s work.

The world moves on, even as Aiah stands still.

Her bag is slung over her shoulder, her fingers curled around the strap, but she hasn’t stepped forward yet.

Because Mikha is still here.

Standing beside her, hands in her pockets, watching the water.

Not asking her to stay.

Not asking anything at all.

Aiah swallows, shifting her grip on her bag. “I guess… this is it.”

Mikha hums, a quiet sound. “Looks like it.”

The silence stretches—not awkward, not strained. Just there. Just holding them, wrapping around the words they aren’t saying.

Aiah inhales, trying to steady herself.

She should say something.

But what do you say to someone who has become a place of safety?

What do you say to someone you aren’t ready to leave behind?

She glances at Mikha, at the soft curve of her lips, at the way the morning light catches in her red hair, at the calm in her gaze that somehow makes all of this harder.

Mikha tilts her head, as if reading her thoughts, and then—

“You know where to find us,” she says, voice steady, warm. “When things ever get heavy again.”

Aiah’s throat tightens.

Mikha isn’t asking.

Isn’t waiting.

Isn’t begging her to stay.

Just letting her know—

That if she ever chooses to come back, there will be a place for her here.

Aiah exhales, nodding once. “Okay.”

Mikha smiles—small, barely there, but felt.

And Aiah turns toward the boat.

She steps forward, one foot after the other, boarding the vessel that will take her back to the life she put on pause.

She doesn’t look back right away.

But when she does, Mikha is still there.

Standing by the dock, hands in her pockets, watching her go.

Aiah grips the strap of her bag tighter, presses her lips together, and turns away.

And just like that—

She leaves.

Chapter Text

The city swallows her whole.

The moment Aiah steps off the plane, it rushes in—fast, loud, relentless.

The flashing of cameras, the murmur of strangers recognizing her, the click of hurried footsteps against polished airport floors.

She keeps her head down, sunglasses in place, walking briskly through the terminal as her manager falls into step beside her.

“You’re finally back,” her manager says, exhaling in relief. “We have so much to catch up on. Press schedules, brand deals, a taping we need to reschedule since—”

The words blur together, too much, too fast.

Aiah nods when she’s supposed to, hums in agreement when necessary, but her mind is elsewhere.

Still at the dock.

Still at the edge of the island, where the world had slowed for just a little while.

Still feeling the weight of Mikha’s voice, soft but certain—You know where to find us.

She exhales, adjusting the strap of her bag.

There are eyes on her again. She feels them.

The hushed murmurs. The glances. The silent assessments of how she looks, what she’s wearing, where she’s been.

This used to suffocate her.

Still does, sometimes.

But now—

Now, she carries something else.

The scent of saltwater on warm skin. The way coffee tasted at Mikha’s cafe. The feeling of soft hands brushing against hers, of lips pressed to her forehead in a quiet goodbye.

Limasawa is no longer just a place she visited.

Mikha is no longer just someone she met.

She carries them both, tucked inside her chest, steady and unwavering.

And somehow, that is more comforting than she ever thought it would be.

The flashes are blinding.

Cameras clicking in rapid succession, voices calling her name from every direction.

Aiah stands in front of the press wall, her co-star beside her, the weight of expectation pressing down like a second skin. The gown she’s wearing is elegant, expensive, strategically chosen—but it doesn’t feel like hers.

The questions are endless.

“Excited for the movie?” Smile, nod, answer.

“How was your break? You disappeared for a bit!” Laugh, brush it off.

“What’s the real score between you and Carlos?” Pause, let the publicists handle it.

Aiah has done this a thousand times before.

But tonight, it suffocates her.

Because just hours ago, she was on a boat, the wind in her hair, Mikha’s voice still lingering in her head.

Just days ago, she was waking up to the sound of waves, not to the forced cheer of a stylist saying, “Aiah, your call time got moved earlier.”

The contrast is suffocating.

And suddenly—

She misses the island so much she feels it in her bones.

She doesn’t even remember saying yes to this.

But here she is.

Seated at an upscale restaurant, across from her is Carlos, cameras accidentally catching them in the background. A “casual dinner,” but the news cycle will twist it into something bigger.

Aiah stirs her drink, barely touching her food.

Carlos is kind. He has always been kind. They’ve known each other for years, both stuck in the same machine. He doesn’t push, doesn’t make this harder than it already is.

“Your mind is somewhere else,” he says, voice low enough that only she can hear.

Aiah doesn’t deny it.

Because she can still taste the salt in the air.

She can still hear Mikha’s laughter.

She can still feel the warmth of a morning spent wrapped in something real.

So she looks up, meets his gaze, and says the one thing she knows to be true:

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Carlos exhales, gives her a look that says he understands exactly what she means.

And Aiah decides she’s done pretending.

She doesn’t start with a big declaration.

She just starts with the truth.

“Where were you before filming started?” a reporter asks her the next day.

Aiah pauses, fingers brushing the inside of her palm.

Then she exhales and simply says, “I was on an island.”

No name, no details.

Just enough to let it linger.

And when they ask how it was, Aiah smiles—soft, knowing, real.

“I was gifted a life skill,” she says. “I learned how to make my own coffee.”

It is small.

It is insignificant to anyone else.

But Mikha will know.

Chapter Text

Mikha doesn’t mean to stop.

She’s just passing through the hostel, dropping off supplies, the usual routine—until she hears her name.

Not spoken, not called—just there, drifting from the small TV in the common area.

She almost doesn’t turn.

But then Yaya, who had been watching idly from her chair, lets out a soft tsk under her breath.

“Ay,” Yaya murmurs, shaking her head. “I knew that girl had something special about her.”

Mikha frowns, following Yaya’s gaze.

And then—

She sees her.

Aiah.

Not in the quiet corners of her cafe, not barefoot on the sand, not laughing against the crash of the waves.

But on a screen, sitting under bright studio lights, dressed in something polished, perfectly styled.

Mikha stares, the pieces clicking together too slowly, too quickly, all at once.

The woman on the screen isn’t just Aiah.

She’s Aiah Arceta.

And she’s famous.

Mikha blinks, stunned into silence as the interview plays on.

The topic is a new movie.

Her onscreen partner.

The chemistry. The romance. The same old questions Mikha has heard a hundred times from the industry, the way they spin stories that aren’t theirs to tell.

Aiah smiles through it all, poised, unreadable.

Then—

A shift.

“Where were you before filming started?” a reporter asks, tilting his head curiously.

The studio murmurs, an eager buzz filling the room.

Aiah pauses.

For just a second, something flickers in her eyes—too quick for the others to catch, but Mikha sees it.

Then, simply—“ I was on an island.”

Mikha inhales sharply.

The reporters lean forward, pressing for more. “How was it?”

Aiah’s lips curve, just slightly.

“I was gifted a life skill,” she says, voice light, unreadable. “I learned how to make my own coffee.”

The reporters laugh, like it’s just an offhanded remark, something lighthearted, something insignificant.

But Mikha—

Mikha feels it settle in her chest.

Like a quiet declaration.

Like an assurance.

Like Aiah isn’t just leaving everything behind.

Mikha exhales, pressing her tongue against her teeth, the corners of her lips twitching.

Yaya hums, still watching the screen. “You never told me you had a celebrity under your roof.”

Mikha scoffs, shaking her head. “Didn’t know.”

Yaya side-eyes her knowingly. “And now that you do?”

Mikha exhales, tilting her head toward the TV again, watching as the interview moves on, as Aiah shifts easily into another topic, as the world continues to pull her forward.

Mikha doesn’t answer.

She just knows.

Aiah is far away now.

But somehow—

She doesn’t feel gone.

Not yet. Not at all.

Mikha doesn’t mean to look.

She tells herself it doesn’t matter, that Aiah being famous changes nothing.

But later that evening, when the cafe is empty and the island has settled into its usual quiet, she finds herself on her phone, fingers hovering over the search bar.

Aiah Arceta.

She hesitates.

Then—

She presses enter.

And the world explodes.

Photos. Interviews. Red carpet appearances. Paparazzi shots of her leaving hotels, stepping into cars, caught mid-laugh in places Mikha has never seen.

Aiah in high fashion, in dazzling gowns, in perfectly curated outfits that contrast starkly with the girl who wore salt-dampened shirts and let herself be dragged into market errands.

Aiah on magazine covers, headlines screaming about upcoming projects, about rumored relationships, about the real score between her and her leading man.

Mikha stares.

Scrolls.

Watches a video of Aiah walking through a sea of flashing cameras, smiling, waving—performing.

Like she was born for this.

Like the Aiah that Mikha knew never existed at all.

Mikha exhales sharply, tossing her phone onto the counter.

Then—

A voice behind her.

“You finally looked her up, huh?”

Mikha turns.

Colet stands by the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing at her lips.

Mikha narrows her eyes. “You knew?”

Colet snorts. “Of course I knew.”

Mikha blinks. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Colet shrugs, pushing off the frame and making her way toward the counter. “Because she looked like she didn’t want to be known. And because you were so oblivious, it was actually kind of funny.”

Mikha scowls, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t oblivious.”

Colet raises an eyebrow.

Mikha groans, rubbing her face. “Okay, maybe I was. I don’t waste my time watching celebrities, you know?”

Colet chuckles, settling into a seat. “I figured she was here to breathe, to get away from it all. I mean, look at all that.” She gestures at Mikha’s phone, still lighting up with headlines and updates. “She probably just wanted to be Aiah, not Aiah Arceta.”

Mikha exhales, staring at the screen again.

Colet tilts her head. “So? Now that you know?”

Mikha doesn’t answer right away.

Because what is she supposed to say?

That it doesn’t change anything?

That it changes everything?

That Aiah was never just a girl who stumbled into her cafe, that she was always something bigger, something the world watched and claimed, and Mikha was the fool who didn’t see it?

Mikha sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

Colet hums, considering.

Then, lightly—

“She still talked about you, though.”

Mikha stills.

Colet gestures toward the phone. “In that interview. When they asked her about the island. That thing about learning to make coffee?”

Mikha presses her lips together.

Colet grins. “Sounds like a you thing.”

Mikha rolls her eyes, but she can’t shake the feeling settling in her chest.

Because Aiah left.

But maybe she hasn’t completely let go.

And Mikha isn’t sure what to do with that.

Mikha tells herself things will go back to normal.

The island moves as it always has—slow, steady, unbothered by the world outside its shores. The cafe still opens every morning, the market still bustles with the same voices, the tides still roll in and out, unchanging.

But she has changed.

And Aiah—Aiah is everywhere.

Not in the literal sense, but in the way her absence presses into Mikha’s daily life, in the way small things seem to echo with her.

The coffee grinder, when Mikha reaches for it, reminds her of the way Aiah hesitated before pressing down, brows furrowed in deep concentration.

The bibingka stall at the market, where Mikha finds herself stopping more often, remembering how Aiah had taken her first bite, how she had rolled her eyes but kept eating anyway.

Even the shore—

The waves lapping gently, the way the water calls her in—

It’s different now.

Because Mikha remembers Aiah there, hesitant until Mikha carried her in, until she let herself be pulled under.

Mikha exhales, shaking her head as she kneels behind the counter, restocking supplies.

She should be fine.

Aiah was a passing moment.

A brief, unexpected pause in Mikha’s life.

Nothing more.

Then—

“Are you gonna mope forever, or should I start charging you for emotional labor?”

Mikha sighs without looking up. “Colet.”

Colet grins, leaning over the counter. “Mikha.”

Mikha groans, closing the storage cabinet with a thud. “I’m not moping.”

Colet snorts. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Mikha stands, dusting her hands off. “Shouldn’t you be working on music or something?”

“I am,” Colet says, stealing a piece of bread from the counter. “I’m studying heartbreak in real time.”

Mikha glares. “I am not—”

“You are,” Colet says through a mouthful of bread. “And it’s okay.”

Mikha presses her lips together. Looks away.

Colet watches her for a beat, then exhales, her voice softer when she speaks again.

“She’s hard to shake, huh?”

Mikha swallows.

Nods.

Because it’s true.

Aiah should be gone. Should be just a name on a screen, a face the world owns now.

But instead, she’s here, in everything, in ways Mikha can’t seem to stop feeling.

Colet hums. “You gonna do anything about it?”

Mikha exhales a quiet laugh. “Like what?”

Colet shrugs. “I don’t know. But if she’s still on your mind, maybe she’s not as far away as you think.”

Mikha doesn’t respond.

Because she doesn’t know what to say.

Because maybe Colet is right.

Or maybe this is just what happens when someone leaves a mark too deep to be washed away.

Mikha is still staring at her hands, lost in thought, when a sharp ding breaks through the air.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

She frowns, looking up to see Colet blinking down at her phone, brows furrowing as the notification sounds keep coming in—so fast, so relentless, that it looks like her screen is about to overheat.

“What the—” Colet mutters, tapping the screen rapidly.

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Spam?”

“No—” Colet squints, scrolling through the flood of messages and notifications. “What the hell?”

Mikha leans forward. “What is it?”

Colet stares at her screen, mouth slightly open.

Then—

“Why am I suddenly famous?”

Mikha snorts. “I think you need actual talent for that.”

Colet smacks her arm without looking up. “I do have talent. But this—this is insane.”

Mikha peeks over her shoulder.

New followers. Hundreds—no, thousands of them, flooding in by the second.

Streams skyrocketing on a song she uploaded on Spotify years ago, a song she barely even remembers promoting.

“What did you do?” Mikha asks, bewildered.

Colet shakes her head. “Nothing—wait.” She scrolls faster, eyes widening as she finally finds the why.

Aiah.

Aiah Arceta.

Aiah, with her millions of followers, with a platform that stretches farther than either of them can fathom.

Aiah, who—last night, at some ungodly hour—had posted about Colet’s song.

A simple Instagram story. No fanfare, no caption screaming for attention.

Just: "This one’s been on loop lately. Give it a listen."

A screenshot of the song.

A quiet suggestion.

And now Colet is everywhere.

Mikha stares.

Colet exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Holy shit.”

Mikha doesn’t know what to say.

Because this isn’t just a casual mention.

This is Aiah, slipping something from their world into hers.

This is Aiah, who left but still lingers, leaving behind something small but undeniably hers.

Colet looks at Mikha, something unreadable in her eyes.

“She didn’t forget.”

Mikha swallows.

No.

She didn’t.

And somehow, that knowledge settles in Mikha’s chest—not painful, not heavy.

Just there.

Warm. Lingering. Unshaken.

Chapter Text

The press room is full.

Cameras lined up, reporters leaning forward, microphones clustered on the long table.

Aiah sits in the middle, flanked by her co-star and their director, management watching from the sidelines. This is supposed to be a celebration, the official launch of their upcoming movie.

It is also supposed to be the moment Aiah falls back in line.

Plays the part. Smiles when she should. Answers what she is told.

The first few questions are easy.

“How was the filming process?” Wonderful. An honor.

“What can fans expect from your character?” Growth, depth, a beautiful arc.

Then—

The question that was always coming.

“The onscreen chemistry is undeniable. But fans are wondering—are you and Carlos dating in real life?”

Silence.

The moment stretches.

Carlos shifts beside her, waiting for Aiah to follow the script.

She is supposed to smile. She is supposed to imply.

She is supposed to say what will keep the illusion alive.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales, tilts her head slightly, and says—

“I think people get too caught up in stories that aren’t theirs to tell.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

Her manager stiffens in the corner of her vision.

Her co-star inhales sharply. Not in surprise—in knowing.

The reporters recover quickly. “So you’re saying there’s no truth to the rumors?”

Aiah smiles.

But it is not the kind of smile they want.

It is small. It is soft. It is the kind of smile that hides something just beneath the surface.

“I’m saying I’d like to keep some things to myself.”

And just like that—

The illusion shatters.

The car ride back is silent.

Her manager doesn’t speak until they’re behind closed doors, back at the agency’s office.

Then—

“You should’ve followed the plan.”

Aiah unclasps the buttons of her blazer, voice even. “I didn’t lie.”

“You implied.”

“I didn’t deny, either.”

Her manager exhales, frustration spilling over. “Do you understand what you just did? The internet is already picking it apart. People are saying you’re hiding something.”

Aiah just shrugs.

Because she is.

She is hiding the only thing that matters.

Her manager sighs, temples pinched. “Look, Aiah, I know you think this doesn’t matter, but it does. Your career depends on the image we build for you. We can still do damage control, but you need to work with us—”

“I’m not doing this anymore.”

The words are quiet. Steady.

Her manager stills. “What?”

“I’m done.”

Aiah exhales, the decision settling over her like relief instead of fear.

“I’m leaving,” she says. “For real, this time.”

And she doesn’t need a second to think about it.

Because she already knows where she’s going.

Back on the island, Mikha sits with the thought of Aiah posting that song. Colet’s song. Another reminder. Another assurance.

She doesn’t do anything about it. Not yet.

She just sits with it.

With the knowledge that Aiah—despite the distance, despite the flashing lights and the world pulling her in every direction—had still chosen to let something slip through.

That she had listened.

That she had remembered.

And somehow, despite knowing that Aiah is miles away, it makes Mikha feel closer to her.

Like the space between them isn’t so vast after all.

Like Limasawa still clings to Aiah the way Aiah clings to her.

Mikha presses her lips together, staring at the screen, at the numbers still climbing, at Aiah’s quiet voice still echoing.

Then—

A sharp nudge to her ribs.

She scowls. “Colet.”

Colet grins. “Mikhs.”

Mikha groans, shoving her away, but Colet leans in, resting her chin in her hands with a dramatic sigh. “Wow. Aiah Arceta, actual superstar, dropping a casual love letter in the form of a song recommendation.”

Mikha scoffs, rolling her eyes. “It’s not a love letter.”

Colet smirks. “Oh, sure, sure. She just happened to promote a song from my very small, very obscure catalog to her literal millions of followers for no reason at all.”

Mikha doesn’t respond.

Because the thing is—

It was for a reason.

It meant something.

And Colet, perceptive as always, catches the way Mikha doesn’t argue.

She leans back, quieter now. “You miss her.”

Mikha exhales, tilting her head toward the ceiling. “Yeah.”

The admission is easy.

Easier than she expected.

Colet nods, thoughtful. “You know, I’ve written a lot of love songs. And every time, I thought I understood what they meant.”

Mikha glances at her. “And?”

Colet smiles, a little sad, a little knowing. “And now I think I was wrong.”

Mikha frowns. “What do you mean?”

Colet shrugs. “I think love isn’t just about grand gestures or big confessions. Sometimes, it’s just this.” She taps her phone screen. “A song suggestion at 2 AM. A quiet reminder that she’s still listening. Still here.”

Mikha stares at her, something tight in her chest.

She swallows.

Because she thinks—

She thinks she understands now.

Aiah never said goodbye.

Not really.

And maybe—just maybe—she never meant to.

Mikha doesn’t mean to play it.

She tells herself she won’t.

But the cafe is empty now, the night settling deep into the bones of the island, and the silence invites something in.

Before she even realizes it, her fingers are hovering over her phone.

One tap.

The song begins.

A quiet inhale. The strum of a guitar. Then—

“I wanna be an itch you can’t scratch. I don’t need to know where you’re at…”

Mikha exhales sharply, the melody threading through her ribs, something tightening in her chest.

She’s heard this before.

She was the first to hear it—on the floor of Colet’s old apartment, listening as she muttered, It’s not done yet, but tell me if it’s terrible.

Back then, it was just a song.

Now—

“Like some kind of magnet, you’re a mystic force…”

Now, it feels different.

Mikha presses the phone closer, letting the lyrics settle in, letting them sink.

Because this is what it feels like, isn’t it?

The push and pull. The way Aiah is still here, even when she shouldn’t be.

The way every time Mikha tries to move forward, something tugs her back—again, and again, and again.

“The air buzzes whenever you’re near... Are you the one, or are you just a mirror?”

Mikha shuts her eyes, teeth pressing into her bottom lip.

She thinks about Aiah.

About the way she looked at her that last night, like she was memorizing her.

About the way she talks about the island now, in interviews, in subtle answers carefully worded, as if keeping something safe.

Mikha swallows.

“Each time I push the thoughts away, you keep pulling me in... again and again and again...”

A love letter.

A quiet, aching confession wrapped in harmonies, in the kind of emotions you only pour into a song when you don’t know how to say it outright.

Because Aiah didn’t have to say anything.

She didn’t have to mention the island at all.

But she did.

And now—

Now, no matter how far away she is—

She’s still here.

Mikha exhales, fingers tightening around her phone.

She doesn’t know what this means.

She only knows that the song keeps playing.

And Mikha doesn’t stop it. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

Mikha stares at her phone.

The cursor blinks in the empty message box, waiting.

Her fingers hover over the screen, unmoving.

She shouldn’t do this.

She doesn’t even know if Aiah will see it.

And yet—

She exhales, pressing her lips together.

Then, slowly, she types:

I’m not sure if you’ll see this.

She hesitates.

Deletes it.

Types it again.

It feels too raw, too open. But maybe that’s why she needs to send it.

Her heart thrums against her ribs as she keeps going.

But I saw the interview. And the song post.

She pauses.

Then, before she can second-guess herself, she adds:

You didn’t have to do that.

Another beat.

Another breath.

But I think you wanted to.

Her fingers tremble slightly as she presses send.

No second drafts. No overthinking. Just this.

Just a quiet message in the dark, sent out into the void, not expecting anything in return.

But somehow—

Somehow, it feels like enough.

Aiah doesn’t know why she checks her phone.

She’s on set, waiting between takes, sitting in her usual corner while makeup adjusts a few last details on her co-star.

Her script rests in her lap, the lines already memorized, the world around her moving in the way it always does—fast, demanding, constant.

And yet, something tugs at her.

A small, persistent thought at the back of her mind, a whisper she can’t quite ignore.

She exhales, unlocking her phone.

Her notifications are the same as always—emails, schedules, endless mentions on social media.

She almost puts it away.

But then, on impulse, she swipes over to her message requests.

She doesn’t even know why.

She barely ever checks them. The flood of unread messages is too much, too constant, too impersonal.

But today—

Today, she does.

Her finger scrolls through, eyes skimming over the names, the blur of words—

And then she sees it.

A name she hadn’t expected.

A name that makes her still.

Mikha Lim.

Her breath catches.

For a moment, she just stares.

Then, hesitantly, she taps the message open.

I’m not sure if you’ll see this.

Her heartbeat stutters.

But I saw the interview. And the song post.

Aiah swallows.

You didn’t have to do that.

A pause. A gap of space before the last words settle deep in her chest.

But I think you wanted to.

Aiah exhales, pressing her phone to her lap, staring at nothing.

She reads it again.

And again.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard, a thousand thoughts pressing in all at once, but she doesn’t type anything.

Not yet.

Because Mikha is right.

She did want to.

Aiah doesn’t reply right away.

She sits with the message, lets it press into her chest, lets it settle.

The set moves around her—voices, footsteps, the shuffle of scripts and adjustments—but Aiah is somewhere else.

Somewhere far away.

She stares at the words on her screen, at the quiet weight of Mikha’s message, and before she can second-guess herself—

Her fingers move.

Slow, hesitant at first. Then faster.

I tried to find you.

She stops.

Blows out a breath. Rereads it.

Then, before she can let herself erase it, she keeps typing.

After I left, I tried to look you up. But you’re impossible to find. No public accounts, no traces, nothing. I wanted to reach out, but I didn’t know how.

Her thumb hovers over the screen.

She exhales.

Then—

So maybe I did want you to see the song post. Maybe I wanted you to hear it and know that… I haven’t forgotten anything either.

A heartbeat.

Then another.

Then, finally, she presses send.

The message disappears into the quiet space between them.

And Aiah exhales, her chest a little lighter.

Because maybe she was always supposed to say this.

And maybe Mikha was always meant to hear it.

Mikha isn’t expecting a reply.

She’s at the cafe, wiping down tables after the morning rush, when her phone vibrates in her pocket.

She almost ignores it.

But something makes her check.

And then—

Aiah.

Mikha stills.

She blinks at the notification, heart stuttering slightly, before unlocking her phone with a swipe.

I tried to find you.

She exhales.

Her eyes skim over the rest of the message—Aiah, telling her how she searched, how she couldn’t find her, how she wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.

Something tightens in her chest.

She hesitates.

Then, instead of thinking too hard about it, she lets her fingers move.

Not having a public account is part of my charm, actually.

A beat.

Then, before she can overthink it—

Exclusive access only.

She smirks, pressing send.

Aiah reads it almost instantly.

Mikha waits.

Then, slowly, she types again.

The teasing fades, softens into something quieter, something more true.

But for what it’s worth—

She swallows.

Then lets herself say it.

There’s not a day that you don’t cross my mind.

She presses send before she can second-guess it.

And this time, she doesn’t look away.

Because Aiah is still here.

And maybe she never really left.

Aiah feels her phone vibrate in her lap.

She’s in the dressing room, waiting for the next scene, makeup half-done, stylists moving around her like background noise.

She shouldn’t check.

She should be focused.

But her fingers are already unlocking the screen.

Mikha.

Her chest tightens.

She clicks the message open.

Not having a public account is part of my charm, actually.

Aiah exhales, a quiet laugh slipping through.

Exclusive access only.

She shakes her head, biting back a smile.

Mikha.

Always slipping humor in, keeping things light.

But then—

Another message.

A second one, quieter.

But for what it’s worth—

Aiah stills.

Her breath catches.

There’s not a day that you don’t cross my mind.

The words press into her, settle beneath her ribs, take root somewhere deep inside.

She rereads them.

Once.

Twice.

Like they might change if she blinks too hard.

She swallows, fingers curling slightly around the edges of her phone.

She doesn’t know what to say.

Only that she feels this.

All of it.

Still.

Even now.

Maybe especially now.

Chapter Text

Aiah doesn’t reply.

Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she doesn’t know how.

What do you say to something like that?

There’s not a day that you don’t cross my mind.

It lingers.

It stays.

She carries it through the rest of her day, through wardrobe fittings and blocking rehearsals, through the quiet moments when no one is talking and all she has left is her own thoughts.

She isn’t imagining it—something inside her feels lighter.

Like a thread that had been pulled too tight has finally loosened.

Like something that had been restless inside her has finally found stillness.

And maybe it shows, because when she walks onto the press stage for another round of interviews, the first thing one of the reporters says is—

“You’re glowing today, Aiah.”

The room laughs.

Aiah blinks, caught off guard, before schooling her expression into something playful. “Am I?”

Another reporter nods. “You look different lately. Happier.”

Beside her, Carlos chuckles, nudging her lightly. “Maybe it’s me.”

The press laughs again, some murmurs of agreement.

Aiah smiles, slipping into the familiar rhythm, giving the usual answers—talking about the film, about the creative process, about the work.

But then—

A different question.

A different kind of weight.

“What’s been making you happy lately, Aiah?”

Aiah exhales softly, feeling the words before she says them.

Then, carefully—subtly—so gently that no one else would think twice about it, she answers:

“The quiet moments in between.”

The room doesn’t react.

The questions keep coming. The conversation moves on.

But somewhere, far from here—

Mikha will hear it.

And she will know.

Mikha isn’t watching the interview.

Not intentionally, at least.

It’s just on in the background, playing from an old TV mounted near the counter, the signal a little grainy but still clear enough.

She’s wiping down tables, half-listening, catching the occasional laughter, the usual questions, the same polished answers Aiah may have given a hundred times before.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

But then—

“What’s been making you happy lately, Aiah?”

The question is light, casual. Just another throwaway moment.

But Aiah’s answer—

“The quiet moments in between.”

Mikha stills.

The rag in her hand pauses mid-wipe.

For a second, just one brief, fleeting second, the world tilts.

Because she knows.

She knows exactly what Aiah meant.

Knows exactly where those words are taking her.

The night before Aiah left.

The hush of the island at midnight. The warm press of their bodies side by side in the dark, the space between them too fragile to name, too full of everything they weren’t saying.

They hadn’t spoken much that night.

But the silence had held them.

The quiet had meant something.

And now—

Now, Aiah had said it out loud.

Not for the world to understand. Not for anyone else to hear.

But for her.

Mikha exhales, pressing a hand to her chest, grounding herself against the sudden weight of it.

Because Aiah is far away.

Because Aiah is there, under bright lights, answering questions with practiced ease.

But somehow, she’s still here, too.

And Mikha isn’t sure if that makes it easier.

Or harder.

Stacey arrives in a whirlwind of perfume and oversized sunglasses, sliding into the booth across from Aiah with a dramatic sigh.

“God, I hate press days.”

Aiah smirks. “And yet you thrive on them.”

Stacey pushes her glasses up onto her head, revealing sharp, knowing eyes. “I perform through them, babe. There’s a difference.”

Aiah chuckles, leaning back into her seat. The cafe is discreet, tucked into the quieter part of the city, where cameras aren’t lurking and managers aren’t hovering. Just two friends, catching up between the chaos.

Stacey flags down a server with a flick of her fingers. “Espresso, please. No sugar, no drama.”

Aiah shakes her head, amused.

“You’re glowing, by the way,” Stacey says, not even looking up from the menu.

Aiah stills, just slightly. “You’re the second person to say that this week.”

“Because it’s true,” Stacey says, eyes sharp now, studying her. “You look… lighter. Did something happen? Or someone?”

Aiah hesitates for half a second too long.

And Stacey pounces.

“Oh my god.” Stacey leans in, voice dropping. “Is it him? Did something finally happen?”

Aiah blinks, caught off guard. “Who?”

Stacey scoffs. “Your leading man, obviously. You two have been playing the ‘are-they-aren’t-they’ game for years now. And I saw your interviews, babe. You’ve been smiling way too much lately.”

Aiah bites the inside of her cheek, looking away. “It’s not like that.”

Stacey narrows her eyes. “Then what’s it like?”

Aiah exhales, stirring her drink. “It’s… just a new perspective. A little clarity, I guess.”

Stacey hums, unconvinced.

“‘The quiet moments in between,’” she repeats, mimicking Aiah’s words from the interview. “Very poetic. Very not you.”

Aiah huffs a laugh. “Maybe I’m changing.”

Stacey watches her for a long moment.

Then—

“I don’t get it,” she admits, shrugging. “But I know you. And I know that look.”

Aiah raises a brow. “What look?”

Stacey smirks. “Like you’re holding onto something no one else knows about.”

Aiah doesn’t answer.

Because Stacey is right.

And even though she doesn’t understand it, she sees it.

Aiah doesn’t think much of Stacey’s words at first.

She laughs them off, steers the conversation toward easier topics—new music, upcoming projects, the things they always talk about when they need to remind themselves why they love this life despite everything.

But later, when she’s alone, when the city hums outside her window and the night settles over her shoulders—

The words come back.

“You look like you’re holding onto something no one else knows about.”

Aiah exhales, pressing her phone to her chest, staring at the ceiling.

Because she is.

She has been.

She’s been carrying Mikha in the way she orders coffee now, craving the richness of something freshly brewed rather than the convenience of whatever’s closest.

She’s been carrying her in the way she watches the rain, remembering the warmth of a quiet cafe, the way the world felt smaller when it was just them, just soft words and lingering glances.

She’s been carrying her in the way she hesitates before answering in interviews, in the way she chooses her words carefully, in the way she lets something true slip through, even if only one person in the world will recognize it.

She hasn’t just been thinking about Mikha.

She’s been living with her.

Like the island is still stitched into her bones.

Like Mikha is still somewhere close, even when she isn’t.

Aiah swallows, shutting her eyes for a moment.

She doesn’t know what to do with this realization.

She only knows that it means something.

Something real.

Something she isn’t ready to let go of.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

Mikha doesn’t expect much when she sends the message.

She keeps it simple.

Hey, I’m heading to Manila soon. Gotta pick up my siblings—they’re visiting from the States. If you have time to meet, let me know. If your schedule’s packed, no worries.

She hesitates before pressing send, wondering if she should add something else. A joke, maybe. Something to keep it light.

But no, this feels right as it is.

She’s not pushing. Not asking for anything Aiah can’t give.

She’s just—

She exhales.

She’s just letting Aiah know she’ll be near.

Just in case.

The message sends, disappearing into the space between them, and Mikha places her phone face-down on the counter, not expecting a quick reply.

But then—

Her phone buzzes.

Mikha blinks, flipping it over.

Aiah.

When are you arriving?

Her heart stumbles.

Mikha swallows. Types back.

Day after tomorrow. Just a short trip.

The three dots appear. Pause. Then—

Let me know when you land. I’ll see you.

Mikha stares.

Re-reads.

And something settles in her chest.

Because Aiah doesn’t owe her time.

Aiah doesn’t owe her anything.

But she’s making space.

For her.

And Mikha thinks that maybe—just maybe—she’s been waiting for this all along.

Aiah doesn’t think about it.

Or at least, she tells herself she doesn’t.

She moves through her schedule as usual—photoshoots, rehearsals, script readings. Smiles when she’s supposed to, laughs at the right moments, keeps her focus sharp.

But then there are the in-betweens.

The moments where her mind drifts.

Where she checks her phone more often than necessary. Where she wonders if Mikha has landed yet, if she’s already in the city, if she’s looking out the car window and seeing the same skyline Aiah grew up with.

She wonders what it will be like.

Seeing Mikha here, in this world of flashing cameras and curated images, in a city that moves too fast, too loud, too much.

The thought unsettles her.

Not because she doesn’t want to see Mikha.

But because Mikha belongs to the quiet.

To slow mornings and warm coffee, to laughter that doesn’t need to be filtered through the lens of what it means to the public.

What happens when they meet here?

When the island isn’t wrapped around them like a safety net?

Aiah exhales, running a hand through her hair.

She doesn’t know.

But she’s already waiting.

And that’s enough of an answer.

Mikha doesn’t think about it either.

At least, she tries not to.

She’s busy—packing, reminding her siblings to pack everything they need, fielding messages from relatives who expect her to bring back local delicacies they refuse to buy themselves.

But the moment she steps onto the plane—

It’s real.

She’s going.

And Aiah is there.

The thought sits heavy in her chest.

Because this isn’t Limasawa.

This isn’t the storm-touched island that slowed everything down, that pulled them into something safe, something untouched by the outside world.

This is Aiah’s world.

Bright lights. Headlines. Eyes watching, always watching.

Mikha exhales, pressing her fingers against her temple.

She doesn’t belong there.

She knows she doesn’t.

And yet—

She’s still on this flight.

Still stepping forward.

Still choosing to go.

And that has to mean something.

The airport is busy.

Loud. Fast-moving. A sea of people, of arrivals and departures, of lives brushing past each other without stopping.

Aiah stands near the exit, sunglasses low on her nose, cap pulled down just enough to be inconspicuous but not suspicious. She could’ve sent a driver. Could’ve sent someone else to meet Mikha.

But she’s here.

Because it’s Mikha.

Because, for some reason, waiting here feels right.

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag as the latest round of passengers start coming through. Her eyes scan the crowd, barely aware of the movement around her.

Then—

A familiar flash of red hair.

Aiah stills.

And then, suddenly, there’s no one else.

Just Mikha, stepping through the gate, bag slung over her shoulder, scanning the crowd like she isn’t even sure what she’s looking for.

Until their eyes meet.

The world slows.

Aiah swallows, something catching in her throat.

Mikha hesitates for only half a second—just long enough for Aiah to see it, to recognize the quiet weight behind her eyes.

Then—

A breath.

A step.

And suddenly, Mikha is there, standing in front of her, the hum of the city fading into something distant, something unimportant.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then, finally—

“You’re actually here,” Aiah says, voice softer than she expected.

Mikha exhales, a small, lopsided smile tugging at her lips. “I’m here.”

Aiah bites the inside of her cheek.

There’s so much unsaid between them, so much wrapped in the way they look at each other now—like the storm never ended, like the waves never truly let them go.

But here, in the middle of an airport, in a city that doesn’t stop moving—

There’s only one thing that matters.

“You hungry?” Aiah asks.

Mikha chuckles, eyes warm. “Always.”

Aiah nods, something settling inside her.

“Come on, then,” she murmurs, turning toward the exit.

The restaurant is quiet.

Not empty, but intimate—a dimly lit corner of the city where no one looks twice, where conversations blend into soft background noise, where no flashing cameras lurk outside the windows.

Aiah chose it carefully.

She doesn’t take Mikha somewhere extravagant, somewhere showy.

Instead, she takes her here.

Somewhere warm. Somewhere small. Somewhere that feels a little like Limasawa, even in the middle of the city.

Mikha takes it in as they settle into their seats, glancing around before arching a brow. “Fancy.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh. “Hardly.”

Mikha smirks, pulling the menu toward her. “I was expecting a street food stall, maybe a late-night tapsihan.”

Aiah tilts her head. “I can take you there instead.”

Mikha hums. “Nah, this is good. Feels like a secret.”

Something about the way she says it makes Aiah pause.

Because it is a secret.

This—them—whatever this is, whatever they’re doing—

It doesn’t belong to the world outside this table.

And somehow, that makes it easier.

The server comes, takes their orders, leaves them alone again.

For a while, there’s only the quiet shuffle of plates, the clinking of glasses, the comfort of existing in the same space again.

Then—

“You really tried to look for me?”

Aiah blinks, looking up.

Mikha isn’t teasing. She’s just asking, eyes steady, waiting.

Aiah swallows.

“Yeah,” she admits. “I did.”

Mikha tilts her head. “Why?”

Aiah exhales, fingers curling around the stem of her glass.

She doesn’t have a perfect answer.

Only that the silence after she left had felt wrong.

Only that she kept looking for traces of Mikha, only to find nothing.

Only that when Mikha sent that message, it had felt like relief.

Like something she hadn’t realized she was waiting for.

Aiah shifts, glancing down at her drink. “I guess I just… didn’t want to let it go so easily.”

Mikha doesn’t respond immediately.

But when Aiah looks up again, there’s something softer in her gaze.

Something that lingers.

Something that says, Me too.

The food arrives, but neither of them moves to eat right away.

It’s not tense, not exactly—but the space between them holds something.

Something unspoken.

Something waiting.

Aiah exhales, tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip. “So… why’d you message me?”

Mikha tilts her head. “I told you. I was going to be in the city.”

Aiah hums, searching her expression. “That’s all?”

Mikha doesn’t look away. “Do you want the truth?”

Aiah swallows. “Yeah.”

Mikha leans back, exhaling. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

The words settle between them, weighty but effortless, like they were always meant to be spoken.

Aiah grips her glass a little tighter.

Mikha shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing. “I don’t know what that means yet, but I know it’s true. And I figured, if I was going to be here anyway…” She pauses, then adds, softer, “I wanted to see you.”

Aiah bites the inside of her cheek.

Because she hasn’t stopped thinking about Mikha either.

Because Mikha has been everywhere—in her morning coffee, in the way she watches the waves on screen sets, in the quiet moments in between.

She exhales. “You know this… isn’t easy, right?”

Mikha nods. “I know.”

“The scrutiny, the way people watch—”

“I know, Aiah.”

Aiah looks at her, eyes searching. “And you’re okay with that?”

Mikha doesn’t answer immediately. She lets the question sit, lets it breathe.

Then—

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know what it means to be in your world. I don’t know how to be looked at like that. But…” She pauses, eyes steady. “I know that I don’t want to pretend that none of this happened. That we didn’t happen.”

Aiah exhales, something tight pressing into her chest.

Because this is real.

Because Mikha isn’t offering false assurances, isn’t telling her what she wants to hear.

She’s just choosing this.

Despite everything.

Despite the uncertainty.

And Aiah—

Aiah thinks she might be choosing it, too.

She doesn’t know who says it first.

Maybe it’s Mikha, in the way her fingers trace the condensation on her glass, in the way she exhales like she’s steadying herself before the fall.

Maybe it’s Aiah, in the way she leans in, in the way her voice doesn’t shake when she finally speaks.

Or maybe it isn’t said at all—maybe it’s just there, in the quiet space between them, in the way their eyes meet and hold, in the way neither of them is trying to find a way out.

Still, Aiah says it anyway.

“Okay.”

Mikha blinks. “Okay?”

Aiah swallows. “Let’s do this.”

She doesn’t say despite everything.

She doesn’t say even though it might break us.

Because Mikha already knows.

She knew from the start, from the first time she realized Aiah wasn’t just a passing moment, wasn’t just a girl who walked into her cafe one rainy night.

Mikha watches her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then, softly—

“You sure?”

Aiah exhales, something solid settling in her chest.

“No,” she admits. “But I want to try.”

Mikha tilts her head. “Even if it gets hard?”

Aiah nods. “Even then.”

Mikha watches her a second longer, as if searching for doubt, hesitation.

She doesn’t find any.

And maybe that’s what makes her smile—small, but real, something like relief tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Okay,” Mikha murmurs, the word sitting heavy between them.

Aiah lets it settle.

Lets it mean something.

Because this isn’t easy.

This isn’t simple.

But it’s theirs.

And right now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “You sure about this?”

Aiah gives her a look, already setting Mikha’s bag down near the couch. “You literally don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Mikha hums, looking around.

Aiah’s apartment is her.

Minimal but lived-in, sleek but comfortable. A space that belongs to someone who has spent most of her life in motion but still found small ways to make something hers.

It’s not large, not extravagant, but the city skyline glows through the windows, and the air smells faintly of something warm—coffee and vanilla, maybe.

Mikha takes it all in, the quiet intimacy of being here, in Aiah’s space.

Then—

She smirks. “So you’re saying you want me here?”

Aiah huffs, crossing her arms. “I’m saying you should stay here until your siblings arrive.”

Mikha grins. “Right. Temporary housing. Got it.”

Aiah sighs, shaking her head, but there’s something softer in her expression.

Because this does feel right.

Because after everything—after the airport, after dinner, after the weight of choosing each other—the idea of letting Mikha leave tonight feels… wrong.

She clears her throat. “I’ll get you some fresh towels.”

Mikha watches her disappear down the hall.

And for the first time since stepping into Aiah’s world, she lets herself be here.

The apartment is still.

Soft lamp glow, the faint hum of the city outside. Aiah moves through the space like she always does, but something feels different.

Maybe it’s because Mikha is here, sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing an oversized hoodie she stole from her bag, watching Aiah move like she’s memorizing this—like she knows she shouldn’t be here but is anyway.

Aiah hands her a mug. “Tea.”

Mikha smirks, accepting it. “You sure this isn’t just hot water?”

Aiah rolls her eyes, tucking her legs under her as she sits beside Mikha. “I can make tea.”

Mikha takes a sip, raising an eyebrow.

Aiah sighs. “Okay, Yaya taught me how to make tea.”

Mikha chuckles, setting the mug down on the coffee table. “Fair enough.”

For a while, that’s it.

Just the quiet, just the weight of being here, just the occasional glance exchanged over the rim of their mugs.

Then—

“What’s it really like?” Mikha asks, voice softer now.

Aiah glances at her. “What?”

Mikha tilts her head. “Being you. Being Aiah Arceta to everyone.”

Aiah exhales, setting her mug down beside Mikha’s. She leans back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle patterns against the fabric of her sweatpants.

“You ever feel like… you’re two different people?” she asks.

Mikha hums, considering. “Not really. I mean, I’ve changed. But I don’t think I’ve ever had to be someone else.”

Aiah nods, as if she expected that. “I have.”

Mikha watches her. Waits.

Aiah breathes in slowly, choosing her words.

“The version of me that people love—that’s not me.” Her voice is quiet, steady. “It’s… a character. A name on billboards. A face that people recognize, but don’t know.”

Mikha stays silent, letting her speak.

Aiah swallows. “And the worst part is… after a while, I stopped knowing which one was real.”

Mikha’s gaze softens. “Aiah—”

“I mean it,” Aiah murmurs, turning her head to look at her. “I’ve spent so long being what people expect that sometimes I don’t know if there’s anything left that’s just mine.”

The words sit heavy between them.

Mikha doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

She just reaches forward, carefully, resting a warm hand over Aiah’s.

Aiah glances down at their hands.

Mikha squeezes once.

Then—

“You’re real to me,” she says simply.

Aiah exhales, something tight in her chest loosening.

Because Mikha isn’t looking at Aiah Arceta, celebrity.

She’s just looking at her.

And for the first time in a long time, Aiah thinks that maybe that’s enough.

The apartment is still again, only the faint sounds of the city slipping through the windows.

Aiah lies back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, fingers tapping idly on the blanket. Mikha is beside her, her body warm and solid, but the space between them feels different now.

It feels… right.

For a while, neither of them speaks. The weight of the conversation still lingers in the air, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just there, hanging quietly like a soft hum.

Aiah shifts, her body craving something—something she hasn’t realized she needed until now. She turns her head slowly, looking at Mikha, who’s staring back at her.

The soft light from the lamp pools around them, catching on the edges of Mikha’s hair, her eyes just as soft, just as steady.

“Mikha…” Aiah says, voice barely above a whisper.

Mikha raises an eyebrow, still not moving. “Yeah?”

Aiah hesitates.

“I—” she starts, but the words feel too big, too overwhelming.

Mikha waits, not rushing her.

Aiah finally exhales, feeling the weight of it all settle into her chest. “I think I just… want you close.”

Mikha’s gaze softens, understanding the quiet ache in Aiah’s voice. She shifts, moving closer, just a few inches, but enough for their legs to touch.

Aiah still doesn’t know why, but she shifts again, closer this time, until she’s right next to Mikha, feeling the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her breath.

For a long moment, neither of them says anything. They just lie there, the world outside still rushing, but in this small space between them, it’s just quiet.

Then, finally—

Mikha reaches out.

Not to hold, not to touch.

Just… to feel.

Her hand gently rests on Aiah’s waist, and that simple gesture feels like the world shifting.

Aiah’s breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she inches closer, her body now molding to Mikha’s.

And in that quiet space—

They hold each other.

Like they’ve long wanted this.

The night stretches on, but the space between them shrinks now, as if everything that needed to be said has already been spoken.

Aiah and Mikha remain close, still holding each other, like the world outside is too loud, too fast, and they just want to stay here.

Their fingers now lace together, a slow, steady press of warmth. Aiah’s breath is soft against Mikha’s neck, the quiet of the apartment swallowing them whole.

But after a while—

Mikha shifts.

The movement is slight, just enough for their gazes to meet. There’s a question in her eyes, something that lingers, unspoken.

“You ever thought about how this is going to work?” Mikha asks, voice low, quiet.

Aiah hums softly, her fingers tracing circles on Mikha’s chest. “We just… do it, right?”

Mikha chuckles, but it’s gentle, more like a sigh. “I don’t know, Aiah. We’ve been careful for so long, always stepping around what this is.” She shifts, leaning her forehead against Aiah’s. “You think we just—let it happen?”

Aiah’s chest tightens. The words feel too big again, but they have to be said.

“I don’t think there’s a ‘just’ about it,” she admits, her voice catching for a brief moment. “This is us, Mikha. And maybe we don’t have all the answers, but I don’t want to let it go either.”

Mikha’s gaze softens. “Yeah.” She hesitates, like the weight of it is settling in her chest too. “But what happens when it gets hard?”

Aiah exhales, pulling Mikha a little closer, like the warmth will make the question fade away. But she knows it won’t.

“We fight through it,” she says, more certain than she feels. “We choose each other. Even when it’s hard.”

Mikha shifts again, her hand sliding to the back of Aiah’s neck, her thumb brushing over her skin. “And when people look at us?”

“Let them look,” Aiah says softly, the weight of it settling between them. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Mikha leans in, pressing a kiss to Aiah’s forehead. It’s soft, full of promise. Full of something real.

For a long time, they don’t say anything again. Just hold each other, letting the silence fill the space.

Neither of them pulls away, not yet. Because if they do—

Maybe it’ll all disappear.

And they don’t want that.

Not now.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Aiah wakes up to an empty space beside her.

At first, it’s quiet—too quiet. She blinks, disoriented, her body reaching instinctively for Mikha, only to find the side of the bed cold, untouched.

Panic flares in her chest, quick and sharp, a cold knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

Where is she?

For a moment, Aiah just lies there, frozen, the room spinning slightly as her thoughts race ahead of her. Maybe Mikha—maybe she changed her mind. Maybe it was all too fast. Maybe—

A soft sound from the kitchen cuts through the rising panic.

Aiah blinks, sitting up too quickly, the sheets falling away.

She listens again, the sound of a pan sizzling, faint humming, the familiar warmth of someone living in the space beside her.

Aiah exhales, letting the tension in her chest ease for the moment. She stands up, her bare feet hitting the cool floor, and quietly walks toward the kitchen.

And there—

Mikha is standing by the stove, flipping eggs, her hair pulled back loosely, looking like she belongs in this space. Like she’s always been here.

Aiah just watches her for a second, the relief almost too much.

But Mikha feels her presence before she sees her. She turns slightly, catching Aiah’s gaze.

For a second, their eyes meet.

And then Mikha sees it.

The brief panic that still lingers in Aiah’s eyes, the shadow of doubt that she’s trying to hide.

Mikha doesn’t need to ask. She steps toward Aiah, pulling her gently into her arms.

No words.

Just a steady, quiet embrace.

Aiah feels Mikha’s warmth envelop her, feels the steady beat of her heart beneath her ear.

This is real.

Mikha holds her tighter, as if she knows exactly what Aiah needs—no promises, no grand gestures. Just the quiet assurance that this is true, that she is here.

And Aiah lets herself breathe again.

For the first time in what feels like forever, she lets herself believe it.

The evening settles softly into the apartment again, the city lights casting a gentle glow through the windows. Aiah leans back against the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, watching Mikha move around the kitchen.

It’s a different kind of rhythm—calm, comforting, a gentle hum that fills the space without overwhelming it.

Mikha hums quietly to herself, stirring something in a pot, her back to Aiah. The sound of sizzling food fills the air. She glances over her shoulder, catching Aiah’s gaze.

“Need help?” Aiah asks, already standing, ready to join her.

Mikha smiles, a warm, easy smile that doesn’t ask for anything. “You’re perfect just where you are,” she replies, her voice light but sincere.

Aiah pauses, a soft flutter in her chest at the simplicity of it all. She moves back to the couch, her hands tracing the edge of the pillow in her lap.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of cooking, the steady rhythm of Mikha’s movements in the kitchen. Aiah watches her, the faint flicker of the stovetop reflecting in Mikha’s eyes.

Then, after a few moments, Mikha speaks, her voice lower, like she’s finally ready to say something she’s been holding onto.

“You ever think about the future?”

Aiah glances up, not surprised by the question, but surprised at how open it feels, how much it means that Mikha is asking.

“Future?” Aiah repeats softly, like the word is unfamiliar. “What do you mean?”

Mikha moves to the counter, plating the food. “I mean… us. This.” She looks back at Aiah, eyes searching for something. “Do you ever think about how it’ll look when… you know, we have to share this with the world?”

Aiah exhales, unsure of what to say. The thought had crossed her mind—more times than she cared to admit—but it was a thought that never had a solid shape, always blurry, always just out of reach.

“I’ve never thought much about how it would look,” Aiah finally says. “I mean, we could just keep it between us. But…” She trails off, looking at Mikha. “I guess, no matter what, people will find out eventually.”

Mikha nods, turning back to finish the meal. “Yeah. And maybe it’ll be hard. People won’t understand.”

Aiah shifts on the couch, not sure how to say what’s in her heart. “But we’re here, Mikha. We’re here now.” She says it softly, like she’s grounding herself in the truth of it. “And I think that matters more than anything else.”

Mikha turns back to face her, her smile a little more tender. “Yeah. You’re right.”

The conversation lingers for a while, wrapped in the quiet of the room, the soft glow of the apartment, the comfort of simply being together.

When dinner is ready, Mikha sets the plates in front of Aiah, sitting down beside her. The food is simple, but it tastes like home, warm and familiar. They eat in silence, the weight of the day easing into the night.

After they’re finished, Aiah leans back against the couch, feeling the tiredness from the day settle into her bones. Mikha joins her, stretching out beside her.

The conversation from earlier still hangs between them, but it doesn’t feel like something they need to solve just yet.

For now, there’s just the quiet.

Just the space they’ve carved out together, the knowledge that—whatever happens next—this moment is theirs.

And for now, that’s enough.

Morning comes slower this time.

Aiah wakes up to the steady hum of the city outside, the faint warmth of the sun filtering through the curtains.

For a few seconds, she stays still, wrapped in the soft haze of last night—of whispered truths, of warmth pressed against warmth, of choosing each other.

But then—

Her phone vibrates.

It’s nothing at first. A soft buzz against the bedside table, too easy to ignore.

Then another. And another.

Aiah groans, rolling over, reaching for it blindly. She blinks against the screen, her vision adjusting as the words start to take shape.

Missed Calls – Manager
Missed Calls – PR Team
New Message – Manager
New Message – Carlos

Her stomach twists.

Before she can even process it, another call flashes on the screen.

This time, she answers.

“Aiah.” Her manager’s voice is tight, urgent. “Where are you?”

Aiah swallows, sitting up slightly. “I—”

“You missed the meeting this morning. Press is running with new rumors, and we need to get ahead of them.”

She rubs a hand over her face. “What rumors?”

A pause. Then—

“People are talking, Aiah. They’re wondering why you’ve been glowing lately. Why you disappeared for a while. If it has something to do with—”

Aiah exhales sharply. “With him, you mean?”

Her manager hesitates. “It’s more than that this time. There are new photos circulating. We don’t know who, but they think you might be seeing someone.”

Aiah’s pulse stutters.

Her fingers tighten around the blanket. “There are photos?”

Her manager sighs. “Nothing concrete. Just speculation. But we need to be careful, Aiah. If there’s something we need to control, you have to tell me.”

Aiah glances toward the doorway.

Mikha is in the kitchen again, unaware of the conversation happening in the next room, completely untouched by the chaos creeping in.

Aiah swallows, her throat dry.

“I have to go,” she mutters, ending the call before she can hear another word.

She exhales, pressing the phone against her forehead.

So this is it.

This is what it will be like.

No matter how careful they are, no matter how much she wants to keep this theirs—

The world will always be watching.

And Aiah—

Aiah isn’t sure she’s ready for that.

Aiah carries it with her.

The weight of it. The knowing. The inevitability.

She moves through the day like normal—or at least, she tries to. She eats the breakfast Mikha made, she listens to her talk about the cafe, about her siblings arriving soon. She nods at the right times, smiles when she should.

But inside—

Inside, it festers.

Because she knows how this goes.

She’s seen it before—love stories torn apart by speculation, by narratives that aren’t theirs to tell. She’s seen people become ruined by the very same hands that once held them up.

And she can’t let that happen to Mikha.

She won’t.

Not now. Not ever.

So she keeps it inside.

Locks it away, tucks it beneath her ribs, hides it where no one can reach.

But Mikha—

Mikha sees everything.

“You’re quiet,” Mikha says, drying the last of the dishes, watching Aiah from across the counter. “More than usual.”

Aiah blinks, pulled from her thoughts. “What?”

Mikha tilts her head. “Something’s wrong.” It’s not a question.

Aiah swallows, looks away. “Just tired.”

Mikha doesn’t call her out on the lie, doesn’t push.

Instead, she sets the towel down and moves closer, leaning against the counter beside Aiah. “You’re always tired,” she murmurs, voice softer now, more careful. “But this is different.”

Aiah exhales, her grip tightening around her glass.

She doesn’t know how to say it.

How to explain that this thing between them—this small, precious thing—is already at risk. That people are already talking, already looking, and she doesn’t know how to keep it safe.

That she doesn’t know how to keep Mikha safe.

So she says nothing.

And Mikha, perceptive as always, doesn’t push.

She just—

She just reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over Aiah’s. A silent reassurance, a quiet reminder that she’s here.

And Aiah—

Aiah holds onto that.

Holds onto her.

Because if there’s one thing she can’t let the world take from her—

It’s Mikha.

Mikha doesn’t ask again.

She doesn’t press, doesn’t demand answers that Aiah isn’t ready to give.

But she doesn’t leave her alone in it, either.

Instead, she moves carefully—pulling Aiah into the present, grounding her in the way she knows how.

She nudges Aiah’s foot under the table at lunch, playful, familiar.

She lets their fingers brush when she hands Aiah her mug, lingering just a second too long.

She hums while she tidies up the apartment, not loud, not intrusive—just there, a constant, a presence Aiah can lean into without asking.

But Aiah—

Aiah is still somewhere else.

Still holding something tight in her chest, still carrying the weight of something unspoken.

And Mikha—

Mikha hates seeing her like this.

So she does the only thing she can.

That night, as Aiah sits on the couch, curled into herself, lost in thought, Mikha wordlessly takes her hand.

Aiah blinks, startled by the warmth. “Mikha—”

But Mikha is already tugging her up, already leading her to the small space in front of the window, where the city lights flicker like stars.

Mikha doesn’t say anything.

She just takes Aiah’s arms, gently places them around her own shoulders, and then—

She holds her.

Aiah exhales sharply, as if something inside her is cracking open, as if she’s been waiting for this without even knowing it.

Mikha presses a hand against the small of Aiah’s back, warm, steady.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Mikha murmurs against Aiah’s hair. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Aiah squeezes her eyes shut, tightening her grip around Mikha.

For a long time, they just stand there, wrapped in the quiet, wrapped in each other.

And maybe—

Maybe that’s all Aiah needs right now.

She stays in Mikha’s arms, forehead resting against her shoulder, breathing in the quiet, breathing in her.

And maybe that’s why it finally slips out.

Maybe that’s why she finally says it.

“They know,” Aiah murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mikha stills, but only for a second. “Who?”

“The press. The public. They don’t know know, but they’re guessing.” Aiah exhales shakily. “They think I’m seeing someone. There are… photos. Rumors. It’s only a matter of time before they start digging.”

Mikha is silent for a beat. Not tense, not worried—just listening.

Then—

“…Okay.”

Aiah pulls back slightly, searching Mikha’s face. “Okay?”

Mikha shrugs, her expression open, unreadable. “Yeah.”

Aiah blinks. “Mikha, this isn’t just—” She swallows, trying to find the right words. “This isn’t just chismis people will forget in a week. If they find out about you—if they figure us out—”

Mikha tilts her head. “What?”

Aiah exhales sharply. “They’ll come after you. People will talk. They’ll pick you apart, twist everything. They’ll turn this into something ugly, something it’s not.” Her voice is strained, tight with something close to desperation. “And I can’t let that happen to you.”

Mikha studies her for a long moment.

Then—

She huffs out a soft laugh.

Aiah stares at her, incredulous. “Mikha—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mikha says, shaking her head. “I know this is serious. I get that it’s a big deal. But Aiah…” She steps closer, eyes steady, voice calm. “You’re acting like the whole world has the power to take me away from you.”

Aiah swallows. “Don’t they?”

Mikha exhales, reaching for her hand. “No, Aiah.” Her grip is firm, grounding. “No amount of scandals, or rumors, or headlines could make me walk away from you.” She squeezes gently. “Not now. Not ever.”

Aiah stares at her, something inside her cracking wide open.

Mikha says it like it’s simple. Like it’s fact.

And maybe to her, it is.

Aiah doesn’t know how to respond to that.

So instead, she lets out a shaky breath, closes her eyes, and holds on.

She doesn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not when Mikha’s words are still settling into her bones, still stitching themselves into the cracks inside her.

No amount of scandals, or rumors, or headlines could make me walk away from you.

Mikha says it like it’s obvious, like it’s not even a question.

And Aiah doesn’t know if it’s the way Mikha holds her, firm and steady, or the way her voice never wavers when she says it.

But she believes her.

She believes that Mikha is here, that she won’t just disappear when the weight of the world comes crashing down.

But still—

Still, Aiah knows that her world is relentless.

That love, when it’s public, when it’s exposed, rarely survives unscathed.

She knows what happens when people start looking.

And if there’s one thing she can’t let happen—

It’s letting them get to Mikha.

She exhales, pressing her forehead against Mikha’s shoulder. “I just don’t want to lose this.”

Mikha shifts slightly, just enough to hold her closer, as if she knows Aiah isn’t just talking about the moment.

“You won’t,” Mikha murmurs, like it’s that simple.

Aiah squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to believe it.

To hold onto it.

Even as the weight of reality lingers in the back of her mind.

Even as she knows she’ll still have to do everything in her power to keep Mikha safe.

Because love, real love, it doesn’t get to exist untouched.

But for now, in this moment, in Mikha’s arms, Aiah lets herself believe it can.

Even just for a little while.

Chapter Text

The night stretches slow.

Neither of them says it out loud, but they both feel it—the weight of tomorrow, the inevitable pull of separate lives, the knowledge that come morning, Mikha won’t be here.

But for now, she is.

And Aiah isn’t ready to let go just yet.

They lie in bed, facing each other, the city lights filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across their skin.

Mikha’s hand rests between them, palm up, an unspoken invitation.

Aiah reaches for it, her fingers tracing the lines of Mikha’s palm before lacing their hands together.

“You leave tomorrow,” Aiah says, voice barely above a whisper.

Mikha hums. “Yeah.”

Silence settles between them, but it isn’t heavy.

It’s careful.

Aiah watches the way the dim light catches in Mikha’s eyes, the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something but decides against it.

Instead, Mikha just looks at her.

And Aiah—

Aiah can’t help herself.

She leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Mikha’s lips—slow, unhurried, like she’s trying to memorize the way this feels.

Mikha exhales against her, her fingers tightening around Aiah’s as she kisses back just as softly, just as completely.

When they part, Mikha doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she leans her forehead against Aiah’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet.

“It’s not goodbye, you know,” Mikha murmurs.

Aiah swallows, closing her eyes. “I know.”

And she does.

But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

So she presses closer, burying herself in the warmth of Mikha’s arms, letting herself be held for a little longer.

Because when morning comes, Mikha will go.

And Aiah will be left holding the space she leaves behind.

The island air feels different this time.

Mikha exhales as she steps off the boat, the familiar warmth of Limasawa settling into her skin. The wind is thick with the scent of salt and earth, the sky stretching vast and open above them.

Her siblings chatter beside her—excited, teasing, already making plans for the days ahead. But Mikha—

Mikha isn’t fully here yet.

Not really.

Because even as she moves through the familiar, even as she greets the vendors at the dock and takes in the slow rhythm of home—

Aiah is still with her.

In the way she reaches for her phone instinctively, only to stop herself.

In the way she lingers just a second too long before stepping away from the boat, like she’s expecting someone to call her back.

In the way she catches herself looking at the sea and thinking, I wish she could see this now.

She exhales, shaking her head slightly. You’re getting ridiculous, Mikha.

The boat crew calls out their goodbyes, and Mikha waves back, leading her siblings toward the cafe.

It’s strange, settling back into this version of herself—the one who wakes up with the sunrise, who moves through the island like it’s an extension of her body, who doesn’t have to think about press releases or rumors or the weight of someone else’s world.

And yet, she still finds herself reaching for Aiah.

She still finds herself wondering what she’s doing, if she’s had coffee yet, if she’s carrying the weight of the morning the way she carried it that night, pressed tight against Mikha’s chest.

Her younger brother elbows her playfully as they walk. “You’re weirdly quiet.”

Mikha huffs out a laugh, ruffling his hair. “I think I forgot how loud you two are.”

Her  younger sister smirks. “You sure that’s all it is?”

Mikha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go eat.”

They move through the streets, the island welcoming them home with its steady, unchanging rhythm.

But Mikha knows she’s not the same as when she left.

And it has everything to do with the girl she left behind.

Mikha stirs the last of her coffee, the scent of warm bread and fried eggs filling the cafe as her siblings chatter around her.

Breakfast feels familiar—plates scraping, voices overlapping, the low hum of conversation weaving through the space.

But even as she listens, even as she laughs at her brother’s exaggerated story about their boat ride back yesterday, something in her chest feels off-balance.

And then—

Her phone vibrates.

Mikha glances down.

Aiah: Back in Limasawa already?

Her heart does something weird.

Before she can even process it, another message pops up.

Aiah: How are your siblings? Settling in okay?

Mikha bites the inside of her cheek, trying very hard not to smile too obviously.

“Who’s that?” her sister teases, leaning in.

Mikha angles her phone away, rolling her eyes. “None of your business.”

Her sister smirks. “It’s the business part that makes it my business.”

Mikha sighs, shaking her head as she types out a reply.

Mikha: Yeah, back just before sunset yesterday. My siblings are loud, but they’re happy. How’s the city?

She presses send and tries not to overthink it.

But it’s Aiah.

And somehow, the sight of her name on Mikha’s screen makes something settle inside her.

Like maybe the distance isn’t so bad after all.

Mikha doesn’t have to wait long before her phone vibrates again.

Aiah: The city is still loud. Too fast. I already miss the slow mornings there.

Mikha smirks, lifting her mug to her lips as she types back.

Mikha: So you’re saying you miss me?

A few seconds pass.

Then—

Aiah: I said I miss the slow mornings.

Mikha: Yeah, and who gave you those slow mornings?

She can practically hear Aiah’s sigh from across the miles.

Aiah: You’re insufferable.

Mikha grins, stretching her legs under the table.

Mikha: And yet, here you are, texting me first.

She doesn’t expect a response right away, knowing Aiah is probably between schedules, juggling calls and scripts and whatever else her life demands.

But then—

Aiah: Shut up.

Mikha huffs out a laugh, shaking her head.

Mikha: That’s not a denial.

Aiah: Go back to your siblings.

Mikha: Go back to being famous.

A pause.

Then, finally—

Aiah: I’ll text you later.

And somehow, that’s enough.

Mikha locks her phone, leaning back in her chair, feeling lighter.

Like even though they’re in two different worlds, they’re still here, still themselves, still them.

The cafe is alive today.

Mikha barely has time to think, moving between tables, checking orders, greeting locals and tourists alike. The island air is warm, the scent of fresh coffee and baked bread wrapping around her as she navigates the familiar rhythm of the day.

Her siblings, of course, are zero help.

Her brother is leaning against the counter, snacking on piyaya like he has nowhere else to be, while her sister scrolls through her phone, occasionally lifting her gaze to make a half-hearted attempt at wiping tables.

Mikha narrows her eyes. “If you two are going to loiter, at least make yourselves useful.”

Her brother smirks. “We are useful. We’re providing moral support.”

Her sister grins. “And quality control.” She holds up her half-eaten pastry. “This one? Delicious.”

Mikha groans, throwing a dish towel at them. “Get out of my cafe.”

They laugh but don’t move, and Mikha shakes her head, exhaling as she returns to work.

It’s good, being busy.

The constant movement, the sound of milk steaming, the low hum of conversation—it keeps her grounded.

But in the in-between moments—

When she’s pouring coffee, when she’s wiping down counters, when she’s leaning against the bar for a breath—

She catches herself thinking about Aiah.

Not in a way that aches. Not in a way that hurts.

Just in a way that lingers.

She wonders if Aiah is eating properly. If she’s caught in back-to-back meetings again. If she’s looking at her phone, thinking about texting but getting pulled into something else.

And she wonders—

If Aiah thinks of her like this, too.

She exhales, shaking off the thought just as the bell above the cafe door jingles again, pulling her back into the moment.

Back into the life she knows.

Even if, lately it doesn’t feel quite as whole without Aiah in it.

Mikha doesn’t mean to tune in.

It just… happens.

She’s in the back of the cafe, restocking supplies, when her sister—who has been glued to her phone all afternoon—suddenly perks up.

“Ate,” she calls, grinning. “Guess who’s live on air right now?”

Mikha already knows before she even looks.

Still, she rolls her eyes, feigning indifference. “I don’t know. The President?”

Her sister scoffs. “Close. Your friend from the airport.”

Mikha shakes her head, but before she can protest, her sister tilts the phone screen toward her.

And there—

Aiah.

Poised but relaxed, answering questions with an ease that’s so natural, so hers, that it momentarily knocks the breath out of Mikha.

She shouldn’t be this affected, really.

But she is.

“…been listening to anything new lately?” the host asks, pulling her attention back to the interview.

Aiah hums, tilting her head in thought. “Hmm. Not new, but I’ve been revisiting an old favorite.”

Mikha stills.

“I don’t know if people know this, but Magnets by Colet Vergara?” Aiah continues, smiling slightly. “That song never gets old for me.”

Mikha’s heart stumbles.

Her sister glances at her, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t Colet—”

“Shh,” Mikha mutters, eyes still on the screen.

“Your comfort food lately?”

Aiah exhales in thought, then, without missing a beat—

“Bibingka paired with hot chocolate.”

Mikha knows she means the island. Knows she means her.

The questions continue—favorite childhood movie, favorite pastimes—but Mikha barely registers them, her mind still catching up.

Then—

“Of course, we have to talk about the latest buzz.” The host leans forward, smirking. “People are saying you might be dating someone. Anything you want to share?”

Mikha freezes.

The cafe noise fades into the background, the moment stretching.

Aiah doesn’t hesitate.

She doesn’t confirm, doesn’t deny.

She just—

Smiles.

Not the press-trained, picture-perfect smile she gives the world.

No.

The soft one.

The one that’s reserved for her.

“I think…” Aiah starts, voice calm, sure.

“…my heart is happy.”

Mikha doesn’t breathe.

Her sister gapes. “Wait—did she just—”

Mikha swallows, feeling something settle—warm, grounding, real.

Because no one else would know.

No one else would understand what that smile means.

But Mikha does.

And that’s enough.

That’s more than enough.

Mikha is grinning.

Not just smiling—full-on, ear-to-ear grinning.

And she knows it.

Knows it as she moves around the cafe, greeting customers with an extra bit of enthusiasm, as she effortlessly jokes with the vendors who pass by to drop off supplies.

Knows it when she hums to herself while making coffee, when she wipes down the counter with an unusual amount of gusto.

Knows it when her sister, perched near the register, squints at her like she’s figuring something out.

“You’re in a good mood,” her sister finally says, tilting her head.

Mikha lifts an eyebrow. “Am I not usually?”

“You are,” her sister concedes, narrowing her eyes. “But this is different.”

Mikha shrugs, feigning innocence. “Maybe I just love my job.”

Her sister snorts. “You love coffee, Ate. The job part is questionable.”

Mikha just grins wider.

And that’s when her sister’s eyes sharpen.

Like she knows.

Like she’s putting something together.

Mikha keeps her expression even, but she knows she’s already lost.

“So…” her sister drawls, leaning her elbows on the counter. “Any reason you’re acting like you won the lottery today?”

“Nope,” Mikha says, a little too quickly.

Her sister’s grin turns wicked. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain friend being on TV this morning, would it?”

Mikha almost fumbles the cup in her hand.

Her sister gasps, pointing. “AHA!”

Mikha glares. “I hate you.”

Her sister cackles. “YOU’RE BLUSHING—”

“Get out of my cafe.”

“I LIVE HERE.”

“Go be someone else’s problem.”

Her sister just grins, wiggling her eyebrows. “Fine. But just so you know—you’re so obvious, Ate.”

Mikha groans, dragging a hand down her face as her sister skips away, smug.

And okay.

Maybe she is obvious.

Maybe she is carrying Aiah’s words like a quiet, steady kind of joy.

Maybe she doesn’t even mind.

Because if there’s one thing she’s certain of—

It’s that she’ll carry Aiah for as long as she’ll let her.

Chapter Text

Aiah wakes up to chaos.

Not the end-of-the-world kind, not the scandal kind, but the headlines everywhere, fans speculating, social media buzzing kind.

She should have expected it.

But somehow, seeing her own name plastered across news sites, Twitter trends, and entertainment segments still feels like a whiplash.

Aiah Arceta Confirms Romance?!
Who Is Making Aiah’s Heart Happy?
Aiah's Mysterious Smile: New Love or Just Clever PR?

Aiah groans, slumping back against her pillow.

The worst part?

Her phone is blowing up.

The second worst part?

She knows exactly who is about to make this ten times worse.

And right on cue—

Stacey [47 Missed Calls]
New Message – Stacey: ANSWER ME YOU SECRETIVE BRAT.

Aiah sighs, rubbing her face before finally calling back.

The second Stacey picks up, she screeches.

“WHAT WAS THAT, AIAH?!”

Aiah winces, holding the phone away from her ear. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t good morning me! WHAT WAS THAT INTERVIEW?!” Stacey’s voice is at peak investigative journalist mode. “My heart is happy? You knew that would send the world into a spiral and you still said it?!”

Aiah sighs. “It just… slipped out.”

“Ohhh, it slipped out?” Stacey deadpans. “So you’re saying that your heart is actually happy?”

Aiah clenches her jaw, suddenly regretting every life decision that led her to this moment.

“YOU’RE NOT ANSWERING, THAT MEANS IT’S TRUE,” Stacey screeches.

“Stacks—”

“I knew something was up! You’ve been weird! Glowy! Suspiciously unbothered by your usual existential dread!”

Aiah exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m hanging up.”

“DON’T YOU DARE.”

Aiah dares.

She tosses her phone onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying very hard not to let the weight of it sink in.

But the truth is, it’s out there now.

The world is watching.

And Aiah—

Aiah has to decide what that really means.

Aiah should have known Stacey wouldn’t let it go.

She realizes her mistake the second her doorbell rings—frantic, urgent, like the person outside has zero intentions of leaving.

She contemplates hiding.

But then—

“AIAH, OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR OR I’M BREAKING IT DOWN WITH MY STILETTOS.”

Aiah groans, dragging herself off the couch. “Jesus.”

She swings the door open, already bracing for it—

But she is not prepared for Stacey storming in, sunglasses perched dramatically on her nose, a Venti coffee in one hand and a mission in her soul.

“I knew you’d ignore me,” Stacey announces, slipping off her heels like she owns the place. “So I came to physically drag the truth out of you.”

Aiah sighs, shutting the door behind her. “You need help.”

“What I need is an answer.” Stacey flops onto the couch, crossing her legs. “So. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” Aiah lies, strolling toward the kitchen to buy herself time.

Stacey narrows her eyes, scanning the room like a detective.

And then—

She sees it.

Aiah realizes exactly one second too late.

The hoodie.

The one that is very much not hers. The one draped lazily over the chair, betraying her in real time.

Stacey’s eyes widen.

She slowly, deliberately gets up, walking over, picking it up like it’s evidence in a crime scene.

Then—

She gasps.

Theatrically. Dramatically. Like she’s discovered the biggest scandal of the century.

“AIAH.”

Aiah groans. “It’s just a hoodie.”

Stacey clutches her pearls (read: dramatically places a hand on her chest). “Just a hoodie?! This is a man’s hoodie—”

Aiah winces.

“Or a very gay woman’s hoodie,” Stacey corrects, eyes sharpening.

Aiah presses her lips together. “Stacks.”

Stacey gasps again. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

Aiah sighs, rubbing her face. “Stacks—”

“Oh my god,” Stacey breathes, clutching the hoodie like it holds the secrets of the universe. “WHO IS SHE?”

“Stacks.”

“HOW DARE YOU KEEP THIS FROM ME.”

Aiah drags a hand down her face. “Oh my god—”

“I THOUGHT WE WERE BEST FRIENDS.”

“We are—”

“I’M ABOUT TO UN-BEST-FRIEND YOU IF YOU DON’T START TALKING.”

Aiah groans, defeated. “Fine.”

Stacey perks up immediately.

Aiah exhales, sinking into the chair. “I went to Limasawa.”

Stacey squints. “And?”

“And… I met someone.”

Silence.

Then—

“Is this the part where you tell me you finally went full sapphic?”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

Stacey grins. “Not denying it, though.”

Aiah sighs. “Her name’s Mikha.”

Stacey doesn’t even look shocked.

Instead, she leans forward, smug.

“And how long were you going to keep this from me?”

Aiah hates her.

(But also? Maybe loves her just a little.)

Aiah doesn’t realize how much she’s needed this until she starts talking.

Until the words start slipping out, softly at first, hesitant, like she’s afraid they’ll break if she holds them too tightly.

But Stacey just listens.

And maybe that’s why she keeps going.

“She didn’t know who I was,” Aiah says, voice quieter now, like she’s holding something delicate in her hands. “Not at first.”

Stacey watches her carefully, no longer teasing, no longer poking—just there, just listening.

“She wasn’t—” Aiah exhales, searching for the words. “She wasn’t trying to impress me. She wasn’t expecting me to be anyone.” She lets out a soft, almost disbelieving chuckle. “She just… saw me. Without knowing anything about me.”

Stacey doesn’t speak, just waits.

And Aiah—

Aiah realizes she wants to talk about Mikha.

Wants to say her name out loud. Wants someone else to hold this with her.

“She’s like—” Aiah pauses, staring at her hands. “She was like a breath of fresh air. Like—like the first sunlight after a storm.”

Stacey tilts her head. “That’s dramatic.”

Aiah huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. “Shut up.”

Stacey smirks. “Continue.”

Aiah bites her lip, something tender tugging at her chest. “She felt warm.”

Stacey raises an eyebrow. “Like, emotionally?”

Aiah shakes her head. “Like the sea after a storm.”

Stacey blinks. “What—”

Aiah realizes too late.

Her stomach flips—because only Mikha would understand that.

Only Mikha knows that.

Stacey squints at her, pointing. “Okay, that’s weirdly specific.”

Aiah looks away, but she knows her face gives her away.

Stacey gasps. “OH MY GOD.”

Aiah groans. “Stacks—”

“YOU’RE DOWN BAD.”

Aiah buries her face in her hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“You are so gone for this girl.”

Aiah exhales sharply. “You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t have to!” Stacey gestures wildly. “I know you! And this? This thing you’re doing?” She leans in, smug. “This talking about her like she hung the moon and stars thing? This soft eyes, distant staring thing?” She grins. “Oh yeah. You love her.”

Aiah’s breath catches.

She doesn’t answer.

But the silence between them is loud.

And Stacey—

Stacey just smiles.

Because she already knows.

Aiah glares at Stacey. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Stacey smirks, lounging back into the couch like she owns the place. “Oh, immensely.”

Aiah sighs, rubbing her temples. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“But you didn’t.” Stacey leans forward, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Because deep down, you wanted to talk about her. You wanted someone else to know.”

Aiah presses her lips together, hating how right Stacey is.

Stacey grins. “So let me get this straight—”

Aiah snorts. “Ironically, you won’t.”

Stacey cackles but continues. “You’re a literal movie star.”

Aiah sighs. “Here we go—”

“And she’s an ordinary cafe owner on some tiny island—”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “Mikha is not ordinary.”

Stacey gasps, clutching her chest. “Oh my god.”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Stacey grins. “Anyway, your whole situation is literally Notting Hill—except gayer and possibly with more emotional repression.”

Aiah throws a pillow at her.

Stacey dodges. “I’m just saying! Small-town girl meets Philippines’ top actress? Aiah, the romance is ROMANCING.”

Aiah groans, slumping back into her chair. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Aiah sighs. “No, I don’t.”

For a moment, the teasing lingers—light, easy, like the weight of the world hasn’t started creeping in yet.

But then—

Stacey’s smile fades, just slightly.

Her voice softens. “So… what are you going to do?”

Aiah stills.

Stacey shifts, leaning her elbows on her knees. “You know as well as I do that our industry isn’t—” She exhales. “It’s not kind to people like us. Not yet.”

Aiah knows.

Of course, she knows.

She’s seen it firsthand—the whispers, the scandals, the careers lost over something as simple as loving the 'wrong' person.

And Mikha—

Mikha doesn’t deserve to be dragged into that.

“I don’t know,” Aiah admits, her voice quieter now. “I really don’t.”

Stacey watches her for a moment. “Does she?”

Aiah hesitates.

“She knows it won’t be easy,” Aiah says carefully. “But I don’t think she—” She exhales. “I don’t think she really understands what it means.”

Stacey nods, thoughtful. “And are you willing to carry it? For the both of you?”

Aiah swallows.

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

Because it’s one thing to want this, to love someone.

It’s another to fight for it.

She doesn’t have an answer yet.

And maybe that’s what scares her most.

Chapter Text

The apartment is quiet.

Too quiet.

Aiah sits at the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped around a mug she hasn’t taken a sip from in the last twenty minutes.

She’s thinking.

Not in the passive, fleeting way she usually does, but in the deep, unsettling, I-have-to-face-this kind of way.

Because Stacey is right.

Because this isn’t just about what she wants.

This is about what’s possible.

She weighs her options.

One: She could leave.

She could walk away from the industry, from the lights, from the scripts and the expectations. She has enough. Enough savings, enough success, enough reason to just… stop.

She could move to Limasawa, wake up to slow mornings, spend her days making coffee, let the world forget her.

She could have Mikha, and only Mikha.

Two: She could keep this quiet.

She could keep Mikha in the shadows of her life, let their love exist in the in-between. No grand declarations, no public acknowledgments. Just stolen moments, secret flights, the constant fear of being seen.

She could have both—her career and Mikha—if she’s willing to live in a world where Mikha is only half hers.

Neither option feels right.

And that’s when she realizes—

She doesn’t know what to do.

Her throat tightens, her mind racing, until—

Her phone is in her hand before she even registers dialing.

The line rings twice.

Then—

“Aiah?”

Her mother’s voice is soft, warm in the way only mothers can be.

Aiah exhales, forcing her voice steady. “Hi, Ma. Just… checking in.”

A pause.

Then, knowingly—

“What’s wrong?”

Aiah closes her eyes.

She should have known better.

She hesitates—only for a moment—before whispering, “I think I’m in love.”

Her mother is silent.

Aiah swallows. “With a girl.”

Still, silence.

And then—

“Oh, my love,” her mother says, and somehow, just those three words threaten to undo her.

Aiah exhales shakily. “I just… I don’t know what to do. My world—it’s not kind, Ma. It’s not fair. I want to keep her safe from it. From me.”

Her mother hums softly, thoughtful. “You’ve always had such a big heart, anak.”

Aiah bites the inside of her cheek.

“But tell me something,” her mother continues. “Does she make you happy?”

Aiah doesn’t even have to think.

“Yes.”

Her mother hums again. “And does keeping her a secret make you happy?”

Aiah stills.

Because the answer is no.

Her mother sighs. “Then, anak, the question isn’t if you can love her in secret. It’s if you’re willing to love her out loud.”

Aiah’s breath catches.

Her mother doesn’t say anything else, just lets her sit with it.

And Aiah—

Aiah does.

Because maybe, for the first time, she knows the real question she needs to answer.

Aiah doesn’t make a decision right away.

But she starts to wonder.

She starts to test the weight of it—what it would feel like to love Mikha in the light, instead of keeping her tucked away in the quiet spaces between schedules, between cities, between stolen moments.

It starts small.

A slip of a song recommendation on social media—one of the ones Mikha always hums absentmindedly in the kitchen.

A comment in an interview about how she’s been craving arrozcaldo lately.

A shift in her posts—subtle, quiet, but there. The way she starts taking pictures of moments instead of just herself. The way she captures a sunset and wonders if Mikha is watching the same one.

The way she lets herself miss her out loud, in ways that only Mikha might understand.

And maybe she’s hoping Mikha does.

That she sees it, that she knows.

But still, there’s hesitation.

Because testing the idea is one thing.

Actually living it is another.

And Aiah still doesn’t know if she’s ready for the whole world to know.

But maybe she’s ready for Mikha to.

Mikha isn’t looking for signs.

But she sees them anyway.

A song recommendation—one she’s hummed a hundred times in the cafe, now casually dropped into Aiah’s social media like it means nothing.

A passing comment in an interview—arrozcaldo—too specific, too theirs, too much like a memory wrapped in warm laughter and the scent of storm passing.

A photo.

Not of Aiah, not even of anyone—just a shot of the sea at dusk, pinks and oranges bleeding into deepening blue.

It’s just a sunset.

But Mikha knows this one.

Knows this angle, this coastline, this particular way the light folds against the water.

It’s Limasawa.

It’s home.

And maybe it’s a coincidence.

Maybe Aiah is just posting. Just existing.

But Mikha feels it.

Like an echo. Like a hand reaching across the distance, pressing soft against her chest.

Like a secret she isn’t supposed to know.

And she doesn’t know what to do with that.

So she just sits with it.

Lets it settle in the spaces between customers, in the quiet hum of the cafe, in the way her fingers linger over her phone, hesitating.

Because if Aiah is saying something, she isn’t saying it fully.

Not yet.

And Mikha isn’t sure if she should wait for her to.

Aiah doesn’t know how to start.

She’s rehearsed it in her head, played out every possible version of this conversation—some messy, some quiet, some ending in an argument, some ending in something worse.

But when Mikha’s name lights up on her screen, and she finally presses call, all she can manage is—

“…Did you see?”

Mikha hums on the other end, soft and knowing. “Yeah.”

Aiah exhales, pressing a hand against her forehead. “Okay.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Was I supposed to?” Mikha asks gently.

Aiah lets out a breathy laugh, a little self-conscious. “I don’t know.”

Mikha doesn’t rush her. Just waits.

And maybe that’s why Aiah finally says it.

“I’ve been… thinking.”

Mikha hums again, like she already knows where this is going. “Yeah?”

Aiah bites her lip. “About us.”

On the other end, she hears the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic—Mikha making coffee, probably, like she always does when she’s thinking.

Then—

“And what have you been thinking?”

Aiah swallows. “That maybe I don’t want to keep you a secret forever.”

It’s not a declaration.

Not yet.

But it’s something.

Mikha exhales softly. “Aiah.”

Aiah braces herself—because she doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but she knows Mikha will always tell her the truth.

And Mikha—

Mikha just says it, plain and steady.

“You don’t have to do anything drastic.”

Aiah’s breath catches.

Mikha’s voice is patient, gentle in the way only she knows how to be. “You don’t owe me some grand gesture. You don’t have to prove anything. I know what we have, and it’s ours. Whether in silence or out loud.”

Aiah closes her eyes, feeling something settle inside her.

“I’m not asking you to choose,” Mikha continues. “Not between me and your career, not between what we have and what the world expects from you.” She exhales, voice warm, steady. “But I need you to know that whatever happens, whatever you decide—”

A pause.

Then, softer—

“I’ll be here. A coffee in hand, waiting for you.”

Aiah bites the inside of her cheek, blinking against the sudden sting behind her eyes.

Because of course Mikha would say that.

Of course, Mikha would be this person.

She lets out a wobbly breath, pressing a hand to her chest. “You know,” she murmurs, “you’re really making it hard not to love you.”

Mikha laughs softly. “I think that ship sailed a while ago.”

Aiah smiles.

And maybe she’s one step closer to deciding.

She starts to notice it in the following days.

The way she doesn’t hesitate before texting Mikha now, doesn’t second-guess the smile that pulls at her lips when she sees her name light up on her screen.

The way she catches herself mentioning the island in interviews—not just in passing, but deliberately, letting her words linger like a quiet secret, waiting for Mikha to hear.

The way she stops hiding how much she loves slow mornings now, how she lets herself crave the quiet instead of running from it.

The way she lets herself think about a future where she isn’t constantly watching her back.

It’s small.

Subtle.

But it’s happening.

And then—

The pull of reality comes crashing back.

She doesn’t expect it—doesn’t see it coming until she’s sitting in a meeting with her manager, watching the careful way she fold her hands on the table, her voice too calm.

“Aiah,” she say, smiling like she's about to deliver news instead of drop a bomb. “We need to talk about your image.”

Aiah already knows where this is going.

She’s been in the industry too long not to.

Still, she plays along. “What about it?”

Her manager exhales, clicking her pen against the table. “The rumors about your dating life are getting out of hand.”

Aiah’s jaw tightens.

“And?”

“We need to clean up the narrative,” she continue, flipping through her notes. “Your love team is at its peak right now. The chemistry between you and—” they mention Carlos' name, and Aiah barely hears it over the dull roar in her ears, “—is what’s driving the projects, the endorsements, the money.”

Aiah grips her seat. “So what are you saying?”

Her manager leans forward, voice careful. “I’m saying it’s time we make it official.”

Aiah feels cold.

“You want me to lie?”

Her manager sighs, like this is nothing, like this is just part of the game. “Think of it as… giving the fans what they already believe.”

Aiah swallows.

“You can see how this would help, right?” she continue. “It’ll stabilize your image. It’ll keep the projects coming. It’ll keep you safe.”

Safe.

Aiah almost laughs.

Because what about Mikha?

What about the girl who wakes up before the sun to brew coffee, who hums songs into her mornings, who told Aiah she wasn’t asking her to choose—but who Aiah now realizes she wants to choose?

What about the truth?

She forces herself to breathe.

Because she hasn’t decided yet.

But maybe the choice is already being made for her.

Chapter Text

Mikha is wiping down tables when her phone vibrates.

She glances at the screen, expecting a message—maybe from Colet, maybe from her siblings—but instead, it’s Aiah.

Aiah: Are you still at the cafe?

Mikha frowns, wiping her hands on a towel before typing back.

Mikha: Yeah. About to close up.

A few seconds later—

Aiah: Can I call?

Mikha pauses.

Because Aiah never asks to call.

She just does.

Mikha leans against the counter, pressing dial without another thought.

The line clicks almost immediately.

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then—

“…Hey,” Aiah says, and Mikha instantly knows.

Knows this isn’t just a casual call. Knows something is wrong.

Mikha’s grip tightens on the phone. “What happened?”

Aiah exhales shakily. “They want me to fake a relationship.”

Mikha stills.

“They think it’ll help stabilize my image,” Aiah continues, her voice strained. “That it’ll fix the rumors, keep the fans invested, keep the projects rolling. They want me to pretend I’m with my onscreen partner.”

Mikha doesn’t react right away.

She should have expected this.

She knows how Aiah’s industry works. She’s seen the headlines, the manufactured love teams, the way public figures are pushed into a narrative that benefits everyone but them.

Still—

Hearing it out loud does something to her chest.

She hears Aiah sigh on the other end. “Mikha.”

Mikha sets the towel down, pressing a hand against the counter. “Yeah?”

“I don’t—” Aiah’s voice catches. “I don’t know what to do.”

Mikha closes her eyes, lets the words settle.

She wants to answer right away, to give Aiah something steady to hold onto.

But she waits.

Because this isn’t just about them.

This is about Aiah’s world.

About what it demands from her.

So Mikha stays quiet, weighing it in her head, feeling the gravity of what Aiah is really asking.

And Aiah—

Aiah, for once, lets the silence exist.

The silence stretches.

Not heavy, not suffocating—just there, filling the spaces between Aiah’s words, between Mikha’s thoughts.

Mikha could say a hundred things right now.

She could tell Aiah that this isn’t fair, that she shouldn’t have to choose between who she loves and who she has to be.

She could tell her that it hurts, that the idea of being something hidden—something erased—makes her stomach twist.

She could tell her that she understands, that she knows Aiah’s world is relentless, unforgiving, ruthless in a way Mikha’s has never been.

But instead—

She just asks, softly, carefully—

“What do you want, Aiah?”

Aiah exhales, shaky, like she’s been waiting for that question.

Like she’s needed to hear it.

And when she answers, her voice is quieter, but certain in a way that makes Mikha’s chest tighten.

“I don’t want to lie.”

Mikha closes her eyes.

Aiah continues, her words slow, deliberate. “Even before they called for the meeting, I knew. I knew I couldn’t do it. I knew I couldn’t fake something that doesn’t exist.”

Mikha listens, still not speaking, because she knows Aiah needs to say this—to hear herself say it.

“I knew I couldn’t let them put me in a box I don’t fit into.” Aiah inhales sharply. “And I knew I didn’t want to pretend to love someone when I already love you.”

Mikha’s breath catches.

Aiah exhales again, softer this time, like a weight has finally lifted. “I guess I just… wanted to hear what you would say.”

Mikha’s fingers tighten around the phone.

Because Aiah has already chosen.

Maybe she just needed to know if Mikha would still be there—waiting, steady, holding this love the way she always has.

And Mikha is.

She’s here.

She always will be.

Aiah is breathing easier.

Not because things are fixed. Not because the battle is over.

But because she’s finally said it.

And Mikha is still here.

Still holding the line, still listening, still hers.

Mikha exhales on the other end, voice steady, warm. “I’m proud of you.”

Aiah stills.

Mikha continues, her tone quiet but firm, like she’s known this all along. “For not letting them decide this for you. For not letting them turn you into something you’re not.”

Aiah swallows.

Because God, she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear that.

Mikha’s voice softens. “I know this won’t be easy. I know they’re going to push, and they’re going to pressure you, and it’s going to feel like you’re carrying all of it alone.”

A pause.

Then—

“But you’re not alone, Aiah.”

Aiah exhales, something tight in her chest unspooling.

Because for so long, she’s felt like she’s had to hold this alone—this fear, this love, this impossible choice.

But Mikha—

Mikha is always steady. Always certain.

And Aiah—

Aiah believes her.

She lets the silence settle between them, warm and understanding.

Then, finally, Mikha speaks again—soft, but unyielding.

“So… what happens now?”

And there it is.

The question neither of them has an answer to.

Aiah swallows.

Because the choice is made.

But the fight isn’t over.

And Aiah has never been more sure that she’s ready to take it on.

Chapter Text

The apartment is silent.

Not empty, not hollow—just waiting.

Aiah stands in front of the mirror, watching herself.

It’s a simple thing, staring at her own reflection.

She’s done it a thousand times—before auditions, before performances, before stepping onto red carpets where her every move would be dissected, every look analyzed.

But this time, she isn’t searching for perfection.

She isn’t thinking about how her face will look under studio lights, or how the press will capture the curve of her smile.

She isn’t molding herself into what people expect her to be.

She’s just… Aiah.

Aiah, breathing.

Aiah, deciding.

Aiah, standing at the edge of something that could either be freedom or disaster.

She exhales, presses a palm against the cool glass.

“I won’t lie,” she whispers, as if saying it out loud makes it real.

The words settle into the quiet, firm and steady.

“I won’t hide her.”

There’s fear, of course. There will always be fear.

But there’s also certainty.

A certainty that didn’t exist before, that wouldn’t have been possible without Mikha.

Because Mikha, in all her quiet understanding, never asked to be chosen.

But Aiah is choosing her anyway.

Not because she has to.

But because she wants to.

She straightens, taking in the woman in the mirror.

She doesn’t look different.

But she feels different.

Stronger. Sure.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

Aiah doesn’t stall.

She doesn’t let herself linger in doubt, doesn’t wait for fear to catch up to her.

She’s spent too long doing that.

So when she steps into the meeting with her management, back straight, chin high, it’s different this time.

They’re expecting her to fall in line.

To say yes without question, to let them mold her into whatever version of herself they think will sell best.

But Aiah has already decided.

“We’re moving forward with the official relationship announcement,” one of the executives says, flipping through documents like this is just another strategy, another piece of business. “It’ll be subtle—exclusive photos of you and Carlos at a private dinner, casual enough to feel organic, but polished enough to confirm what the fans already suspect.”

Aiah’s fingers curl against her lap.

“Of course,” the exec continues, “you’ll have to be seen together more. Posting similar locations on social media, mentioning each other in interviews—”

“No.”

The room stills.

Aiah lifts her gaze, steady. “I won’t do it.”

Silence.

Then—

Her manager exhales, the patience of someone who thinks they can still convince her. “Aiah, we understand this isn’t easy—”

“No,” she repeats, sharper now. “You don’t understand.”

She sits forward, her voice calm but unshakable. “You don’t understand what it’s like to constantly be told who you should be, who you should love, what version of yourself will be palatable enough to sell to an audience. You don’t understand what it feels like to want something—someone—and to know that the entire world will tell you it’s wrong.”

She exhales. “But I do.”

A pause.

Then—

“I won’t lie. I won’t be something I’m not just because it’s easier for you.”

The execs exchange glances.

Her manager sighs. “Aiah, this will come with consequences—”

“I know,” she says, steady.

And she does.

She knows what she’s risking.

Knows that things might get harder before they get better.

But she also knows she’s tired of running from herself.

She lifts her chin. “But I also know that if I agree to this, I won’t recognize myself anymore.”

A beat of silence.

And then—

“Then I guess we have a problem.”

Aiah smiles, small but resolute.

“No,” she says, standing.

“I think I just found the solution.”

Aiah doesn’t wait.

The second she steps out of the meeting, she pulls out her phone, scrolling past the messages she’s already ignoring—from her manager, from PR, from executives who are probably scrambling to do damage control.

She presses call.

Mikha picks up on the second ring.

Aiah doesn’t even say hello.

“I did it.”

There’s a pause—just long enough for Mikha to process, before she exhales softly, like she knew this was coming.

Aiah doesn’t stop. “I told them I wouldn’t lie. I told them I wouldn’t do it, that I wouldn’t pretend.” She lets out a breathless laugh, a real one, like something huge has just been lifted off her chest. “Mikha, I said it.”

Mikha doesn’t say anything right away.

But Aiah hears the small smile in her voice when she finally speaks.

“I’m proud of you.”

Aiah’s throat tightens.

She’s heard those words before. But this time, they settle in a way they never have—because this isn’t just about making a choice.

It’s about owning it.

She bites her lip. “I don’t know what happens next.”

Mikha hums. “Then we figure it out together.”

Aiah nods, even though Mikha can’t see her.

They sit in silence for a moment—warm, steady—until another notification buzzes on her phone.

She pulls it away from her ear, frowning.

Her breath catches.

The words on the screen feel like a punch to the gut.

BREAKING NEWS: AIAH ARCETA & CARLOS TEJANO PRIVATE DATE NIGHT—EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS

Her stomach plummets.

She opens the article, and there it is—photos she never agreed to, pictures from an event she attended weeks ago, moments twisted to fit a story she explicitly refused to be part of.

Her grip tightens on the phone.

Her management didn’t just ignore her decision.

They went against her completely.

Her pulse pounds as she clicks on social media.

It’s everywhere.

Trending.

Speculated.

Spreading like wildfire.

She doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until Mikha’s voice pulls her back.

“Aiah?”

She swallows.

“They did it anyway.”

Mikha is quiet for a moment.

Then, softer—

“I know.”

Aiah blinks. “…You saw?”

A pause.

Then—

“Yes.”

Aiah doesn’t know what to say.

Because of course Mikha saw it.

And even though Mikha knows it isn’t real, even though she understands how this industry works—

It still hurts, doesn’t it?

Still stings to see Aiah with someone else, even if it’s all a lie.

Aiah’s chest tightens.

She doesn’t hesitate this time.

“I’ll fix this,” she says, firm.

Mikha doesn’t ask her to.

Doesn’t doubt her.

Just says, quiet but steady—

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Aiah doesn’t speak.

Not at first.

She just stares at the screen, at the headlines that do not belong to her, at the photos that have been twisted into something she never agreed to.

Her hands are steady.

Her breath is even.

But deep in her chest—

Something burns.

It’s not shock—she knew her management would push back.

It’s not fear—she’s already made her choice.

It’s anger.

Quiet. Controlled.

But rage nonetheless.

Because this isn’t just about the fake story.

This is about all of it.

About how her entire life has been shaped by people who think they own her. About how they’ve written and rewritten her narrative a hundred times over, never asking if it was true.

About how they expect her to nod along, to accept it, to be grateful for the lie they’ve built around her.

And for the first time—

She wants to burn it all down.

Her fingers tighten around the phone.

Then—

She dials the one person she knows will have her back.

The line rings twice.

Then—

“Oh, finally,” Stacey groans on the other end. “Took you long enough to call me. Did you think I wasn’t going to see the absolute bullshit they just pulled?”

Aiah closes her eyes, something tensioned in her chest loosening just slightly.

Stacey exhales sharply. “Tell me you’re not actually going along with this.”

Aiah’s voice is quiet. Steady.

“I’m going to fight.”

Silence.

Then—

A slow, wicked grin in Stacey’s voice.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

Mikha doesn’t look at her phone.

Not after she saw the first headline.

Not after she forced herself to breathe past the sudden weight in her chest.

Not after she reminded herself—over and over—that she already knew how this industry worked, that Aiah warned her, that none of this should surprise her.

And yet—

It still stings.

She hates that it does.

Hates that even though her mind understands the situation completely, her heart still clenches at the sight of Aiah’s name linked with someone else.

She’s in the middle of scrubbing down the cafe counter—harder than necessary—when the bell above the door chimes.

She doesn’t look up. “We’re closed.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Mikha sighs. “Colet.”

Colet hums, stepping inside anyway. “I figured you’d be doing the whole pretending-I’m-fine thing, so here I am. To force you to not do that.”

Mikha presses her lips together.

She doesn’t argue.

Because Colet is right.

And they both know it.

Colet leans against the counter, watching her closely. “So… have you talked to her?”

Mikha exhales, placing the rag down. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“And she told them no.”

Colet’s brows lift slightly. “She refused?”

Mikha nods. “She called me after the meeting—said she wouldn’t do it, that she wouldn’t lie.” She swallows. “She chose me, Colet.”

Colet studies her. “But?”

Mikha swallows.

“But they did it anyway.”

Colet exhales sharply. “Damn.”

Mikha nods, staring down at the counter.

Then—

Softly—

“It’s stupid.”

Colet tilts her head. “What is?”

Mikha lets out a frustrated breath. “That it still hurts.” She shakes her head, fingers tightening. “I know it’s fake. I know she didn’t agree to it. I know she’s fighting back. But seeing those pictures, seeing how easily they can erase me from her life—” She exhales sharply. “It still hurts.”

Colet nods, understanding without judgment.

Then—

She reaches across the counter and nudges Mikha’s arm.

“Hey.”

Mikha finally looks up.

Colet smirks. “You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”

Mikha lets out a small, tired laugh. “Am I?”

Colet grins. “Yeah. It’s kind of a thing people in love do.”

Mikha rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite to it.

And maybe that’s all she needs right now.

Someone who knows.

Someone who understands.

She doesn’t move for a while.

She stays in the cafe long after Colet leaves, staring at the countertop, at the rag she set down hours ago, at the space where Aiah once sat, smiling at her over a cup of coffee she called a quiet evening.

The headlines don’t go away.

She doesn’t check her phone, but she knows they’re still there—knows Aiah’s name is still being dragged through speculation, knows people are believing a story that isn’t hers to tell.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Not the pictures. Not the staged romance.

But the fact that, in the eyes of the world, she doesn’t exist.

They don’t know her name.

They don’t know that Aiah spent slow mornings learning how to make coffee in a small island cafe.

They don’t know that Aiah used to hum You’ll Be in My Heart absentmindedly under her breath, the same song she once whispered was a lullaby from her father.

They don’t know that Aiah loves her.

And for a moment—just a moment—Mikha lets herself wonder if they ever will.

She exhales, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

She’s not going to spiral.

Not now.

Not when Aiah is fighting.

Because that’s the truth, isn’t it?

Aiah is fighting.

And Mikha shouldn’t be sulking over a PR stunt when Aiah is out there, holding the line, standing her ground, refusing to let herself be erased.

She forces herself to breathe.

And then—

Her phone vibrates.

She hesitates—just for a moment—before picking it up.

A notification.

A new post.

From Aiah.

Mikha’s breath catches.

It’s not a statement. Not a press release.

Just a photo.

A familiar one.

The sea, pink and gold, the sun dipping just below the horizon.

Limasawa.

No caption. No explanation.

Just a single moment—one that only Mikha will recognize.

Mikha exhales.

And just like that, she’s grounded again.

Because Aiah isn’t hiding.

Not really.

She’s loving her in the only way she can right now.

Aiah sits across from Stacey, her fingers curled around a coffee cup that’s long since gone cold.

She hasn’t touched it.

Hasn’t said much since she arrived, either—just let herself be pulled into Stacey’s apartment, let herself sit on the couch, let herself breathe in the quiet before the inevitable conversation.

Now, Stacey is watching her carefully, one brow raised, fingers tapping lightly against her knee.

“So,” she finally says, “are we going to sit here in contemplative silence, or are we actually going to talk about the absolute chaos your management just pulled?”

Aiah exhales, pressing a hand against her forehead.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

Stacey tilts her head. “Start with what you want.”

Aiah pauses.

Because that’s what Mikha asked her, too.

And the answer is still the same.

“I don’t want to be part of a lie.”

Stacey nods, unsurprised. “Good. That means we go on the offensive.”

Aiah hesitates. “I just… I don’t know how to do that. They control everything, Stacks. They own the press, the narrative, the public’s perception of me. If I say one thing, they’ll twist it into something else.”

Stacey studies her for a moment, thoughtful.

Then—

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Then we don’t play their game.”

Aiah blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stacey leans forward, “we don’t try to prove anything to them. We don’t argue, we don’t explain, we don’t try to fight their narrative with a counter-narrative. We just—” she gestures vaguely, “—exist.”

Aiah frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a strategy.”

“It is a strategy,” Stacey corrects. “Because your management wants you to react. They want you to go into PR mode, to scramble for control so they can tighten their grip. If you don’t give them that—if you just live your truth without asking for permission—what can they do?”

Aiah swallows. “They can drop me.”

Stacey holds her gaze. “Do you really think they will?”

Aiah hesitates.

Because… no.

She’s still one of the biggest names in the industry.

She’s still bringing in projects, still the face of brands that are too lucrative to lose.

Her value—to them—is still too high.

“They need you,” Stacey says, as if reading her thoughts. “And if they don’t own you, they fear you. So you don’t fight for a seat at their table. You make your own.”

Aiah exhales, her heart pounding.

Because this—this is the first time she’s considered that maybe she doesn’t have to fight for scraps.

Maybe she can just… be.

She looks down at her hands, at the phone resting in her lap, at the photo she posted earlier—Limasawa, the sea at dusk, her quiet declaration to the only person who needed to hear it.

She already started.

Now, it’s just a matter of taking the next step.

She looks up at Stacey.

“Okay,” she says, voice steady.

“Let’s do this.”

Chapter Text

The shift is subtle.

Not enough to make headlines.

Not enough for the media to latch onto and spin into something bigger than it is.

But it’s there.

It’s in the way Aiah walks onto set without the carefully practiced smiles, without the need to be on all the time. It’s in the way she lets herself breathe, lets herself laugh without calculating how it will sound in a soundbite.

It’s in the way she speaks in interviews—not carefully, not defensively, but just honestly.

Not every answer is planned.

Not every moment is controlled.

And for the first time, she doesn’t feel like she has to ask if she’s allowed to exist as she is.

And then—

There’s Mikha.

She doesn’t say her name.

She doesn’t have to.

But her presence lingers in ways no one else would recognize—except maybe Mikha herself.

A photo on her Instagram story:
A familiar ceramic cup, filled with coffee, the words Like a quiet evening etched onto the surface.

A caption under a behind-the-scenes photo, where she’s smiling—the kind of smile that isn’t for the cameras, but for someone else entirely:
I like slow mornings. I think I finally understand why.

A song recommendation on Twitter, one that she knows only Mikha would catch:
You'll Be In My Heart - Phil Collins

It’s small.

Quiet.

A love that does not need to be loud to be real.

A love that exists, even in silence.

And maybe that’s how she’s choosing to love Mikha right now.

Not with declarations.

Not with grand gestures.

But with the simple, quiet truth:

She is here.

And she chooses her.

Every day.

The call comes late.

Aiah doesn’t pick up at first.

She sees the name—her manager’s—flashing on the screen, the vibration humming against the nightstand.

She lets it ring.

Then ring again.

Then, a text.

Aiah, we need to talk. Urgent.

She exhales sharply, staring at the words.

She already knows what this is about.

She picks up on the third call.

Her manager doesn’t bother with greetings.

“We need to meet. Tomorrow.”

Aiah leans against the headboard, keeping her voice neutral. “Why?”

A pause.

Then—

“Aiah, you know why.”

She presses her lips together.

She can hear the tension in her manager's voice.

She can feel the desperation creeping in, the careful way she measure her words, trying to maintain control.

She lets her speak.

“There are concerns about the way you’ve been handling the press lately,” she say, too polite to be genuine. “Your presence online, the way you’re engaging with interviews, your overall public image—it’s shifting, and we just want to make sure you’re making the right decisions.”

Aiah exhales slowly. “The right decisions.”

Her manager clears her throat. “You’ve been more—visible in ways that we didn’t plan for.”

Visible.

Not reckless. Not damaging.

Just—visible.

As herself.

Aiah smiles—small, sharp, because she knows what this is now.

They’re panicking.

She says nothing, letting the silence stretch until her manager sighs.

“Aiah,” she lower her voice, careful. “We’ve worked hard to build you into who you are now. We only want what’s best for you.”

She finally speaks, voice steady. “And what if this is what’s best for me?”

Silence.

Then—

“Tomorrow,” her manager says again, voice clipped. “We’ll talk more then.”

The line clicks off.

Aiah leans back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

They’re pushing back.

Because they know.

They know she’s slipping out of their grasp, know she’s no longer the Aiah they could shape into something marketable.

They know she’s making a choice that isn’t theirs to make.

And the funny thing is she isn’t even afraid.

Not anymore.

Aiah arrives at the office exactly on time.

Not a minute early.

Not a minute late.

She walks through the familiar hallways, past framed posters of the projects she’s carried on her back for years. Her face is everywhere. On walls, on screens, in glossy magazine covers displayed in glass cases like trophies.

She used to think that meant something.

That it meant she was wanted.

That she belonged here.

Now, she isn’t so sure.

The conference room is full when she enters.

Her manager. The PR team. A few executives.

They all look up as she steps in, eyes scanning her like she’s an investment they need to fix.

Aiah takes a seat.

“Let’s cut to it,” she says, calm, steady. “What do you need from me?”

Her manager exhales. “Aiah, we’re here because we’re concerned.”

Concerned.

Aiah tilts her head. “About?”

The PR rep leans forward. “Your behavior lately.”

She raises a brow. “And what behavior is that?”

They exchange glances, like they don’t expect her to push back.

Then—

“You’ve been making… unplanned choices,” one of the executives says carefully. “The way you present yourself, the way you engage with media—it’s not aligning with the image we’ve built for you.”

Aiah leans back. “You mean, I’m not playing the role you want me to play?”

Her manager clears her throat. “Aiah—”

“No, let’s be honest about it,” she cuts in, her voice still even. “You want me to be someone else.”

Silence.

Then, PR speaks again.

“We’re asking you to be careful,” they say. “You know how the industry works. Fans love the idea of you and Carlos. That’s what sells. That’s what keeps projects coming.”

Aiah already knows where this is going.

She waits.

“The staged photos were meant to control the narrative, to give you an easier path forward,” they continue. “We need you to lean into it more.”

There it is.

Aiah exhales.

“I already told you,” she says quietly. “I’m not lying to the public.”

One of the executives sighs, like she’s being difficult. “Aiah, this is bigger than you.”

Aiah meets their gaze, unwavering. “And what about me?”

Silence.

Then, her manager shifts tactics.

“You don’t have to confirm anything,” she offer. “Just don’t deny it either. Play into the ambiguity. Give the public something to hold onto.”

Aiah clenches her jaw.

Because she knows what they’re really asking.

Don’t deny the lie.

Don’t fight back.

Let them shape her into something easier.

She takes a slow breath.

And then—

Soft, but firm—

“No.”

Her manager sighs sharply. “Aiah—”

“I said no.”

A pause.

The air shifts.

And Aiah knows—she can feel it—this is the moment.

The one where they realize they don’t own her anymore.

She pushes her chair back, standing.

“I appreciate everything this industry has given me,” she says. “I know what I owe to the people who support me. But I also know who I am.”

She looks around the room, gaze sharp.

“And I won’t let you take that away from me.”

Then—

Without waiting for a response—

She walks out.

She doesn’t run.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Because she’s not the one losing something today.

They are.

Chapter Text

The boat rocks gently beneath her feet, the salt air thick in her lungs.

Limasawa is ahead, just past the endless stretch of blue, the outline of the cliffs and palm trees forming against the horizon.

Aiah grips the edge of the railing, fingers curled tight.

She doesn’t know what she expected to feel—relief, anticipation, maybe even guilt for leaving in the first place.

But all she feels is certainty.

She doesn’t remember booking the ticket, doesn’t remember packing the small bag slung over her shoulder.

She just remembers walking out.

Walking away from a world that has never felt like hers, following the only instinct that has ever made sense.

She doesn’t know if Mikha will be at the docks.

She doesn’t know if she’ll be at the cafe, at home, somewhere along the shore where the wind sings against the waves.

But she knows she’s here.

And that’s all that matters.

The boat slows, the wooden hull scraping against the pier.

Aiah steps off, feet hitting the dock like she’s meant to be here.

And then—

She looks up.

And there she is.

Mikha.

Standing at the end of the pier, hands crossed over her chest, red hair catching the wind.

Like she’s been waiting.

Like she knew.

Aiah’s breath catches.

Because it’s so easy, isn’t it?

To find her way back to the only person she’s ever wanted to run to.

Mikha doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rush to meet her.

She just waits, steady and patient, like she always does.

And Aiah finally lets herself go.

She drops her bag, feet carrying her forward, fast and sure, until she reaches Mikha, until she crashes into her, until Mikha’s arms are around her, pulling her close.

Mikha exhales, voice quiet against her hair.

“You’re here.”

Aiah nods, eyes squeezing shut.

“I’m here.”

And she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

The cafe is silent.

Not empty—just waiting.

The afternoon light filters through the windows, painting the tiled floors in soft gold, casting long shadows against the walls.

Aiah is still eating, her movements slower now, like she’s trying to savor every bite.

Mikha doesn’t rush her.

She just watches—elbow propped on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of her mug, the warmth of her coffee still seeping through her skin.

It should be strange, shouldn’t it?

How easy this is.

How, even after everything, even with all the chaos waiting beyond the island’s shores, they can still find their way back to this.

To each other.

Aiah exhales, setting her spoon down.

She leans back against the booth, gaze flicking up to meet Mikha’s.

And just like that—

Mikha knows.

Knows that Aiah is here, fully, not just in body but in choice.

That she wants to be here.

Mikha tilts her head, voice soft. “Are you staying?”

Aiah doesn’t look away.

Her answer isn’t instant.

Because it’s not an easy question, is it?

It’s not just about staying on the island.

It’s about everything else.

About choosing a life that isn’t built for hiding, about accepting that the world will try to take this from her, about deciding—fully, fearlessly—that she won’t let it.

But then—

A small breath.

A quiet, certain smile.

“I’m here,” Aiah says. “That’s all that matters right now.”

And somehow—

Somehow, it’s enough.

Mikha nods, smiling too. “Okay.”

Aiah huffs a soft laugh. “That’s it?”

Mikha shrugs. “That’s enough.”

Aiah stares at her for a moment, something unreadable in her gaze—something that pulls, something that settles deep.

Then, quieter—

“I think I like that about you.”

Mikha smirks. “That I don’t ask too many questions?”

Aiah shakes her head. “That you just take what I can give.”

Mikha doesn’t answer right away.

But she reaches across the table, fingers brushing Aiah’s wrist, just for a second, just enough to say what she doesn’t need to put into words.

And Aiah doesn’t pull away.

She just lets it be.

Mikha doesn’t move.

Neither does Aiah.

The cafe is still quiet, the late afternoon light shifting, turning warmer, softer—like the universe itself is telling them stay here, just a little longer.

Aiah traces the rim of her cup with absent fingers, the ghost of a thought flickering across her face. Mikha watches, waiting, knowing that eventually—

Aiah will say something.

And she does.

Not a confession.

Not an explanation.

Just—

“This is nice.”

Mikha lifts a brow. “Me forcing you to eat?”

Aiah laughs, soft, barely there. “That. And… this.” She gestures vaguely, like she’s not sure how to define it. “Just… not having to be anyone for a while.”

Mikha hums. “You know you don’t have to be anyone when you’re here, right?”

Aiah looks up, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Then—

A slow, small smile.

“I know.”

Mikha nods. “Good.”

A beat.

Then, Aiah shifts, resting her chin against her hand, studying Mikha.

“What?” Mikha asks, amused.

Aiah tilts her head. “Nothing. Just…” Her eyes flicker across Mikha’s face, like she’s memorizing her. Then, she says—so quiet Mikha almost doesn’t catch it—

“You feel like home.”

Mikha stills.

She wasn’t expecting that.

Aiah doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t take it back.

Doesn’t explain it away.

She just lets it sit there, between them, real and unshaken.

And Mikha swallows, the warmth in her chest spreading, blooming, settling.

She doesn’t say I feel the same way.

She doesn’t have to.

Because when she reaches across the table again—this time, fully, fingertips brushing Aiah’s knuckles—Aiah doesn’t pull away.

And maybe that says enough.

The phone buzzes against the table.

Once.

Then again.

Then—

A third time.

Aiah knows before she even looks.

Knows it’s not her mom, not Stacey, not someone she wants to hear from.

She exhales, tilting the screen toward her.

And there it is.

Manager

Manager

Manager

Three missed calls. A new message waiting.

Her stomach knots.

She doesn’t want to open it.

But she does.

Because she has to.

Aiah. Where are you? You can’t just disappear like this.

You know what’s at stake.

We need to talk. Call me back.

Aiah stares at the words, fingers tightening around the phone.

And just like that—

The moment is gone.

She can feel it slipping away, the warmth of the cafe turning colder, the weight of her world pressing back down on her chest.

She swallows.

Mikha’s voice is quiet. “Aiah.”

She looks up.

Mikha doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t push.

She just holds Aiah’s gaze, steady, grounding, here.

Aiah exhales. “It’s them.”

Mikha nods, as if she already knew.

Aiah looks back at the screen.

She knows she can’t ignore it forever.

She still has a contract.

Still has a career that—despite everything—she loves.

But…

She looks around the cafe.

At the quiet of it.

At Mikha, sitting across from her, patient, waiting.

At the feeling in her chest that tells her this is where she’s supposed to be.

She puts the phone face down.

Takes a slow breath.

And finally—

Soft, but certain—

“I’m not ready to go back yet.”

And for the first time, she’s not afraid of what that means.

The cafe door swings open with a chime, breaking the stillness.

Laughter spills in, loud and easy—voices overlapping, footsteps dragging sand across the tiled floors.

Mikha barely has time to turn before—

“Ate!”

Her sister’s voice rings out, bright and familiar, followed by her brother’s groan.

“We were at the beach forever and you didn’t even bother to show up.”

Colet hums from behind them, grinning as she tosses her bag onto a nearby chair. “Mikha, your neglect is truly unacceptable.”

Mikha huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “I didn’t realize I was summoned.”

Then—

She feels it.

The shift.

The moment they see her.

And more than that—

The moment they see Aiah.

Still in the booth.

Still close enough that their arms had been nearly touching before the door swung open.

Still looking at Mikha like she’s the only thing anchoring her to this world.

Colet stills.

Mikha’s siblings exchange glances.

And then—

“Oh,” her sister breathes, something knowing curling at the edges of her voice. “Oh.”

Mikha sighs, already bracing for the incoming onslaught.

Her brother nudges Colet. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Colet smirks. “Of course I knew.”

Her sister’s eyes flick between them, gleaming. “It's nice to see you again.”

Mikha groans. “I beg you to be normal about this.”

“Define normal.”

Aiah, to her credit, just watches the whole exchange with something close to amusement, though there’s a softness in her gaze that wasn’t there before.

Then—

Gently, casually—

She turns to Mikha’s sister and smiles.

“Hi again,” she says, voice steady, certain.

Mikha’s sister beams, waving her hand without hesitation.

“Hello, Ate Aiah.”

And maybe this isn’t just about recognizing Aiah Arceta, the superstar.

Maybe it’s about recognizing the way she and Mikha look at each other.

The way Aiah hasn’t left.

The way Mikha hasn’t asked her to.

The way they both seem to fit here, together.

And maybe that says enough.

Mikha’s sister is the first to start.

She doesn’t wait, doesn’t even ease into it—just leans forward on the table, chin propped in her hands, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word like it holds secrets, “how long have you two been like this?”

Mikha groans. “You’ve been here for less than five minutes.”

Her brother smirks. “More than enough time to see what’s going on.”

Mikha rubs a hand down her face. “I hate all of you.”

Aiah—surprisingly—laughs.

And that’s when Mikha knows.

She knows Aiah isn’t uncomfortable.

She knows Aiah isn’t bracing herself for this moment to turn into something ugly, something hostile.

Because this?

This is family.

This is safe.

Aiah shakes her head, playful. “I don’t think we have an answer to that question.”

Colet hums from her spot at the counter, arms crossed. “I don’t know, Aiah, I think you should answer. The people deserve to know.”

Mikha throws a dish towel at her. “You are the people.”

Colet catches it with ease, unfazed. Then—her smirk softens, something more genuine peeking through as she turns to Aiah.

“Speaking of the people,” she says, “I never got to thank you.”

Aiah blinks. “For what?”

Colet huffs a laugh. “For posting my song.”

Mikha watches as recognition dawns in Aiah’s expression.

Colet leans against the counter, shrugging lightly. “I don’t think you realize how much that changed things for me. The streams exploded. I got booked for gigs I never thought I’d land. People actually listen now.”

Aiah swallows. “Colet, I—”

“No, really,” Colet interrupts, serious now. “You didn’t have to do that. But you did. And I won’t pretend it didn’t mean something.”

Aiah hesitates, as if she doesn’t know how to take the gratitude, as if she isn’t used to people thanking her for something real—not for a performance, not for a role, but for something she chose to do on her own.

So Mikha reaches under the table, fingers brushing against Aiah’s wrist.

Aiah looks at her.

And then, after a beat—

She smiles.

“I just thought more people should hear you,” she says, simple, honest. “That’s all.”

Colet grins. “Well, they definitely hear me now.”

Mikha’s sister claps her hands together, eager to shift the attention back to her original mission.

“Alright, back to my question—”

Mikha groans again. “Please find another hobby.”

Her brother shrugs, amused. “No can do. This is too fun.”

Aiah laughs again—softer this time, like it settles somewhere deep in her chest.

And Mikha just watches, knowing.

That Aiah doesn’t just belong to her.

She belongs here.

With all of them.

And maybe she’s starting to see it too.

Mikha decides it just like that.

“We’re closing the cafe for the rest of the day,” she announces, stretching her arms over her head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her siblings blink at her.

Colet raises a brow. “Uh. Are you allowed to do that?”

Mikha smirks. “Who’s gonna stop me? Me?”

Aiah watches from the booth, amusement curling at the edges of her lips. “So what’s the plan?”

Mikha grins.

“An adventure,” she declares. “You’re all coming with me. No complaints.”

Her sister groans, dramatic. “God, we don’t get a say?”

“Nope.”

Colet hums, intrigued. “Where are we going?”

Mikha slings an arm around her sibling’s shoulders, already pulling them toward the door.

“There’s a falls a little ways off the main road,” she says. “Secluded, fresh water, perfect for swimming. And we can bring food.”

Her brother eyes her. “You just want a picnic.”

Mikha shrugs. “And?”

Aiah shakes her head, laughing softly. “Alright,” she says, standing. “Let’s go.”

And she doesn’t hesitate before reaching for Mikha’s hand.

Mikha stiffens for just a fraction of a second.

Not because she doesn’t want it.

But because Aiah hasn’t done this before.

Not like this.

Not without hesitation.

Not in public.

But now—

Now, Aiah laces their fingers together, walks close beside her like she’s meant to be here, and Mikha feels the warmth settle deep in her chest.

She squeezes Aiah’s hand once.

Aiah squeezes back.

And then—

They walk out into the afternoon sun, like it doesn’t matter who sees.

The falls is exactly what Mikha promised.

Clear water cascading down the rocks, pooling into a cool, crisp basin below. Tall trees surround the area, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, the sunlight breaking through the canopy in golden streaks.

It’s beautiful.

It’s theirs.

They spread out mats, unpack the food—rice, grilled fish, cold watermelon, bottles of soda clinking together.

Mikha watches as Aiah moves, her steps lighter than earlier, the tension in her shoulders slowly fading.

And when Aiah catches her looking, she just smiles.

Not the kind meant for cameras.

Not the kind meant for hiding.

Just for Mikha.

Just here.

Chapter Text

The afternoon hums around them, soft and golden.

Laughter drifts from the water—Mikha’s sister shrieking as her brother splashes her, Colet floating on her back, arms spread wide like she belongs to the sky just as much as the waves beneath her.

Mikha watches from the shade, legs stretched out on the mat, arms lazily resting on her knees.

Beside her, Aiah is quiet.

Not in the way she was when she first came to Limasawa—when silence was something uncomfortable, something too full.

No.

This quiet is different.

It’s the kind that settles.

The kind that belongs.

Aiah exhales, long and slow, like she’s releasing something she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

Mikha glances at her just as Aiah leans in, lets her head rest against Mikha’s shoulder, lets herself fold into the space Mikha has always left open for her.

Mikha stills.

Not because she doesn’t want it.

But because this is new.

This is Aiah choosing.

Choosing to be here, to rest here, to trust that Mikha will hold her steady.

Mikha doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t ruin it with words that aren’t needed.

She just shifts, just enough to let herself lean into Aiah too.

And then—

Soft. Steady. Certain.

Mikha reaches down, intertwining their fingers where they rest against the mat.

Aiah hums, something light and content.

Mikha watches as her siblings chase each other through the water, as Colet tips her head back, laughing at the sky.

She watches the way the world moves slowly here, the way the sun sinks lower, the way the air holds them in this moment, like it knows.

Like it knows this is something neither of them want to end.

And maybe neither of them will let it.

Not yet.

Not ever.

The sun has shifted lower when Aiah’s phone buzzes in her pocket.

She almost doesn’t check it.

She’s been ignoring calls—management, PR, the people who demand things from her.

But when she glances down and sees the name flashing across the screen—

Mom

Something stirs in her chest.

She hesitates only for a second before answering.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Aiah.”

Her mother’s voice is soft, but it’s the kind of softness that carries weight, that means I know you.

She doesn’t ask where Aiah is.

She doesn’t need to.

She just knows.

Aiah exhales. “You heard about everything, huh?”

A small hum. “I did.”

She waits for the reprimand. The reminder of responsibility, of contracts, of the career she’s built.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, her mother asks, gently—

“How are you?”

Aiah blinks, the question throwing her off.

Because no one in her world has asked that lately.

Not what’s your next move?

Not how do we fix this?

Just—how are you?

She swallows. “I… I don’t know.”

Her mother hums again. “You sound lighter.”

Aiah glances up.

Mikha is still beside her, close, their hands still loosely linked between them. Mikha’s head is tilted up to the trees, eyes half-lidded, content.

And Aiah knows her mother is right.

She is lighter.

“I think I am,” she admits, quiet.

Her mother exhales, something knowing in her voice. “Your father would have loved to hear that.”

Aiah stills.

And just like that—

She’s eight years old again, curled against her father’s side, his voice humming through her, through the very bones of her existence.

“Don’t listen to them, ‘cause what do they know?”

Her breath catches.

Her mother doesn’t sing the line.

She just says it, soft, steady, like she knows what Aiah is thinking.

Then—

“He would have been proud of you, anak.”

Aiah clenches her jaw, something thick rising in her throat.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Ma.”

Her mother chuckles, low and fond. “None of us do, Aiah.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“But I think you’re doing just fine.”

Aiah exhales, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the words settle.

Then, opening them again—

Mikha is watching her now, brows knitted, silent, but there.

Aiah shifts the phone, voice softer now.

“Thanks, Ma.”

Her mother hums again, warm. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

And maybe Aiah doesn’t feel so lost anymore.

The night hums around them, thick with the scent of salt and earth, the wind threading gently through the open balcony of Mikha’s room.

The lights inside are dim, casting a golden glow against the wooden walls, but out here—out here, under the open sky—everything feels closer. The stars, the sound of the waves in the distance, the weight of words unsaid.

Aiah stands by the railing, arms folded, gaze distant as she watches the sea.

Mikha leans beside her, silent, their shoulders almost—but not quite—touching.

They’ve been here for a while.

Not talking.

Not needing to.

Just existing.

But then—

Aiah exhales, long and slow, like she’s making a decision.

And she is.

Because this—this—is something she doesn’t usually share.

But Mikha isn’t just anyone, is she?

So she says, soft but sure—

“My mom called earlier.”

Mikha turns her head slightly. “Yeah?”

Aiah nods, fingers gripping the railing just a little tighter.

“She reminded me of something my dad used to say. Or—sing, actually.” A small breath. “It was from a song he always used to sing to me when I was little. The one I told you about. The one you also sang in the cafe that night.”

Mikha doesn’t press.

Just waits.

Aiah tilts her head up, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, the words settling deep in her chest before she speaks them into the night.

"Don’t listen to them, ‘cause what do they know?"

The wind carries her voice, quiet but unshaken.

Mikha is still.

And when Aiah finally looks at her, she finds Mikha watching her with something soft in her gaze, something that sees her in a way no one else ever has.

Aiah huffs a quiet, almost self-conscious laugh. “It sounds… simple, doesn’t it?”

Mikha shakes her head. “No.”

Aiah tilts her head. “No?”

Mikha offers her a small smile, warm and certain. “It sounds like something worth holding onto.”

Aiah breathes out, something settling inside her.

She doesn’t realize she’s moved closer until their arms are brushing, until Mikha tilts her head just slightly to rest against hers.

And maybe this is what it means to be held, in a way that doesn’t ask for anything back.

Just lets her be.

The night wraps around them, quiet and steady.

The waves murmur in the distance. The trees rustle softly. The island breathes.

And then—

So does Aiah.

“I think I’m quitting.”

The words slip out like an exhale, like something she’s been holding in for too long.

Mikha stiffens, just for a second. Then—she tilts her head slightly, as if to make sure she heard Aiah right.

Aiah stays where she is, doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t pull away.

She just lets it exist.

Mikha’s voice is quiet, careful. “Quitting?”

Aiah hums. “The industry. My job. Everything.”

Mikha doesn’t speak right away.

She waits.

Because she knows this isn’t something Aiah says lightly.

And Aiah lets the silence hold her before she speaks again.

“I just… I don’t want to go back,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to be that version of myself anymore. I don’t want to fight just to be me.”

She takes a slow breath.

And then—

“I want to stay.”

The weight of it settles between them.

A confession. A decision. Aiah’s voice doesn’t tremble when she says it—because it isn’t something she’s unsure of.

It’s something she wants.

And Mikha’s fingers tighten slightly where they rest between them, like she’s grounding herself in this moment, like she’s trying to make sure she doesn’t wake up from it.

Then, softly—

“Aiah.”

Aiah finally lifts her head.

And Mikha sees it.

The certainty. The quiet resignation. The raw, aching want to just be here.

Aiah swallows. “I mean it.”

And maybe Mikha knows that she does.

But that doesn’t make it that simple.

Because Aiah is—

She’s Aiah Arceta.

She has a world that she’s built, a career that has taken up so much of her.

And yet, here she is.

Sitting on her balcony, in her space, telling her she’s willing to leave it all behind.

For this.

For them.

And Mikha doesn’t know if she’s supposed to feel terrified or overwhelmed or—

Or just completely, utterly hers.

A beat.

Then—

Mikha’s voice is quiet, but steady.

“Say it again.”

Aiah breathes out.

“I want to stay.”

And Mikha feels it.

Settling, searing—right into her bones.

Chapter Text

Mikha doesn’t question it.

Not because it isn’t huge.

Not because it isn’t something that could change everything.

But because she sees it.

In the certainty of Aiah’s steady gaze.

In the way her voice didn’t waver when she said it.

"I want to stay."

Mikha feels the weight of it settle—Aiah leaving behind everything for this, for them, for her.

And it isn’t the kind of heavy that suffocates.

It isn’t the kind that presses down with doubt or hesitation.

It’s the kind that overwhelms.

The kind that roots itself deep.

The kind that says, this is love.

And maybe that’s why Mikha leans in.

It isn’t rushed.

Isn’t desperate.

It’s slow. Deliberate.

Like pulling something into place.

Like accepting something she’s been carrying in her chest for so long.

Aiah doesn’t startle.

Doesn’t pull away.

She meets Mikha halfway, like she was always meant to.

The first brush of their lips is soft. A pause. A moment where Mikha’s fingers tighten slightly on Aiah’s wrist, like she’s anchoring herself.

And then—

Aiah exhales, barely a breath between them, before leaning in fully.

And Mikha—

Mikha lets herself feel it.

The depth of it.

The way Aiah gives, and gives, and gives.

Like this isn’t just a kiss.

Like this is her way of saying, I meant it.

Mikha doesn’t know how long they stay like that—lips moving slowly, like they have all the time in the world.

But when they finally pull apart, their foreheads resting together, their breaths mingling in the space between—

Mikha knows.

Knows that Aiah’s never given herself to anything this freely before.

Knows that this isn’t just something temporary.

Knows that love—real love—feels exactly like this.

Aiah opens her eyes, gaze searching. “Mikha?”

Mikha exhales, her thumb brushing over Aiah’s knuckles, grounding herself.

Then—

Soft. Steady. Certain.

“I’m here.”

And that’s all Aiah ever needed to hear.

The first thing Aiah notices when she wakes up is the warmth.

Not the sun—it’s barely risen yet, a soft glow seeping through the curtains.

Not the air—it’s cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of salt and earth.

No.

The warmth is Mikha.

Still close.

Still here.

Aiah blinks, slowly coming back into herself, finding Mikha already watching her, elbow propped on the pillow, head resting against her hand.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Just looks at Aiah like she’s something worth memorizing.

Aiah exhales, voice still thick with sleep. “You’re staring.”

Mikha grins, unbothered. “You’re beautiful.”

Aiah groans, burying her face in the pillow. “God.”

Mikha laughs, soft and full, tugging gently at Aiah’s wrist until she peeks up again.

And then—

With a smirk—

“So, what’s the plan for our jobless life?”

Aiah squints at her. “Our?”

Mikha nods solemnly. “Yeah. You’re not working anymore, which means I’m going to work twice as hard for the both of us.” A beat. Then, dramatically, “My back is already aching from the weight of it all.”

Aiah gapes at her. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mikha just shrugs. “Gotta support my retired superstar girlfriend somehow.”

Aiah rolls onto her back, shaking her head, but there’s a laugh caught in her throat, threatening to spill.

And Mikha just watches her.

Watches as Aiah lets herself feel light.

Because she knows the weight of this decision hasn’t fully settled yet.

She knows the world will try to pull Aiah back, that there are still loose ends to tie, still things Aiah has to face.

But for now—

For now, Mikha just wants her to breathe.

Aiah turns her head, eyes softer now.

“You know I haven’t fully figured this out yet, right?”

Mikha hums. “I know.”

Aiah watches her, searching. “And you’re still okay with that?”

Mikha doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m here, Aiah.”

Simple. Steady.

Something Aiah can hold on to.

The weight settles in slowly.

Not all at once.

Not in the way it did when she first said it, when the words slipped out like something she had always known.

It settles in the quiet moments.

When Mikha steps out to open the cafe, and Aiah is left alone with her thoughts.

When she glances at her phone, at the messages waiting, the ones she has yet to open.

When she realizes that leaving isn’t just about walking away.

It’s about untangling herself from something that has wrapped around her entire life.

So—she does what she needs to do.

She makes the call.

Her attorney picks up on the second ring.

“Miss Arceta,” his voice is brisk, professional, but not unfriendly. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Aiah exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not avoiding. Just… figuring things out.”

A pause.

Then—

“Do I need to be concerned?”

She swallows. “No. But I need your help.”

And maybe saying that out loud is the first step to making this real.

The next person she calls is Stacey.

Because if there’s anyone who will keep her grounded, who will tell her the truth whether she wants to hear it or not—

It’s her.

It barely rings twice before Stacey picks up.

“Oh my God, Aiah.”

Aiah sighs, already bracing herself. “Stacks—”

“I let you breathe for a few days. I held back from grilling you the moment you soft-launched your mystery girlfriend.” A sharp inhale. “But now? Now you call me like you’re about to drop something huge on me—”

Aiah winces. “I—”

“Wait.” Stacey’s voice shifts, sharper now. “It is huge, isn’t it?”

Aiah hesitates.

And in that pause—

“Oh my God.” Stacey’s voice is flat with realization. “You’re leaving.”

Aiah closes her eyes. “I think I am.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Holy shit.”

Aiah lets out a dry laugh. “That’s all you have to say?”

“No, my God, Aiah.” Stacey groans, exasperated. “That’s—huge. Are you sure? Have you thought this through? Do you know what this means?”

“I know, Stacks.” Aiah rubs a hand over her face. “That’s why I’m calling you.”

Another beat.

Then—

Something softer, something gentler in Stacey’s voice.

“Are you happy?”

Aiah stills.

And when she answers, her voice is quiet, but certain.

“Yes.”

Stacey exhales, like she’s processing, like she’s already strategizing in her head.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Tell me everything.”

And Aiah does.

Stacey listens.

It’s not often that she doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t throw in a joke or a dramatic gasp.

But this time—

She just lets Aiah talk.

About how it started, how Limasawa became something more than just an escape.

About Mikha—about the pull of her, the way she grounds Aiah without even trying.

About how, for the first time in years, Aiah feels like she’s breathing without needing permission.

When Aiah finally stops, a beat of silence settles between them.

Then—

A sigh.

“You’re so in love with her.”

Aiah groans. “Stacku.”

“No, seriously. You’re—oh my God, Aiah.” A dramatic exhale. “This is some Hollywood level movie plot.”

Aiah snorts, rubbing a hand down her face. “Oh, shut up.”

“No, you shut up,” Stacey counters. “You literally just said ‘I’m just a girl, standing in front of a barista, asking her to love me.’”

Aiah laughs, even as she shakes her head. “That’s not what I said.”

“Same energy.”

Aiah exhales, rolling onto her back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

A beat.

Then, softer—

“You are sure about this, right?”

Aiah lets the weight of it settle.

She could second-guess.

She could list every reason why this is terrifying, why it’s reckless, why the world will push back.

But she doesn’t.

Because at the core of it all, there is only one truth.

“Yes,” she says. “I am.”

Stacey exhales, but this time, it’s lighter. “Then that’s all that matters.”

Another beat.

Then—

“So. What’s the plan?”

Aiah huffs. “That’s what I’m figuring out.”

“Well, lucky for you, I love chaos,” Stacey says cheerfully. “Let’s burn this place down—metaphorically, of course.”

Aiah laughs, something easing in her chest. “Of course.”

They talk for a while longer—about logistics, contracts, the mess that will come, but also about the possibilities.

And when Aiah finally hangs up, she sits with the quiet, lets herself feel the weight of what she’s done.

Because this is real now.

Not just a thought. Not just a dream whispered against a lover’s lips.

She’s choosing this.

And for the first time in a long time…

She doesn’t feel afraid of what comes next.

Chapter Text

Aiah sits with her laptop open, notes scribbled in the margins of a notebook she’s barely touched since her last script reading.

Across the screen, her attorney leans back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You want out.”

Aiah nods. “Yes.”

“You want out now.”

Another nod.

A sigh. “Aiah.”

She doesn’t flinch.

She knew this wouldn’t be easy.

“I know,” she says. “I just… I need to know how.”

A beat.

Then, her attorney leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk.

“Your contract still has another two years,” he reminds her. “And that’s without factoring in your endorsements and partnerships. Walking away without a plan? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Aiah swallows. “So what are my options?”

A sigh. “Well, there are a few ways we could approach this.” He flips through his notes. “One: Buy yourself out.”

Aiah exhales, already knowing where this is going.

“That would mean settling all active contracts—paying off penalties, severance clauses, damages from unfulfilled projects…” He glances at her. “It’s possible, but it won’t be cheap.”

Aiah nods. “What else?”

“Two: A transition.” He laces his fingers together. “You start taking fewer projects, phase out your involvement in upcoming productions, gradually detach from the industry until your contracts naturally expire.”

Aiah frowns. “That could take years.”

“Yes,” he says pointedly. “But it minimizes damage control and lets you step away cleanly.”

Aiah presses her lips together.

She doesn’t want this to take years.

She doesn’t want to drag it out, trapped in something she’s already decided to leave.

Her attorney sighs again, watching her carefully.

“There’s one last option.”

Aiah lifts her gaze. “What is it?”

He hesitates. Then—

“A public scandal.”

Aiah stills.

Her attorney holds her gaze. “It’s not the best route, but if the right controversy is stirred up, your agency could be forced to drop you to save their own image. No breach of contract, no lawsuit.”

Aiah swallows.

Because she knows what that means.

She’s seen it happen before—actors “stepping away” when, in reality, they were pushed out by controlled controversy.

And in her case…

If she really wanted an easy exit, all she’d have to do is let herself be caught.

Let herself be seen with Mikha.

Let the industry turn her love into a scandal.

The thought sits in her chest, heavy and cold.

Because she knows—she knows—Mikha would never ask that of her.

Would never want Aiah to burn down her career just to be with her.

And Aiah—

Aiah isn’t sure if she’s ready to let the world tear them apart like that.

A long silence stretches between her and her attorney.

Then—

“What do you want, Aiah?” he asks, voice softer this time.

Aiah exhales.

And when she speaks, it’s quiet.

“I just want to be free.”

Her attorney watches her for a long moment.

Then, finally, he nods.

“Then let’s figure out how to do this right.”

Aiah doesn’t tell Mikha right away.

Not because she doesn’t want to.

But because she needs to hold it first.

To sit with it, to feel its edges, to let it press into her before she says it out loud.

She spends the afternoon in a haze—thoughts looping over themselves, hands restless, picking at invisible threads.

When Mikha texts her—Cafe’s busy today. What about you?—Aiah stares at the message for too long before replying, Just figuring some things out.

Mikha doesn’t press.

She never does.

Instead, she just sends, Okay. Come by later?

And Aiah—

Aiah wants to.

So when the sky is ink-dark, when the island hums with the quiet of everything settling, she finds herself at the cafe’s back door, where the world is smaller, where it is just them.

Mikha lets her in without a word.

Doesn’t ask, doesn’t prod.

Just pulls Aiah into the dim-lit space and hands her a cup of something warm, something familiar.

And maybe that’s what makes Aiah exhale, what makes her finally say—

“I talked to my attorney today.”

Mikha stills, cup halfway to her lips.

Aiah watches her take it in, the words clicking into place.

Then, carefully, Mikha sets her drink down.

“What did they say?”

Aiah wraps her fingers around her own cup, staring down at the swirling liquid, at the steam curling up, up, up.

“He said I have options.”

She says it like the words are foreign, like they don’t quite belong to her yet.

Mikha nods, watching her, waiting.

“One of them is… a transition. Slowly pulling out of the industry, taking fewer projects, letting things phase out naturally.”

Mikha hums. “That makes sense.”

Aiah swallows. “Another is to buy myself out.”

Mikha’s brows lift slightly. “And?”

Aiah exhales. “It won’t be cheap.”

Mikha doesn’t look surprised. “But it’s possible?”

A pause.

Then, Aiah nods. “It is.”

She should stop there.

She could stop there.

But the last option—the one that claws at her—sits heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs, demanding to be let out.

So she whispers—

“They also said I could make a scandal out of it.”

Mikha freezes.

Aiah doesn’t look at her.

Because she knows what Mikha will say.

She knows—knows that Mikha would never let her.

Never want her to do that.

She stares at the way her fingers tremble around her cup. “If the right controversy is stirred up, my agency could be forced to drop me.”

It hangs in the air, thick, suffocating.

Mikha’s voice is quiet.

“Aiah.”

Aiah clenches her jaw.

Mikha never says her name like that.

Like it’s something she wants to catch before it shatters.

Aiah forces herself to look up.

And Mikha’s gaze—

It’s steady. Unwavering.

She doesn’t look angry.

Just hurt.

Not at Aiah.

At the world that would make this a real option.

Mikha exhales, voice firm but soft.

“We’re not doing that.”

Aiah knew she’d say that.

But hearing it—

Hearing it like an absolute, like an anchor—something in her unspools.

She swallows, voice cracking. “I don’t want to.”

Mikha reaches across the table, fingertips brushing over Aiah’s wrist, gentle but sure.

“Then we won’t.”

Aiah exhales, shaking, but nods.

She’s never been so sure about anything before.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Aiah dials a number she hasn’t called in a long time.

It barely rings twice before a familiar voice answers.

“Aiah?”

She exhales, something in her chest loosening at the warmth in the tone. “Hey, Tatay Lito.”

A chuckle. Steady, familiar. “What's gotten into you and you remembered to call?”

Aiah laughs softly, shaking her head. “I just… wanted to talk to you.”

A pause.

Then—

“You okay, anak?”

And something settles deep inside her.

Because Tatay Lito has always been like this.

Caring. Unrushed. The one person in the industry who never treated her like a product to be sold, a name to be capitalized on.

Just Aiah.

Just a girl who loved to perform.

She swallows. “I think I’m quitting.”

Silence.

Then—

A slow exhale. “I see.”

Aiah stares at her hands, absently picking at a loose thread on her sweater. “You’re not surprised?”

Tatay Lito hums, thoughtful. “I’ve known you since you were twelve, Aiah. I was there when you fell in love with this industry. And I was there when you started to lose yourself in it.”

Aiah swallows hard.

Because she remembers.

She remembers being that bright-eyed kid, stepping into her first audition with nothing but raw talent and wide-eyed wonder.

She remembers the rush of it—performing, creating, losing herself in the art of it all.

She remembers loving it.

Before the industry started clawing at her.

Before every word she spoke had to be calculated. Before every move had to be carefully choreographed for the public.

Before she became a brand instead of a person.

Tatay Lito’s voice is soft. “Why now, anak?”

Aiah exhales. “Because I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve become someone I don’t even recognize.”

The words feel final.

Like something she’s always known but never said out loud.

Tatay Lito hums again, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“You still love it, don’t you?”

Aiah stills.

“What?”

“The craft,” he says simply. “Not the fame. Not the expectations. But this. The art of it.”

Aiah stares down at her hands.

Because she does.

She always has.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about that.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

She clears her throat. “I don’t know what to do, 'Tay.”

Another pause.

Then, his voice, steady as ever—

“Then let’s figure it out.”

Aiah lets out a slow breath.

Because for the first time in a long time—

She doesn’t feel lost.

But the problem still remains.

She has a contract. A career. A world that demands her presence even as she is preparing to step away.

And so she asks, hesitates, but asks anyway—

“How do I leave without losing myself in the process?”

There’s a long silence on the other end.

Then—

“You don’t.”

Aiah frowns. “I don’t—?”

Tatay Lito’s voice remains calm. “Aiah, you don’t leave yourself behind. That’s what you’ve been afraid of, isn’t it? That quitting means giving up a part of yourself. That stepping away means losing what you love.”

Aiah doesn’t answer.

Because it’s true.

She has spent years giving everything to this industry—her time, her energy, her identity. If she walks away now, what is left?

What does she have?

Tatay Lito sighs, as if reading her thoughts. “You love performing. You love the craft. But the way the industry has shaped you—that’s what’s breaking you, isn’t it?”

Aiah closes her eyes, exhaling shakily. “Yeah.”

“Then the answer isn’t leaving everything behind,” he says simply. “It’s choosing what you want to take with you.”

Aiah’s fingers tighten around the phone.

“What if I don’t know what that is?” she whispers.

Tatay Lito chuckles softly. “You do. You’ve just been so afraid of failing—of disappointing people—that you haven’t let yourself see it.”

Aiah presses her lips together, staring out at the ocean beyond her window.

She thinks of Mikha.

Of the cafe. Of the storm. Of the taste of saltwater on her lips, of the way her heart felt unburdened for the first time in years.

She thinks of Limasawa, of the way the island let her breathe.

She thinks of the girl she used to be—the one who sang in her father’s car, who performed in school plays, who wanted nothing more than to create, to feel something real.

She does know.

Tatay Lito hums, as if sensing her realization. “The industry will always try to own you, Aiah. But it’s up to you to decide what you want to keep. No one else.”

Aiah swallows. “I just… I don’t want to be trapped anymore.”

“You don’t have to be,” Tatay Lito says gently. “You can leave. But you can also take what you love with you. Whether that’s acting in smaller projects, writing your own stories, taking endorsements that really aligns with who you are—you get to decide. You get to be free in the way that makes sense for you.”

Aiah exhales.

And suddenly—

She sees it.

A path forward.

It’s not a complete plan. It’s not a fully mapped-out future.

But it’s hers.

And that’s enough.

A quiet smile tugs at her lips. “Thank you, 'Tay.”

Tatay Lito chuckles. “You don’t need to thank me, anak. Just promise me one thing.”

Aiah tilts her head. “What?”

“Whatever you choose, make sure it’s yours.”

Aiah closes her eyes, breathing in the salty air, letting the words settle into something certain.

She doesn’t know exactly what comes next.

But maybe that's the beauty of it all.

The uncertainty. The confusion. And still knowing who you are, what you want, who you want.

Aiah dials the number with steady hands.

She isn’t shaking.

Not like she thought she would be.

The conversation with Tatay Lito still lingers in her chest, grounding her. You don’t have to leave everything behind. You get to decide what you take with you.

She’s had this same conversation a thousand times in her head. Rehearsed every possible outcome, braced herself for the backlash.

But now—it’s real.

The line clicks.

“Aiah.”

Her manager’s voice is sharp. Clipped.

Like they already know.

Aiah exhales, her grip tightening around the phone. “I’m leaving.”

Silence.

Then—

A slow inhale. Controlled. Calculating.

“Aiah,” her manager says, voice forcibly calm, “you’re under contract.”

“I know.”

“We have commitments, endorsements, film deals—”

“I know.” Aiah presses her fingers against her temple. “And I’m not leaving tomorrow. I’m willing to transition out properly, step away from projects gradually.”

A sharp laugh. “You think it’s that simple?”

Nothing with them ever was.

“You’re one of the biggest names we have,” her manager continues. “Do you understand what you’re walking away from? Do you really understand what this will do to your career? Your image? You—”

Aiah exhales. “I know.”

She’s thought about this. Lived with this decision in her chest for weeks now.

And she’s not changing her mind.

“I won’t break my contracts,” she says. “I won’t walk out on projects I already signed on for. But I’m not renewing anything. I want out when my terms are up.”

Her manager exhales sharply. “We’ll have to discuss this.”

Aiah lifts her chin. “Fine.”

A long pause.

Then—

“You’re making a mistake, Aiah.”

Aiah almost laughs.

Because maybe, once upon a time, she would have believed that.

But now she just says, voice firm, steady—

“No. I’m not.”

And she hangs up.

It starts subtly.

Stepping away from endorsements is the easiest way out.

She stops signing new deals.

Lets her existing contracts quietly run their course.

And when the press notices—because they always do—the headlines begin.

Why is Aiah Arceta pulling away from brand deals?

Aiah’s management silent on the actress’s recent decisions—what’s next for the superstar?

The industry buzzes.

Her team pushes back—meetings, counteroffers, attempts to lure her into one more project, one more deal, one more year of being the Aiah they built.

But Aiah keeps moving forward.

Because this?

This is just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The world notices when Aiah starts stepping back.

Not all at once.

Not in a scandalous, headline-breaking way.

But in small, deliberate choices.

She turns down interviews.

Stops attending industry events.

Lets endorsement deals expire without renewal.

The press speculates.

The headlines shift from curiosity to concern, from Why is Aiah Arceta pulling back? to Is Aiah Arceta leaving showbiz? to Arceta’s management scrambles to maintain her star power—what’s next for the actress?

Her management tries to control the narrative, but Aiah doesn’t play into it.

She just keeps moving forward.

Because this?

This is her choice.

And for the first time in a long time, she isn’t letting anyone else make it for her.

Then, between the chaos, there’s Mikha.

Somehow, even with their lives spinning in different directions—

They still find their way to each other.

It’s in the small moments.

A text from Mikha in the middle of Aiah’s never-ending meetings:

Mikha: Hope you’re not planning world domination with that frown you always make when you’re deep in thought.

Aiah stares at her phone for a second before responding:

Aiah: No promises.

Mikha: At least let me be your first lady.

Aiah laughs, shaking her head.

Sometimes, it’s more than texts.

It’s a call when the day is too long.

When Aiah collapses into bed, exhaustion thick in her bones, and hears Mikha’s voice on the other end.

“Hey, superstar.”

Aiah smiles, even though she knows Mikha can’t see it. “I’m trying not to be one anymore.”

Mikha hums. “Then what do I call you?”

Aiah thinks about it.

Then—

“Just Aiah.”

A pause.

Then, soft, fond—

“Hi, Aiah.”

And God.

If that doesn’t make her fall harder.

Aiah is curled up on the couch, half-distracted while Stacey rants about something, when her phone vibrates.

A FaceTime call.

From Mikha.

She answers without thinking. “Hey—”

“HEY, HOLD ON.”

Stacey throws herself into the frame, eyes wide with realization.

Mikha blinks. “Oh.”

A beat.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Stacey gasps, grabbing Aiah’s arm. “You’re real.”

Aiah groans. “Stacks—”

“No, shut up.” Stacey gapes at Mikha. “I knew you existed, but you’re actually real. Holy shit.”

Mikha, baffled but amused, raises a hand in greeting. “Hi?”

“Oh my God, she’s polite,” Stacey mutters. “Aiah, you’re so gone for her.”

Aiah buries her face in a pillow.

Mikha laughs, voice warm, easy.

And maybe that’s what makes Aiah breathe a little easier.

Because somehow, in the middle of stepping away from one life, she’s finding a new one.

And it feels like it’s hers.

The moment Aiah steps off the boat, she exhales.

Like she’s been holding her breath this whole time.

Limasawa stretches before her—golden in the afternoon sun, the air thick with salt and something familiar.

Something like belonging.

She isn’t running away this time.

She isn’t here because the world feels too heavy.

She’s here because she wants to be.

And that changes everything.

It’s almost laughable how predictable it is.

The second Aiah walks up the shore, Mikha is already there, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her lips.

“You’re getting predictable, Aiah.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she can’t stop the grin tugging at her lips. “And yet, you’re still here waiting for me.”

Mikha tilts her head. “Maybe I just like being right.”

Aiah hums. “Or maybe you just like me.”

Mikha doesn’t even blink.

Just takes a step closer, close enough that Aiah can smell the faint traces of coffee on her.

“I do,” Mikha says simply. “And you know that.”

Aiah hates how her breath catches.

How easily Mikha unravels her, even after all this time.

She exhales, pressing her forehead to Mikha’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” she admits, voice smaller than she intended.

Mikha wraps her arms around her. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I missed you, too.”

And God.

If home was ever a person, it is Mikha.

Chapter Text

The apartment is a mess.

Half-filled boxes. Clothes in unsteady piles—one for charity, one for keeping, one for maybe-I’ll-need-this.

Aiah stares at it all, overwhelmed for a second.

It’s not just stuff.

It’s pieces of her life.

Pieces of the girl she was when she first moved in here.

The actress. The brand. The carefully curated version of herself.

And now?

Now, she’s choosing what stays and what gets left behind.

She has a few months left before she’s finally free from her contracts. A few months before this apartment, this life, officially becomes a past tense.

It should scare her.

But it doesn’t.

Not when she’s the one making the choice.

Then—

“Okay, explain this.”

Aiah turns just in time to see Mikha holding up an obnoxiously sequined jacket, expression deeply concerned.

Aiah snorts. “It was for a shoot.”

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Do you plan on ever wearing it again?”

“No.”

Mikha tosses it straight into the donation pile.

Aiah laughs, shaking her head. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m efficient,” Mikha corrects, already moving onto the next item.

Aiah watches her—how she moves around the apartment like she belongs here, how easily she slots herself into Aiah’s life.

How it’s never felt like Mikha was intruding, but rather—

Like she was meant to be here.

Mikha suddenly pauses, pulling something from the pile.

A worn-out hoodie.

Not just any hoodie—

The one Aiah stole from Mikha the first time she was here.

The one that gave them away to Stacey.

Mikha smirks, holding it up. “So this made the cut?”

Aiah grabs it from her before she can say anything else. “Obviously.”

Mikha hums, stepping closer. “You keeping it because it’s comfortable? Or because it smells like me?”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “I washed it, Mikha.”

Mikha leans in, smirk widening. “So you admit it smelled like me?”

Aiah shoves her playfully. “Oh, shut up.”

Mikha laughs, the sound easy, warm.

It wraps around Aiah like home.

And she realizes—this is the easiest decision she has ever made.

Aiah doesn’t tell Mikha right away.

Just says, Let’s have dinner at my mom’s place.

Mikha, perceptive as always, just tilts her head, but doesn’t question it.

She just shows up.

Like she always does.

And that's how they find themselves in her Mom's home.

Mikha is polite.

She greets Aiah’s mom with a respectful nod, calls her Tita, thanks her for the food.

She offers to help clear the table, listens when Aiah’s mom tells old stories about Aiah’s childhood, laughs at all the right moments.

And Aiah’s mom—

She watches.

Watches the way Mikha is careful with Aiah. The way she makes sure Aiah’s glass is never empty, the way her gaze lingers just a second longer when Aiah speaks.

Watches the way Aiah leans toward Mikha, relaxes around her in a way she doesn’t around anyone else.

Then—

Her mom smiles.

And Aiah knows.

She knows.

Her mother sees it.

Understands it.

Doesn’t need to ask.

Because she’s always known Aiah better than anyone else.

After dinner, when it’s just them—

Aiah finally says it.

“I’m moving to Limasawa.”

A pause.

Then—

Her mom just nods.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I figured.”

Aiah blinks. “You did?”

Her mom smiles softly, nodding toward the kitchen where Mikha is still helping clean up.

“You were always going to go where your heart feels at home, anak.”

Aiah swallows, something tight in her throat.

Because maybe, deep down, she knew that too.

Chapter Text

This time, she isn’t leaving.

Aiah steps off the boat, and nothing feels temporary anymore.

She isn’t here to run away.

She isn’t here to catch her breath before returning to a life that no longer feels like hers.

She is here to stay.

Mikha doesn’t say Welcome back.

Because that’s not what this is.

Instead, she just meets Aiah at the dock, hands in her pockets, that same knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“You made it,” Mikha says simply.

Aiah exhales, dropping her bag to the sand.

And then—

She steps forward and presses her forehead to Mikha’s, her fingers curling around the fabric of Mikha’s shirt.

“I did,” she whispers.

And God.

The way Mikha’s hands settle on her waist, the way she exhales like she’s been holding her breath this whole time—

This feels like home.

The headlines hit like waves on the shore.

Aiah Arceta Leaves Showbiz—Where Is She Now?

Former Superstar Disappears to a Small Island—Sources Say She’s Settling Down

Aiah Arceta's Shocking Career Move—A New Life or Just Another Break?

The public speculates.

Fans mourn her exit.

Some call it brave. Others call it reckless.

But Aiah?

Aiah doesn’t care.

Because for the first time in years—

Her life is hers.

And she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

The night is quiet, save for the sound of the waves lapping at the shore.

Aiah and Mikha sit on the balcony bench, the same spot where they had so many conversations—some hesitant, some restless, and some like this.

Soft. Steady. Home.

Mikha hands Aiah a cup of tea, and Aiah hums, fingers wrapping around the warmth.

“Did you ever think we’d end up here?” Aiah asks, gaze flickering toward Mikha.

Mikha exhales, leaning back against the wall, eyes drifting to the expanse of the sea before them. “No,” she admits. “But maybe I hoped.”

Aiah turns to her fully, studying her. “You did?”

Mikha tilts her head, a small smile forming. “I think I started hoping the moment you asked me to stay that night.”

Aiah lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I didn’t even know why I did that.”

Mikha shrugs. “You know now.”

Aiah does.

She knows exactly why.

Because even back then, before she could name it, before she could accept it—

Mikha was already settling into her heart.

She exhales, looking at Mikha fully, as if she’s memorizing her all over again.

“We’ve been through a lot.”

Mikha chuckles, rubbing a hand over her face. “That’s one way to put it.”

They sit in comfortable silence, the weight of everything they’ve been through lingering between them—not heavy, not suffocating, just there.

A reminder of how they fought for this.

For each other.

For this life.

Mikha turns to her, eyes soft but certain. “Would you do it all over again?”

Aiah doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

Because despite the hardship, despite the fights, despite the storm that tried to pull them apart—

She’d choose this.

She’d choose Mikha.

Again and again.

And the way Mikha smiles—

Like she already knew the answer—

Makes Aiah fall in love with her all over again.

The next day, Mikha says she's taking her somewhere.

She doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just casually says over breakfast, “We should visit my grandparents later.”

Aiah nearly chokes on her coffee.

Mikha just grins, patting her back. “I figured it’s time.”

Aiah wipes her mouth, narrowing her eyes. “And you’re only telling me now?”

Mikha shrugs. “Would you have slept if I told you last night?”

Aiah glares. “That’s not the point.”

Mikha laughs, stealing a bite from Aiah’s plate like she does this every day—and maybe that’s the craziest part of all.

This is their life now.

Mikha’s grandparents live in a house just slightly inland, tucked away from the busier parts of the island.

It smells like old wood and fresh air, the kind of house that’s lived in, that’s seen lifetimes.

Mikha pushes open the gate, leading Aiah toward the porch where two elderly figures are already waiting.

Aiah straightens. Nervous.

Mikha squeezes her hand once before letting go.

“Lola, Lolo,” Mikha calls out, grinning. “I brought someone special.”

Aiah wants to say something, wants to introduce herself, but Mikha’s grandmother just smiles, eyes kind, knowing.

“We know who she is, apo,” she says simply, before turning to Aiah. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Aiah blinks, momentarily stunned.

Mikha laughs. “You make it sound like fate.”

Her grandfather chuckles, slow and wise. “Maybe it is.”

Aiah swallows, something warm settling in her chest.

Because this should feel overwhelming, but it doesn’t.

It just feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

Like maybe she was always meant to be here.

The next day, Limasawa wakes up slowly.

The sun rises softly, the waves whisper against the shore, the air smells of salt and morning coffee.

Aiah steps onto the balcony, pulling Mikha’s hoodie tighter around her.

She watches the world come alive—the fishermen pushing their boats into the tide, the small market opening, the familiar hum of an island at peace with itself.

A place that moves at its own pace.

A place that is now home.

Behind her, Mikha steps out, still drowsy, her now dark hair mussed from sleep.

She hands Aiah a cup of coffee without a word, just leans into her side, resting her chin on Aiah’s shoulder.

Aiah exhales, warmth settling deep in her chest.

They don’t need to say anything.

They just exist, together.

Aiah knows this won’t be the last time the world will try to pull at her, try to remind her of the life she left behind.

There will be headlines. Speculation. Maybe even questions she won’t always have answers to.

But that doesn’t scare her anymore.

Because here, in this life—

She is herself.

And Mikha?

Mikha is here.

Always steady. Always home.

Mikha shifts, pressing a sleepy kiss to Aiah’s temple.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmurs.

Aiah hums, tilting her head slightly. “How far we’ve come.”

Mikha smiles against her skin. “And how far we’ll go.”

Aiah closes her eyes, exhales.

She doesn’t know what the future holds.

But this—

This is enough.

And for the first time in a long time—

She’s happy.

Really, truly happy.

Chapter Text

The cafe is quieter in the mornings.

Another storm season has passed, and Limasawa exhales, unburdened beneath a sky that stretches wide and unbroken. The waves have gentled, their restless fury soothed to something soft—a lullaby whispered against the shore. Salt lingers in the air, mingling with the rich, dark aroma of brewing coffee.

Aiah leans against the counter, watching as Mikha moves behind the espresso machine. The early light catches in the loose strands of her tied-back hair, in the effortless precision of her hands as she works. Sleeves rolled up, fingers ghosting over polished steel and porcelain—Aiah has seen this before, a hundred times over.

And yet—

She could watch it forever.

Mikha sets a cup in front of her, the ceramic warm against the cool wood of the counter. The gesture is familiar, the quiet comfort of it wrapping around Aiah like an old song, one she almost forgot the words to.

Aiah arches an eyebrow. “You always make me this one.”

Mikha’s lips curve, a quiet thing, softer than a smile. “It’s yours.”

Aiah huffs, playful, tilting her head. “I didn’t order anything yet.”

Mikha hums, her gaze flicking briefly toward the menu board.

“I meant the blend.”

Aiah follows her line of sight.

There, written in careful, sloping cursive between the usual offerings—

Like a Quiet Evening.

Her breath stills.

It is a memory folded into ink, a moment plucked from another life and placed here, in permanence. Aiah remembers: the first night she came to this cafe, rain-slicked and world-weary, feeling more like driftwood than a person. She had sat here, in this very seat, unsure of what to ask for, unsure of what she even wanted. And Mikha—Mikha, with her knowing silence—had simply handed her a cup of coffee.

Aiah had taken a sip, let the warmth press against the cold edges of her chest, and without thinking, she had murmured, Like a quiet evening.

She hadn’t realized Mikha was listening.

And now—

Now, it is here.

A name on the menu. A name that belongs to her.

Aiah exhales, something unspoken blooming behind her ribs. She picks up the cup, cradles it in her hands, lets the heat seep into her skin. She takes a slow sip. The taste is the same. The feeling is different.

It is home.

Mikha leans in slightly, voice as soft as the morning light.

“Welcome home, Aiah.”

Chapter Text

Aiah expects them, of course. She knows the world won’t let her slip away quietly. She has left the stage, but the spotlight still clings to her—desperate, hungry, unwilling to let go.

The headlines are ridiculous.

Aiah Arceta’s Sudden Retirement: Secret Marriage?

Pregnant? Sources Say Aiah Arceta is Hiding a Major Life Change!

Where is Aiah Arceta Now? The Actress Vanishes Following Career Exit

Aiah groans when she first sees them. Across the counter, Mikha—ever unbothered—leans against the cafe counter, scrolling through the articles with an amused smirk.

“You sure you don’t want to confirm it?” Mikha teases, eyes glinting with mischief. “I mean, we could start a family business.”

Aiah glares at her. “Don’t encourage them.”

Mikha chuckles, entirely too relaxed. And Aiah knows why. Because they know the truth. And that is enough.

But of course, Stacey?

Stacey loves chaos.

And the universe—because it has a cruel sense of humor—hands her the perfect opportunity.

The next morning, at the press conference for Stacey’s new album, the reporters waste no time.

They ask about the music, the inspiration, the sound—until, inevitably, someone just has to bring up Aiah.

“Stacey, you and Aiah Arceta have always been close. Can you confirm the rumors about her stepping away because she’s pregnant?”

The room stills.

Stacey blinks. Looks at the reporter. Then—slowly—smiles.

The kind of smile Aiah knows means trouble.

She leans into the mic, lacing her fingers together. “Oh, absolutely.”

Silence.

Pens freeze midair. A cameraman nearly drops his equipment.

Stacey tilts her head, voice syrupy sweet. “Aiah is pregnant. With possibilities. With peace. With a future she actually wants.” She gasps dramatically. “And maybe even… a decent sleep schedule.”

Laughter ripples through the room, but Stacey isn’t finished.

“I mean, sure, she could be hiding a secret.” She hums, tapping a finger against her chin. “Like… I don’t know, maybe a girlfriend instead of a husband? Maybe she ran away to a beautiful island to live her best life? Who’s to say, really?”

The whispers are immediate.

The reporters smell blood in the water.

“Are you saying Aiah left to be with someone?”

Stacey shrugs, a picture of innocence. “I’m just saying, if I were Aiah? I’d leave for love.”

The room erupts.

Aiah screams into a pillow.

Mikha, beside her, sips her coffee, completely unbothered. “So… soft launch over?”

Aiah groans. “I hate her.”

Mikha grins. “No, you don’t.”

Aiah sighs. “No. I don’t.”

Because Stacey is chaos incarnate.

And honestly?

Aiah should have seen this coming.

The press conference was already a mess.

Stacey had done what she did best—set a fire and walked away, leaving the world scrambling to put it out.

But did she stop there?

Absolutely not.

The interview clips went viral before Aiah could even blink.

Aiah Arceta Pregnant?! With What? A SECRET GIRLFRIEND?!

Stacey Drops Bombshell About Aiah’s Love Life—Island Romance Confirmed?

Stacey Sevilleja, Minister of Chaos, Possibly Outs Best Friend on Live TV

Aiah nearly dies when she sees the headlines.

The internet is losing its mind.

And Stacey?

Stacey is having the time of her life.

One hour later – Aiah’s phone call from hell

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?”

Stacey cackles on the other end of the line. “Babe, I just gave you the softest launch of all time.”

“That was NOT a soft launch!” Aiah screeches. “That was a nuclear detonation!”

“Oh, come on, did you see their faces? It was beautiful.”

“Stacku—”

“I did you a favor,” Stacey interrupts. “Now, instead of wild speculation about pregnancy, they’re obsessed with who you ran away for. You should be thanking me.”

Aiah runs a hand down her face. “You literally almost outed me on national television.”

“Almost,” Stacey agrees. “Key word. I gave them just enough to spiral. The fandom detectives are working overtime right now.”

Aiah stills. Horror pools in her stomach.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “The fans.”

The theories were already out of control before.

Some were convinced she was secretly married. Others thought she had a baby on the way. And now, thanks to Stacey, a new theory has taken over the internet:

Aiah Arceta left the industry for love.

And they are determined to figure out who.

“I hate you,” Aiah groans.

“No, you don’t.”

“I really do.”

“No, you really don’t.”

Across the room, Mikha—who has been enjoying the entire show with a cup of coffee—finally decides to chime in. “Ask her how long before she thinks they find me.”

Aiah turns to her, horrified. “They won’t—”

Mikha raises an eyebrow.

Aiah groans. “Oh, God, they will.”

Stacey howls on the other end. “Oh, babe. It’s already happening.”

Aiah’s stomach drops.

She scrambles for her laptop, frantically opening Twitter.

And there it is.

A thread—no, multiple threads—already gaining thousands of likes and retweets.

“GUYS. WHO IS AIAH ARCETA’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND? A DEEP-DIVE:”

The first post is a simple screenshot.

Aiah’s old Instagram story.

A photo of a sunset. A coffee cup in the corner. And in the reflection of the glass window—

A blurry silhouette.

The caption?

“Best coffee I’ve ever had.”

The comments are feral.

SHE LEFT FOR A BARISTA???

Not just any barista, besties. She left for THE barista.

If I find her I just wanna talk. Just wanna know what kind of coffee has this much RIZZ.

PLS the fact that Aiah was soft launching this whole time and we didn’t notice.

Whoever she is, she better be drop-dead gorgeous because I need to know what kind of face has Aiah Arceta acting like a lovesick fool.

Aiah screams into her pillow.

Mikha?

Mikha just smirks.

“Welp,” she says, stretching her arms behind her head. “Guess the island’s about to get a lot of visitors.”

It’s been four hours since Stacey’s press conference.

Four.

And somehow—somehow—the internet is already dangerously close to finding Mikha.

Aiah refreshes Twitter, dread curling deep in her stomach.

The top post has over fifty thousand likes.

“Okay, hear me out: Aiah’s mystery girlfriend has RED HAIR. THREAD 🧵”

Aiah nearly dies.

She clicks it—because of course she does—and immediately regrets everything.

The first post is a screenshot from one of Aiah’s old interviews.

An innocent clip, filmed months ago, where she had been answering some boring question about her favorite drinks.

But now—someone has zoomed in on her expression.

Because the second she mentioned coffee, she had smiled.

Soft. Subtle.

Like she was thinking about something.

Or—someone.

And the fandom?

The fandom notices everything.

NOOO STOP IT SHE SMILED WHEN SHE SAID COFFEE IM GONNA DIE

whoever this barista is, I want them gone. I want them EVAPORATED.

oh my god oh my god what if she left for some small-town island cafe owner someone hold me

BET SHE HAS RED HAIR. CALLING IT NOW.

And then—the next post has Aiah’s soul leaving her body.

Because it’s no longer just theories.

Someone has posted a side-by-side photo.

On the left—Aiah’s blurry reflection from her old Instagram story.

On the right—a completely unrelated photo of a random barista, posted by a random tourist account, taken at some beachside cafe.

And the resemblance?

Terrifyingly close.

Aiah yelps so loudly that Mikha—who has been innocently eating dried mangoes on the couch—looks up in alarm.

“What? What happened?”

Aiah throws her phone at her. “THIS HAPPENED.”

Mikha catches it, brows furrowing as she scans the post.

And then—

A slow, lazy smirk.

“Well,” she drawls, clicking her tongue. “Guess I’m famous now.”

Aiah gapes. “YOU’RE NOT TAKING THIS SERIOUSLY?”

Mikha grins, completely amused. “What do you want me to do? Change my name? Go into witness protection?”

Aiah groans, burying her face in her hands. “They can’t find you. If they do, it’s—it’s over.”

Mikha hums, scrolling through the replies. “Wow, they’re really going feral over this.”

Aiah peeks between her fingers. “How bad is it?”

Mikha snorts. “One girl said she’d sell her left kidney to know if I make good coffee.”

Aiah lets out a strangled noise.

Mikha laughs.

And then—

A notification.

A new tweet has just been posted.

“UPDATE: I THINK I FOUND THE CAFE. HOLD ON.”

Aiah and Mikha freeze.

The room goes silent.

The mango piece slips from Mikha’s fingers.

Aiah snatches her phone back, clicking on the post so fast she nearly drops it.

The user has attached a Google Maps screenshot.

A tiny, unnamed cafe.

On a random island.

A place that looks dangerously similar.

“Oh my god,” Aiah whispers.

Mikha blinks. “Well.”

And then—

From the other side of the room—

Stacey’s unhinged laughter echoes through the speakerphone.

“Oh, this is getting good.”

Aiah groans. “Stacey, this is a disaster.”

Stacey hums. “Or is it the greatest soft launch of all time?”

Mikha, ever the agent of chaos, actually considers it. “I mean, they’re wrong about the hair—”

“Not the point,” Aiah snaps, pacing the room. “They’re too close.”

Stacey cackles. “Babe, you’ve survived worse. Just deny, deny, deny.”

Aiah whips around. “Easy for you to say! You’re not the one whose girlfriend is about to be doxxed by Twitter detectives with too much free time!”

Mikha, meanwhile, is still scrolling, completely unbothered. “Ooh, they’re debating whether I’d be a Capricorn or a Virgo.”

Aiah screams into a pillow.

She is still reeling.

Still pacing.

Still trying to figure out how to contain this disaster—

When Mikha makes a sound.

A weird, choked-off sound.

Aiah whirls around. “What?”

Mikha just stares at her screen.

Then—slowly—she turns it toward Aiah.

And Aiah—

Aiah has to sit down.

Because there, in all its viral glory, is a tweet with over a hundred thousand likes.

“No but LISTEN. Imagine being so hot and unbothered that THE Aiah Arceta leaves showbiz just to live in your little island cafe. Imagine having that kind of RIZZ.”

Aiah buries her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”

Mikha—who has spent the last hours being hunted by internet detectives—has the audacity to smirk.

“Well,” she says, tapping her chin. “They have a point.”

Aiah whips her head up. “NO, THEY DON’T.”

Mikha hums, scrolling. “I mean, statistically speaking, what are the odds of this happening? You, a famous actress, suddenly deciding to live in a small town? For me?”

Aiah glares. “I am literally going to suffocate you in your sleep.”

But Mikha is already reading more tweets.

“I don’t know who she is. I don’t know what she looks like. But this barista has my RESPECT.”

“Okay but imagine being some random cafe owner and suddenly Aiah Arceta shows up, orders a latte, and then NEVER LEAVES.”

“No thoughts just Aiah being so down bad for this woman that she left everything to live her small-town coffee shop AU.”

Aiah grabs a pillow and screams into it.

Mikha, meanwhile, is way too smug.

“Huh,” she muses, scrolling further. “Some of them are even thirsting.”

Aiah freezes.

“What.”

Mikha turns the phone around again, and Aiah’s soul leaves her body.

“No face. No name. No identity. Just ‘The Barista’ and I already want her to ruin my life.”

“She works in a cafe? Bet she smells like espresso and heartbreak. I’m in love.”

“I don’t care if I never see her face. The way Aiah Arceta is ACTING UP has convinced me she’s the hottest woman alive.”

Aiah lets out a deeply pained noise.

Mikha smirks. “I do smell like espresso.”

“Mikha.”

“And technically, I did ruin your life.”

“MIKHA.”

But Mikha isn’t even listening anymore.

She has fully embraced the chaos, scrolling with interest, completely unfazed that strangers on the internet are creating an entire fantasy around her existence.

Aiah collapses onto the couch, absolutely done with everything.

And then—

A soft ding.

Another notification.

Aiah doesn’t even have the strength to check, but Mikha—fully entertained—lifts her phone and reads aloud:

“We need a Netflix documentary on The Barista. Who is she? How did she pull THE Aiah Arceta? Was it the coffee? The quiet confidence? The fact that she just MINDS HER OWN DAMN BUSINESS? I NEED ANSWERS.”

Mikha grins, sickeningly pleased.

“Well,” she says, far too happy about this. “At least they get my vibe.”

Aiah screams into the pillow again.

But she only gets exactly three minutes of peace.

Three minutes of thinking maybe—just maybe—things are settling.

Then, her phone explodes.

Text messages. Missed calls. Social media mentions skyrocketing.

She blinks at the notifications—

Then clicks the first one.

And freezes.

Because there, posted for her millions of followers to see, is a photo of Stacey—flowy beach dress, hair tousled by the wind, sunglasses perched lazily on her nose—

Captioned:

“Maid of honor for today’s intimate beach wedding.”

Aiah drops her phone.

Mikha, lounging across the room, barely lifts an eyebrow. “What now?”

Aiah points at the device like it has personally attacked her. “Check. Twitter.”

Mikha—who has fully embraced the chaos at this point—casually reaches for her phone, opens the app, and—

“Oh.”

A beat.

Then—

“Oh.”

Aiah groans, burying her face in her hands. “She’s going to be the death of me.”

Mikha, grinning like the absolute menace she is, starts reading aloud.

“NO BECAUSE DID AIAH JUST SECRETLY GET MARRIED? ON A BEACH? DID THE BARISTA ACTUALLY LOCK HER DOWN???”

“We have now entered the ‘mysterious wife arc’ and I’m not okay.”

“Stacey is the maid of honor… WHO IS THE BRIDE???”

“Somewhere in an island, The Barista is probably just making coffee, completely unaware that the internet thinks she’s now a wife.”

Mikha snorts. “They’re not wrong.”

Aiah groans louder, collapsing onto the couch. “Why does she do this?”

Mikha shrugs, zero sympathy in sight. “Because she lives for chaos?”

As if to confirm this, another text pops up on Aiah’s screen.

Stacku: tell ur fans congrats!!1! ❤️💍🌊

Aiah whips around. “SHE’S TEXTING ME EMOJIS.”

Mikha cackles. “Oh, this is so fun.”

Aiah throws a pillow at her.

Mikha, still laughing, dodges easily. “Hey, at least you’re trending for something wholesome this time.”

Aiah groans, because she knows—

Knows that no matter what she says, no matter how much she tries to deny this—

The internet has already decided she’s married.

She spends the rest of the day in PR disaster mode.

Fielding calls from her mother (who nearly had a heart attack).

Dealing with her old management (who, apparently, would rather she be actually married than retired).

And worst of all—trying to stop Mikha from reading every single unhinged tweet out loud.

Then—

Her phone rings.

And of course. Of course.

It’s her.

Aiah sighs so deeply it could shake the earth’s core before answering.

“What do you want?”

On the other end, Stacey giggles.

GIGGLES.

“Oh, babe,” she drawls. “You sound stressed. Marriage life not treating you well?”

Aiah groans. “You’re unbearable.”

“I’m a vision,” Stacey corrects. “And actually, I was calling to tell you something very important.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “If it’s another emoji-laden text about my ‘mysterious island wife,’ I swear—”

“No, no, it’s better.”

A dramatic pause. Then—

“I’ve decided.”

Aiah pinches the bridge of her nose. “Stacey, what have you decided?”

“I’m visiting.”

Aiah freezes.

Stacey continues, completely unbothered.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right? You left me behind. You abandoned your fans. You disappeared into some romantic novel storyline where you ran away to an island and fell in love with a barista—”

“I did not—”

“—and honestly, I feel like it’s my duty as your best friend to check in on you. See if your barista girlfriend is treating you right. Maybe get a tan. Maybe do a little fishing.”

Aiah stares at the wall, speechless.

Stacey visiting? Here?

Where she’d have direct access to Mikha?

Where she could witness firsthand the chaos she lives to incite?

Aiah whispers in horror. “Oh my God. You’re going to make it worse.”

Stacey gasps, offended. “I would never.”

“Stacey.”

“Aiah.”

Aiah runs a hand down her face. “You are actually coming here?”

A pause.

Then—

“Babe, I already booked the flight.”

Aiah dies right there on the spot.

Mikha, who has been listening from across the room, perks up. “She’s coming?”

Aiah throws another pillow.

Mikha catches it, grinning. “Oh, I like her.”

Stacey, hearing none of this, continues in a cheerful voice:

“See you in a few days, Mrs. Barista.”

And then—she hangs up.

Aiah collapses onto the couch.

Mikha wanders over, smirking. “Sooo… when’s she arriving?”

Aiah groans into the pillow.

This?

This is going to be a disaster.

Aiah has spent the entire morning bracing for impact.

Mikha, on the other hand, has spent the entire morning laughing at her.

“She’s not that bad,” Mikha says, casually sipping her coffee.

Aiah glares. “You don’t know her.” She leans forward, voice low and grave, like she’s warning someone about an impending natural disaster. “She thrives on chaos. She is chaos incarnate.”

Mikha just grins. “Sounds like my kind of person.”

And now—

Now, as the boat docks and passengers start disembarking onto the shore, Aiah feels the impending catastrophe before she even sees it.

Then—

A scream splits the air.

“AIAAAAAAH!”

Aiah barely has time to react before—

“Oh my God.” She smacks a hand over her face as Stacey launches herself off the boat like she’s making a grand entrance at an awards show.

Through the sand, full sprint, arms outstretched like a dramatic movie reunion scene—

Stacey is coming.

Mikha, beside her, has stopped breathing.

Aiah peeks at her and—yep. Mikha is gaping, eyes wide as Stacey barrels toward them like a chaotic force of nature.

Then, before Aiah can escape, Stacey crashes into her, hugging her so violently they nearly topple into the sand.

“You really did it, huh?” Stacey wails, clutching Aiah like she’s mourning her loss. “You actually quit showbiz for a girl. My best friend is a romance novel protagonist.”

Aiah groans. “Stacks—”

“No, no, I always knew this was happening.” Stacey waves a hand, stepping back to survey her. “Ever since you started getting all soft in your interviews, I knew it. I’ve been waiting for the official ‘I’m running away to my island girlfriend’ text. But did I get one? No. I had to sit in my rich popstar tower and wait for the headlines like some common fan.”

Mikha snorts.

Stacey turns sharply toward her.

Mikha blinks. “Uh—”

Stacey squints.

A long, dramatic pause.

Then, she nods approvingly.

“Yeah, I get it now.”

Mikha coughs, glancing at Aiah. “What does that—”

“She’s hot.”

Aiah dies on the spot.

Stacey crosses her arms, completely serious. “You did leave the industry for the hot barista. Respect.”

Mikha chokes on air.

Aiah slaps her forehead. “Stacku, I swear—”

“Oh, relax, superstar.” Stacey smirks. “I’m just making sure your little island girlfriend is treating you right.”

Mikha, finally recovering, smirks back. “So far, she hasn’t had any complaints.”

Stacey raises an eyebrow. “Bold statement.”

Aiah groans again.

This was a mistake.

And chaos incarnate had only just arrived.

Stacey stretches dramatically in her chair, sighing like she’s just survived a great battle, before taking a long sip of her cappuccino.

She hums in satisfaction. Then, tapping her spoon against her plate like she’s about to give a toast, she declares, “Aiah, I take back what I said. You did not leave me for an island girlfriend. You left me for five-star treatment.”

Mikha, wiping her hands on a towel behind the counter, raises an eyebrow. “You’re very easy to please.”

Stacey grins. “Food is my love language.” She takes another hearty bite of garlic rice and dried fish, practically glowing. “I suddenly understand why you left the industry. If I had this waiting for me every morning, I, too, would abandon all my worldly responsibilities.”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “Good to know my existential crisis and life-altering decisions have your stamp of approval.”

Stacey points at her with a fork. “Always.”

The cafe hums with a quiet comfort—the kind that only happens when there’s good food, warm coffee, and the steady presence of people who belong together.

Mikha moves through the space easily, wiping down counters, adjusting chairs, making sure everything is just right.

And Aiah—without thinking—steps forward.

“You’re sweating,” she murmurs, dabbing a napkin lightly against Mikha’s forehead.

Mikha stills.

Aiah doesn’t even realize what she’s doing at first.

She just knows that Mikha has been moving around all morning, and it’s hot, and—

And it’s second nature now.

This reaching.

This tending.

This taking care.

Mikha’s breath catches.

Because Aiah isn’t thinking about it.

But Mikha is.

Click.

They don’t hear it.

Not at first.

Stacey, barely sparing them a glance, snaps a photo of her coffee—a perfectly captured shot of her cappuccino, the latte art flawless.

The blurry background?

Aiah.

Standing too close.

Wiping Mikha’s sweat with the kind of tenderness that belongs in a K-drama confession scene.

A few hours later… Stacey is gone, off to who-knows-where.

The cafe is peaceful. The afternoon lull has settled in.

And then—

Aiah’s phone buzzes.

Then again.

And again.

Mikha, frowning as she wipes down a glass, tilts her head. “Did something happen?”

Aiah pales.

Because there it is.

Stacey’s Instagram story.

A beautifully framed cappuccino, the foam-art still pristine.

But in the background?

Aiah. Gently wiping Mikha’s sweat.

And the caption?

“Barista girlfriend supremacy.”

Mikha chokes on air.

Aiah lets out a silent scream.

And the internet?

The internet absolutely loses it.

The moment Stacey’s Instagram story hits the timeline, the fandom implodes.

Tweets. Reposts. Screaming in the replies.

The Aiah Arceta Discourse has officially re-entered the chat.

@aiaharchives: HOLD ON. HOLD. ON. STACEY JUST POSTED THIS AND—???

@staceysleftsock: MA’AM. WHAT DO YOU MEAN BARISTA GIRLFRIEND SUPREMACY??????

@aiahswifeu: HELLO. HI. THE BLURRY BACKGROUND. IS. AIAH. WIPING. SOMEONE’S. SWEAT. WE NEED AN EMERGENCY MEETING.

@aiahnation: YOU’RE TELLING ME AIAH ARCETA QUIT SHOWBIZ TO GENTLY DAB HER GIRLFRIEND’S SWEAT IN A CAFE???

And then—because this is the internet—things escalate.

The detectives get to work immediately.

@trenchcoatfan: ENHANCE. ENHANCE. WHOSE FOREHEAD IS THAT.

@fandomagent: Guys. What if this is the Red-Haired Barista™ from the last internet manhunt??

@coffeeforbarista: Wait. WAIT. Did she dye her hair brown and purple now???

Somehow, within an hour, there are:

Side-by-side photos of the mystery barista.

A comparison chart.

A full timeline aligning Aiah’s exit with Barista Girlfriend™ sightings.

The theories range from logical to completely unhinged:

Aiah met Barista GF in secret.

They’ve been dating for a while.

Aiah LEFT EVERYTHING TO LIVE ON THE ISLAND FOR LOVE.

Stacey is helping them soft launch.

Aiah is not just dating the barista. AIAH MARRIED THE BARISTA.

Then comes the fanart. The edits. The delusions.

@softgirlaiah: ILLUSTRATION DROP: Aiah in a sundress, waiting at a cafe while Barista GF hands her a coffee with a heart drawn in the foam. I AM IN PAIN.

@cinnamonsketches: What if Aiah ties her apron for her before opening the cafe? WHAT IF.

  @editaiahed: I made an edit of them to “Lover” by Taylor Swift. I AM NOT WELL.

Within two hours, Barista Girlfriend Supremacy is trending nationwide.

Aiah, staring at her phone, slowly turns to Mikha.

“…The internet thinks we’re married.”

Mikha, who had just been trying to make an honest iced Americano, pauses. “What.”

Aiah shoves her phone into Mikha’s hands. “LOOK.”

Mikha scrolls, eyes widening. “Oh my God.”

Fan edits. Screaming tweets. A very compelling thread titled ‘Why Aiah Arceta’s Soft Launch is the Greatest Love Story of Our Time.’

Mikha sputters. “Why are they writing poetry about me serving you coffee?”

Aiah throws a dish towel over her face. “I don’t know, but I need Stacey to STOP.”

And then, because the universe is cruel—the cafe door swings open.

Stacey strolls in like a queen surveying her empire, sunglasses perched on her nose, completely unbothered by the chaos she just unleashed.

“Hello, lovebirds,” she greets.

Aiah launches a sugar packet at her.

“YOU RUINED MY LIFE.”

Stacey dodges with ease. “Correction: I made it better.”

Mikha, still processing the internet-wide meltdown, exhales. “I am one Instagram story away from having people camp outside the cafe, aren’t I?”

Stacey grins, completely unapologetic.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pats Mikha’s shoulder.

“You’re already a legend.”

The cafe is quiet after closing. The last customers have long since wandered out, leaving only the soft hum of the evening tide and the faint glow of the hanging lights.

Aiah sits at one of the back tables, face buried in her arms. She has not recovered.

Stacey sits across from her, sipping her coffee with a thoroughly unbothered expression. “Okay, but listen. If you think about it, this is kind of beautiful.”

Aiah lifts her head just enough to glare at her. “You are dead to me.”

Stacey grins. “You say that now, but wait until I officiate your wedding.”

Aiah drops her forehead back onto the table.

Stacey reaches over, patting her head like one would a very exhausted cat. “Aw, my poor little fallen superstar. Is the big, bad internet making you feel things?”

Aiah groans, muffled. “I hate you.”

Stacey sips her coffee, unbothered. “Again, you say that now—”

A long silence.

Aiah exhales, finally sitting up, arms crossed as she stares down at the untouched drink in front of her. “…It’s not just that they’re making theories about me.”

Stacey sets her cup down. “I know.”

Aiah clenches her jaw. “It’s that they’re right.”

Stacey stays quiet. She lets her sit with that.

Because Aiah wouldn’t be this worked up if it weren’t true.

If it weren’t real.

If it weren’t everything she’s been trying so hard to hold quietly in her hands.

Aiah sighs, rubbing a hand down her face. “I just—” She hesitates, voice tight. “I hate that I still have to think about all of this. That I still have to be careful.”

Stacey watches her for a moment. Then, quietly—

“But do you?”

Aiah looks up.

Stacey leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “Aiah, you’re out.” She gestures vaguely. “No more contracts. No more image management. No more PR-approved fake dating.” She tilts her head. “So who are you still hiding from?”

Aiah doesn’t answer immediately.

Because she doesn’t know.

Because somewhere along the way, hiding stopped being a requirement and just became a habit.

She swallows, glancing toward the counter where Mikha is cleaning up—completely oblivious to the conversation unraveling in the table.

Mikha, who doesn’t ask for much. Who has never pushed. Who just lets Aiah be.

And yet—

Aiah exhales. “It’s just not that simple.”

Stacey nods, as if she understands. Because she does.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “But it could be.”

Aiah looks away.

And then—a shift.

Stacey nudges her knee under the table. “Hey.”

Aiah glances back at her.

Stacey’s expression is different now—less teasing, more sure.

“I’m happy for you, you know?” she says. “And I’m proud of you.”

Aiah’s throat tightens.

Stacey smirks again, just slightly. “And I swear to God, if you don’t let yourself be happy with that ridiculously hot barista girlfriend of yours, I will personally drag you out of the closet with a microphone and a live audience.”

Aiah chokes on her own breath. “Stacku—”

But Stacey just lifts her cup, grinning into her coffee.

“Just saying,” she singsongs.

Aiah shakes her head, but she’s smiling now—small, barely there, but real.

And Stacey lets that be enough.

The next day, Mikha drags them to the beach. The morning air is crisp with salt and sunlight, the waves rolling in lazy, endless rhythms as the four of them settle into the ridiculous spread Mikha has prepared.

Colet stares at the sheer amount of food—plates stacked with fried rice, eggs cooked just right, golden chorizo glistening beside crisp strips of dried fish, fresh mango and watermelon cut into perfect slices. “Are we… expecting more people?”

Mikha smirks, pouring coffee into a mismatched mug. “Nope.”

Colet raises an eyebrow. “So you just naturally cook for the whole town?”

Aiah hides her laugh behind her cup.

Mikha shrugs. “Island rule—there’s always room for more.”

Stacey, absolutely unbothered, takes a large bite of bibingka, nodding in approval. “You should open another cafe.”

Mikha snorts. “So I can work even more?”

“No, so I can eat like this more often.”

Aiah shakes her head, watching as Stacey reaches for her phone, already typing something.

It should have been a warning sign.

But Aiah, foolishly, did not question it.

And the Internet does, in fact, lose its mind.

Because hours later, when Aiah is back home, still recovering from Stacey’s  overwhelming presence, she checks her phone—

And sees it.

A photo.

Posted by Stacey herself.

Caption:

“Barista girlfriend can cook. Stacey approved!”

The problem?

The photo isn’t just of the food.

Because sitting on the edge of the picnic mat, looking unfairly beautiful in the soft morning light, is Mikha.

Mikha, mid-laugh, dark hair a mess from the sea breeze, radiating effortless, infuriating charm.

Mikha, who was never supposed to be revealed to the public.

Aiah drops her phone.

Colet, scrolling through Twitter, lets out a low whistle. “Ohhh. They’re spiraling.”

Aiah buries her face in her hands. “Stacey.”

Stacey, lying on their couch, thoroughly unbothered, takes a sip of her iced coffee. “Whoops.”

Aiah glares. “I’m going to kill you.”

Stacey shrugs. “Not my fault your girlfriend is distractingly hot.”

Mikha, stepping out of the kitchen with another cup of coffee, pauses. “I’m… what now?”

Colet flips her phone around, showing her the screen. “You’re famous.”

Mikha squints at the trending hashtag.

#AIAHWHATDOYOUMEAN???

“…Oh,” she says.

Aiah wants to scream.

The internet, meanwhile, is having a full-scale meltdown.

Because what do you MEAN Aiah Arceta left showbiz for HER???

Who is she??

Why is she so hot???

HOW DID WE NOT KNOW ABOUT HER???

The memes are immediate.

The edits start within minutes.

The simping? Uncontrollable.

Aiah, sitting stiffly on the couch, does not know how to process this.

Stacey, still scrolling, snorts. “Oh, wow. They’re calling Mikha ‘The Barista Supreme.’”

Aiah groans. Mikha looks amused.

And Colet—Colet just grins, nudging Mikha’s arm.

“Well,” she muses, sipping her drink. “You always were main character material.”

The timeline is in shambles.

The world had barely recovered from the Stacey-induced chaos of the past few weeks, but this—this—

This was a full-blown catastrophe.

Because somehow, in the span of a few hours, the entire internet has gone from:

“WHERE IS AIAH ARCETA?”

to

“WHO IS THIS BEAUTIFUL, UNFAIRLY ATTRACTIVE WOMAN???”

to

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN AIAH ARCETA LEFT FAME TO BE WITH HER???”

And Aiah is watching it happen in real-time.

She is physically watching her phone screen as her entire life becomes public discourse.

Again.

And it is entirely Stacey’s fault.

THE INTERNET HAS RECEIPTS.

Within minutes, people have dug deep.

The red-haired barista from months ago? The one from that one blurry cafe photo?

“GUYS, IT WAS HER ALL ALONG.”

The random background girl in Aiah’s soft-launch sunsets?

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? IT’S BEEN HER THIS WHOLE TIME???”

Aiah clutches her forehead. “Oh my God.”

Mikha, scrolling through Stacey’s post, raises an eyebrow. “They’re making fancams of me?”

Colet bursts out laughing.

Aiah whips her head up. “What.”

Mikha turns the phone around.

On screen, an edited montage plays (mostly from cropped photos, backgrounds from Aiah’s soft-launch posts)—Mikha laughing, cooking, looking devastatingly good in the beach photo Stacey posted.

Set to a dramatic ballad.

And in the captions:

“HOW DID WE MISS HER???”

“NO WONDER AIAH DISAPPEARED, LOOK AT HER GIRLFRIEND.”

“SHE LEFT THE INDUSTRY TO LIVE THE MAIN CHARACTER LIFE IN AN ISLAND, I CAN’T BREATHE.”

Aiah actually groans.

Stacey, delighted, leans in. “Ohhh, they’re deep in their feelings.”

Mikha hums, scrolling. “Some of these are very…” She pauses, amused. “Detailed.”

Aiah snatches the phone.

And regrets it immediately.

Because there it is—

A thread.

“AIAH ARCETA’S MYSTERIOUS ISLAND LOVE STORY: A CHAOTIC INVESTIGATION.”

Aiah wants to evaporate.

Stacey, cackling, throws an arm around her. “This is the best thing to ever happen.”

Aiah buries her face in a pillow. “This is my villain origin story.”

Mikha, far too amused, leans against the counter. “So… what now?”

Aiah peeks out.

And somewhere deep, deep inside her chest, something warm curls at the edges.

Because the world knows now.

And for the first time, she doesn’t want to run.

“…I guess we find out.”

The living room hums with a quiet sort of stillness, the aftermath of Stacey’s Internet Apocalypse still lingering in the air.

Aiah has disappeared, likely pacing in their room, trying (and failing) to process the absolute disaster Stacey has just unleashed.

Colet?

Colet has wisely retreated, muttering something about “not wanting to be collateral damage,” leaving just Stacey and Mikha alone in the living room, the lingering scent of espresso curling between them.

Stacey sighs dramatically, slumping into the couch, stirring her now-cold coffee like she’s contemplating the weight of her sins.

“So, uh,” she starts, glancing sideways at Mikha, “I may have… kinda, sorta, accidentally hard-launched you.”

Mikha hums, crossing her arms as she settles into the armchair across from her. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Stacey groans, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose! I was just trying to take a photo of the food, and then—”

She makes an explosive gesture with her hands.

“Boom. Internet meltdown.”

Mikha smirks. “Right. Just an innocent food pic.”

“I mean it!” Stacey insists, shaking her head. “I wasn’t trying to out you two or anything. I just—”

She hesitates, fingers tapping absently against her knee.

And then, quieter—

“I’ve seen Aiah hold back for so long, Mikha.”

Mikha stills.

Stacey exhales, sitting up straighter. “Even before she left showbiz. She wanted to love you out loud. I know she did.”

Mikha’s smirk softens into something more thoughtful.

Stacey rubs at the back of her neck. “I know it’s not my place, and I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just—”

She lets out a breathless chuckle, shaking her head.

“I think, in my own chaotic, unhinged way, I just wanted to help.”

Mikha lets the words settle. Then—

She shrugs. “I’m not bothered by it.”

Stacey blinks. “You’re not?”

Mikha smiles, easy and sure. “Nope.”

Stacey squints at her. “Even with the entire internet thirsting over you?”

Mikha snorts, shaking her head. “That part’s weird, not gonna lie.” She tilts her head, considering. “But hey, if I get a few admirers out of this, I won’t complain.”

Stacey lets out a cackle. “Oh my God, I love you.”

Mikha smirks. “Good, ‘cause I’m in your life permanently now.”

Stacey clutches her chest in mock emotion. “Aiah’s taste? Impeccable.”

Then, softening slightly, she adds, “But for real—are you okay with all this?”

Mikha exhales, twirling a spoon between her fingers.

“As long as Aiah’s safe and okay? Then yeah, I’m good.”

Stacey studies her, watching the way Mikha says it so easily—so sure, so certain.

And then she grins. “Damn. You’re really in love with her, huh?”

Mikha rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t even try to hide the warmth in her expression.

“Obviously.”

Stacey wipes an imaginary tear. “I love this for you both. I do.”

Mikha chuckles. “Great. Now, are you gonna help me with damage control, or do I have to survive the internet’s meltdown alone?”

Stacey leans back, grinning like a menace.

“Oh, absolutely not. I’m thriving in this chaos.”

Mikha groans. “Why did I expect anything else?”

And just like that, they both dissolve into laughter, the weight of everything feeling just a little lighter.

Aiah exhales, taking in the wake of the storm that was Stacey. They’ve just send her off at the docks, her album promotion now starting. Aiah kinda miss her, if she’s being honest, but the quiet also isn’t bad.

The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold, the waves lapping gently against the shore. Mikha is standing by the water, sleeves rolled up, sea breeze ruffling her hair. She’s barefoot, sand clinging to her ankles as she watches the horizon.

Aiah watches her.

She has spent so long trying to keep this part of her life tucked away, safe from the eyes of the world. But what is there to keep hidden anymore?

This—Mikha, the island, the life she has chosen.

It’s not something to be hidden.

It’s something to be loved out loud.

And Stacey was right—she wants to show the world how happy she is with Mikha.

She pulls out her phone. Scrolls through her gallery.

There are so many moments—so many snapshots of Mikha that Aiah has kept for herself. Some candid, some intentional. All of them precious.

She stops at one.

It’s simple. Mikha, bathed in golden light, standing by the cafe’s entrance, a soft smile playing on her lips. She isn’t looking at the camera. She’s looking at Aiah.

Aiah’s chest tightens.

She types.

A breath of fresh air.

The first sunlight after the storm.

Warm, like the sea after the rain.

The love of my life.

She hesitates—just for a second.

Then she presses post.

Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—everywhere explodes.

“AIAH ARCETA JUST HARD-LAUNCHED HER GIRLFRIEND IN POETRY WHAT THE HELL.”

“NO ONE TALK TO ME I AM LYING FACE DOWN ON THE FLOOR.”

”‘Warm like the sea after the rain’??? That’s it. I’m done. I’m gone. Love has won.”

“DO YOU GUYS UNDERSTAND THAT SHE QUIT HER CAREER AND MOVED TO AN ISLAND FOR A BARISTA. AIAH ARCETA IS THE MOST ROMANTIC PERSON ALIVE.”

Aiah watches the chaos unfold, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Her notifications explode.

The comments are just as feral.

staceysevilleja: I WAS THERE. I WITNESSED HISTORY. LOVE IS REAL.

colet.wav: wild

weluvaiah: do you guys think the barista supreme is aware she’s dating a poet

seastar1999: AIAH ARCETA IS NOT EVEN A LOWKEY GAY SHE’S THE LOUDEST GAY I’VE EVER SEEN

Aiah laughs, but then she feels arms slip around her waist.

Mikha, leaning in, chin resting on her shoulder.

“What’s happening?” she asks, voice amused, eyes flicking toward Aiah’s phone.

Aiah tilts her head toward her. “I, um. Posted you.”

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Posted me?”

Aiah turns the phone, showing her the screen.

Mikha reads.

Her lips part slightly.

A pause.

Then—

A slow, knowing smile.

“You called me warm,” Mikha murmurs.

Aiah groans. “Oh my god, don’t start.”

Mikha chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “No, no, I love it. You’re basically a poet in love.”

Aiah buries her face in her hands. “Please stop.”

Stacey, immediately calling, cackles through the phone. “SHE’S GONE. SHE’S SO FAR GONE. LOVE ATE HER UP AND LEFT NO CRUMBS.”

Mikha grins, tightening her arms around Aiah. “I think you should post more of me.”

Aiah sighs, exasperated. “I hate you.”

Mikha hums, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “No, you don’t.”

Aiah exhales. She really doesn’t.

And as the world celebrates, as love wins, as the ocean hums behind them—

Aiah leans back into Mikha’s arms.

Feeling the warmth of the love that has given her strength and courage.

Chapter Text

It’s been two days since Aiah’s poetic and very sapphic hard launch.

The internet?

Still recovering.

The discourse hasn't even settled, the fan edits haven't slowed, and the sheer feral energy of her fandom is still at an all-time high—

And then Stacey happens.

Because of course, she does.

It’s simple, really.

A photo.

Four people sitting on a woven mat at the beach, a ridiculous breakfast spread in front of them, the early morning sun casting everything in soft golden light.

Aiah, cross-legged, mid-laugh, eyes locked on Mikha.
Mikha, beside her, reaching for a piece of mango, looking effortlessly cool.
Stacey, grinning like she owns the world.
And beside her—Colet, holding a cup of coffee, looking like she just woke up and still managed to be effortlessly attractive.

The caption?

Ate all their food, overstayed my welcome, and caused multiple internet meltdowns. 10/10, would do it again. Special thanks to my hosts for keeping me alive & tolerating me. 💕

The fandom barely has time to breathe before someone notices.

@aiahnation: WAIT. HOLD ON. WHO. IS. THAT. NEXT TO STACEY.

@fandomdetective: I WAS ABOUT TO ASK THE SAME THING. WHO IS SHE??? WHY IS EVERYONE IN THAT ISLAND SO UNFAIRLY ATTRACTIVE???

@coffeeforbarista: NO BECAUSE WHO IS THE WOMAN WITH THE COFFEE CUP AND WHY DOES SHE LOOK LIKE SHE BELONGS ON A MAGAZINE COVER.

Within minutes, the internet detectives are on the case.

They zoom in on the coffee cup.

They compare freckles.

They analyze old posts.

They go feral.

Then, it happens.

Someone remembers.

WAIT. WAIT. IS THAT COLET VERGARA??? THE SAME COLET VERGARA WHOSE SONG AIAH RANDOMLY POSTED AT 2AM YEARS AGO???

The thread is born.

@aiaharchives: GUYS. YOU’RE NOT READY FOR THIS: A THREAD 🧵

YEARS AGO, AIAH ARCETA POSTED MAGNETS AT 2AM. A song by a then-small indie artist, Colet Vergara. WE DIDN’T QUESTION IT.
But GUESS WHAT. Colet Vergara isn’t just some random musician.
SHE HAS OLD PHOTOS WITH THE BARISTA SUPREME.
SHE GREW UP IN THE SAME TOWN AS AIAH’S GIRLFRIEND.
SHE AND AIAH’S GIRLFRIEND HAVE BEEN FRIENDS SINCE FOREVER.
THE TIMELINE LINES UP.
WE WERE SO BLIND. THE LOVE LETTER WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF US.

And then, the screaming begins.

@fangirlmeltdown: NO BECAUSE AIAH REALLY DROPPED A LOVE LETTER AT 2AM AND WE JUST MOVED ON LIKE IT WAS NOTHING.

@softgirlaiah: Colet Vergara, unknowingly part of the slowest slow burn in history. I LOVE THIS STORY.

@chaoticbi: WHY IS EVERYONE IN THIS ISLAND SO DAMN HOT.

@sappyforsapphics: AIAH REALLY LISTENED TO HER GIRLFRIEND’S CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND SING ABOUT YEARNING AT 2AM.

@redhairbarista: Aiah really said "Guess what I'm trying to say is, I'd rather die than be friends" through Colet's SONG I'M DYING.

@legendsofthesea: AIAH LEFT FOR LOVE. THE BARISTA SUPREME MADE THE COFFEE. COLET MADE THE SOUNDTRACK. STACEY MADE THE CHAOS.

And just like that—

Colet’s entire discography gets uncovered.

Somewhere on the island, Colet’s phone won’t stop vibrating.

She’s still half-asleep, groggy, and completely unaware of the internet losing its mind over her existence.

Then she sees Stacey’s post.

Then she sees her own face trending.

Then she sees lyrics from her own song being dissected.

Colet chokes on air.

“WHAT—”

She grabs her phone, types a message at hyperspeed.

Colet: STACEY WHAT DID YOU DO.

Stacey: good morning 🌞

Colet: I AM TRENDING.

Stacey: ur welcome 😘

Colet groans violently.

Another text pops up.

Mikha: Just saw twitter lol good luck

Colet hurls her pillow across the room.

Then, sighing deeply, she mutters:

“Why am I friends with you people?”

Colet is mid-bite into a perfectly crisp danggit when she gets the email.

She almost chokes.

Because of course. Of course this is happening now.

She wipes her fingers hastily on a napkin, staring at her phone screen like it’s personally offended her.

Subject: Exciting Opportunities – Let’s Work Together!

The sender? A talent management company. A big one.

Colet groans. Loudly.

From across the table, Mikha and Aiah look up from their coffee.

“Uh-oh,” Mikha deadpans. “That’s a ‘Colet is in trouble’ face.”

Aiah, already bracing for more internet chaos, sighs. “What happened?”

Colet waves her phone dramatically. “The industry has come for me.”

Aiah blinks. “Like… metaphorically?”

Colet glares. “No. Like ‘we saw your song trending and would love to discuss career opportunities’ kind of way.”

Mikha bursts out laughing. “Oh, no.”

Colet drops her head onto the table. “This is literally my worst nightmare.”

Aiah, ever the rational one, takes a sip of her coffee. “You knew this was coming.”

“Yeah, but I thought I had at least a few months before they hunted me down.”

“You trended nationwide, like, twice in a week,” Mikha reminds her, smirking. “The industry smells fresh blood.”

Colet groans louder. “I just wanna make my little songs in peace! I don’t want to be some industry darling.”

Mikha shrugs. “You don’t have to be.”

Aiah nods, thoughtful. “You could hear them out, see what they’re offering.”

Colet narrows her eyes. “That’s how they get you.”

Aiah sighs. “Colet—”

“One second I’m ‘just listening to the offer,’ and the next thing I know, I’m in a glittery outfit, being forced to do choreography on national TV.”

Mikha, thoroughly enjoying this, leans back. “Would pay good money to see that.”

Colet throws a piece of bread at her.

Mikha dodges, laughing.

Colet stares at the email.

The words are so polished. So enticing.

They talk about her "unique artistry," how she has "so much potential in the industry," how her music is "raw, refreshing, and in demand."

She could have a real career.

If she wanted it.

If she was willing to step into that world.

Her fingers hover over the reply button.

Then—

She locks her phone.

Leans back in her chair.

And sighs.

She knows what she loves. She knows what she wants.

And it was never about fame.

Her music? It’s hers. Always has been.

Colet exhales, rubbing a hand down her face. “Guess I have to reject them, huh.”

Mikha, passing by with a tray of freshly brewed coffee, doesn’t even look up. “Oh, for sure.”

Colet snorts. “Thanks for the support.”

Mikha smirks. “Anytime, superstar.”

Colet hates being serious.

She thrives in chaos, humor, and deflection. Anything to keep things light, easy, unbothered.

But as she stares at her unanswered email again, the reality of it settles deeper into her chest.

This is big. Too big.

And if there’s anyone who knows how dangerous this world can be—

It’s Aiah.

So she finds her outside, sitting on a bench, watching the waves roll in with quiet contemplation.

Colet hesitates. Then—without preamble—

“How did you know when to leave?”

Aiah turns, eyebrows raising slightly. “What?”

Colet plops down beside her, phone in hand, screen still glowing with the email. “When you quit. How did you know it was the right decision?”

Aiah studies her for a long moment. “You're considering the offer.”

Colet exhales sharply. “Yeah.”

She passes Aiah the phone.

Aiah skims the email, then hands it back.

Colet taps her fingers against her knee, restless. “I just… I love music, Aiah.”

Aiah nods. “I know.”

“And part of me thinks… maybe I’m an idiot for not taking this seriously. For not trying. What if—” She exhales, rubbing the back of her neck. “What if this is a one-time thing? What if I’ll never get another shot?”

Aiah tilts her head. “Do you want another shot?”

Colet falters.

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

She doesn’t know.

She thinks about the life she has now. Playing gigs at the cafe, writing songs when inspiration strikes, creating music that belongs entirely to her.

And then she thinks about what this could mean. Management. Contracts. Expectations. Losing control of something that’s always been hers.

She swallows. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Aiah exhales, looking back out at the sea. “Then you already have your answer.”

Colet lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s not that simple.”

Aiah hums. “It never is.”

A beat of silence stretches between them. The waves continue their steady rhythm, as if the universe itself is unbothered by Colet’s existential crisis.

Then—softly—Aiah speaks again.

“I knew it was time to leave when I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself anymore.”

Colet glances at her, surprised by the quiet honesty.

Aiah keeps her gaze on the horizon, voice steady. “I loved my craft. I still do. But the industry… it wasn’t about that anymore. It became about control. About keeping up with a version of myself that wasn’t mine to define.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “I was exhausted, Colet. I was living a life everyone else had chosen for me. And I stayed for years because I thought—maybe I owed it to them. To my fans, to my management, to everyone who had invested in me. But then I realized… I owed myself more.”

Colet grips her phone tighter.

Aiah turns to her then, voice quieter. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Colet’s throat tightens.

Aiah holds her gaze. “If this isn’t what you want, you don’t have to take it. You’re still an artist, even without a label.”

Colet exhales, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I just… don’t want to regret it.”

Aiah offers a small smile. “Then make a decision you can live with.”

A beat of silence.

Then—Colet sighs dramatically, flopping back onto the wooden wall. “Ugh, why do you have to be so wise and emotionally stable?”

Aiah snorts. “You’re talking to someone who screamed into a pillow for an hour when Stacey hard-launched my girlfriend.”

Colet laughs, and just like that, the weight in her chest feels a little lighter.

She stares at her phone again, scrolling down to the ‘Reply’ button.

She knows what she has to do.

But for now—

She pockets the phone, leaning back against the railing. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

Aiah huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “Classic.”

And for the first time since the email arrived, Colet feels at peace.

The cafe is fuller than usual.

It started as another one of their casual acoustic nights, a tradition that had always been intimate—locals, regulars, a few tourists who happened to stumble in. But now?

Now, it’s different.

Because the internet has found them.

Not fully—not enough to disrupt the cafe’s peace—but enough that people are watching. Recording. Streaming the night’s performances with quiet excitement.

And Colet?

Colet, in true Colet Vergara fashion, is blissfully unaware.

She sits on her usual stool, guitar resting against her thigh, fingers idly tuning the strings. The cafe hums with soft conversation, the air thick with the scent of coffee and sea salt, the warm glow of hanging lights giving everything a golden hue.

And in the corner—right where Colet expects them to be—Aiah and Mikha are side by side.

Aiah, tucked beside Mikha on the stool, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. Mikha stands beside her, snaking an arm absentmindedly around Aiah’s waist, keeping her close, their presence anchored to each other.

Colet strums a few notes. Then—grinning, tapping the microphone—

“This one’s for my best friends,” she says.

A few chuckles. Some murmurs of recognition.

Then—the opening chords of ‘Magnets.’

A hush settles over the cafe, soft and reverent.

Aiah’s head lifts. Mikha stills.

The song has history. They all know it.

Aiah had posted it in a fleeting moment of yearning—an unspoken love letter, a quiet confession, a song recommendation dropped at 2AM that, in retrospect, was anything but subtle.

Colet’s voice is warm, effortless, wrapping around the room like a lullaby:

I wanna be an itch you can't scratch
I don't need to know where you're at...

Aiah swallows.

Mikha exhales, her hold tightening briefly around Aiah.

Because of course Colet sings it.

And when Colet reaches the chorus—her voice lilting, teasing, but knowing—her gaze lands on them.

On Aiah, still tucked against Mikha.

On Mikha, who hasn’t moved, whose expression softens just slightly, like she remembers exactly when this song's meaning first shifted.

Like some kind of magnet
You're a mystic force
I try to explain away through planets, of course
But it's no use, there's no rhyme or reason
Each time I push the thoughts away, you're pulling me in
Again and again and again…

A few people in the cafe whisper.

A few catch the way Aiah’s eyes flicker, the way Mikha’s lips twitch like she’s biting back a smile.

The moment is obvious and not obvious all at once.

Colet, strumming through the next verse, watches them with the casual air of someone who has known them far too long.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

Because the entire island knows.

Because the internet already suspects.

Because Aiah isn’t loving Mikha in secret anymore.

Because Mikha isn’t hiding that she would follow wherever Aiah goes.

And when the song comes to a close, when Colet strums the last note and lets the final lyric linger—

I don't wanna be your friend
I couldn't care less if this ends, in the end.

—Aiah buries her face in her hands.

And Mikha laughs.

Soft. Warm. Like she’s remembering the feeling when she heard the quiet confession.

Colet grins. Sits back. Takes a sip of her drink like she hasn’t just reminded the entire cafe why Aiah Arceta abandoned her old life for a certain small-town barista.

And somewhere online, where the live recordings are already spreading like wildfire—

The internet figures it out, too.

It starts small.

A few Twitter users, late-night scrollers, catch the livestreams from the cafe.

Then—the theories begin.

@aiaharchives: GUYS. GUYS. LISTEN TO ME. COLET VERGARA JUST SANG ‘MAGNETS.’ AND SHE DEDICATED IT. TO. HER. BEST. FRIENDS. GUESS WHO WAS SITTING TOGETHER LOOKING SOFT AS HELL.

@wherethehellisaiah: SOMEBODY HOLD ME AIAH AND THE BARISTA SUPREME WERE JUST. THERE. AND COLET SANG THAT SONG. THE SONG AIAH RECOMMENDED AT 2AM. THE SONG WE ALL KNOW WAS A CRY FOR YEARNING.

@coffeeforbarista: NO BC THIS IS INSANE. COLET KNEW. SHE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. SHE WATCHED AIAH FUMBLE FOR HER LIFE AND SAID "YEAH LET ME SING HER LOVE LETTER BACK TO HER." I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

@staceysevilleja: STACEY SEVILLEJA HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.

Lemme just say. The musicality. The dramatics. The full-circle moment.

Colet, babe. You’re a menace.

@aiahnation: STACEY WHY DID YOU JUST CASUALLY DROP IN HERE LIKE YOU WEREN’T AT THE CENTER OF THE LAST MELTDOWN???

@staceysevilleja: I AM AN AGENT OF CHAOS AND I HAVE DECIDED TO ENCOURAGE THIS. Next acoustic night? I’m there.

@colet.wav: wait why is my phone blowing up wtf did I do

@aiahnation: OH SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HELP LMAOOOOO

@colet.wav: oh. OH. LMFAO.

@aiaharchives: SHE’S LAUGHING. SHE’S NOT EVEN GONNA DENY IT.

@fandomdetective1: Colet Vergara is really out here living her best life, watching her best friend go through an entire romance arc like it’s her favorite TV show. And honestly? I respect it.

@baristasimp89: The Barista Supreme has won. She has fully won. She pulled THE AIAH ARCETA. The industry’s golden girl. The nation’s dream girl. A legend. AND SHE DID IT BY JUST…EXISTING. I’ve never been so humbled.

@lattesforlovers: Meanwhile, Colet is just out here vibing, playing love songs for fun, and ruining Aiah’s life one song at a time. I love this island.

@staceysevilleja: To everyone in my mentions: No, I did not plan this.

Do I support it? Absolutely.

Do I think Aiah is gonna hide in shame for a week? Also yes.

@aiahnation: STACEY I SWEAR TO GOD LEAVE HER ALONE

@staceysevilleja: Never.

@colet.wav: LMAO love u guys but I have no PR training so I’m just gonna say: I am simply a girl with a guitar and a front-row seat to the funniest love story of all time. Also. Go stream my music. Since y’all are here anyway.

@aiahnation: THIS WOMAN.

@fandomdetective1: And there it is, folks. The Colet Arc begins.

WE ARE SO BACK.

The night settles around Aiah and Mikha, quiet and warm.

The chaos of the day—the acoustic night, Colet unknowingly setting the internet ablaze, Stacey fanning the flames just because she could—feels like a distant hum now.

In here, in the soft glow of their home, there is only this.

Aiah exhales, melting further into Mikha’s embrace. They’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, the scent of saltwater still lingering in their hair from the long evening at the cafe. Mikha’s arms are loose around her curled up frame, her fingertips tracing slow, absent-minded patterns against Aiah’s thigh.

For a while, neither of them speaks. They just breathe. Just exist in the kind of comfort that once felt impossible.

Then—Aiah huffs a quiet laugh.

Mikha hums against her temple. “What?”

Aiah shakes her head, amusement laced with disbelief. “It’s just funny, don’t you think? How this all started with me not wanting the public to know. I didn’t want them to tear you apart, dissect you, make you into something you’re not.”

Mikha shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to meet Aiah’s gaze. There’s something teasing in her eyes. “And now?”

Aiah groans, burying her face into Mikha’s neck. “Now it’s out of my hands. It’s us against the detectives of the internet, and somehow, we’ve dragged an entire friend group into this mess.”

Mikha chuckles, brushing a hand through Aiah’s hair. “We didn’t drag them. They threw themselves in. Especially Stacey.”

Aiah pulls back just enough to arch an eyebrow. “Okay, fair. But still. Stacey? Chaos incarnate. Colet? Somehow now a key player in the unraveling of my love story. I don’t even know how Colet got involved, but here we are.”

Mikha smirks. “You realize our friends are the worst at subtlety, right?”

Our friends. Aiah lets it settle in her chest for a few beats. Another one of the things that she shares with Mikha now, their lives tangled in ways she didn't expect.

Aiah sighs. “I know.”

She lets out another breath, curling her fingers against the fabric of Mikha’s shirt. “But none of this changes anything, right?” Her voice dips, a quiet vulnerability woven into the question. “Even with all of this… we’re still us?”

Mikha’s expression softens.

She doesn’t answer right away—not with words, at least. Instead, she lifts a hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Aiah’s ear, her fingertips lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Then, softly—

“We’re still us.”

Aiah swallows.

Mikha tilts her head. “We’re still the same people who fell in love in the quiet moments, remember?” Her voice is steady, grounding. “In stolen glances, in shared coffee, in me dragging you around until you let yourself be happy.”

Aiah lets out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “Oh my god, you did force me to be your intern.”

Mikha grins. “And look where it got me.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she leans in anyway, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Mikha’s jaw. “Fine. You win.”

Mikha hums. “I always do.”

Aiah laughs, pulling her closer, tucking herself into the warmth of the only place that’s ever felt like home.

Because the world may be watching.

But here, in their little corner of the universe—

It’s just them.

The Proposal That Nearly Killed Stacey

Stacey Sevilleja is minding her own business.

For once.

She’s in a radio interview, running on three hours of sleep, nursing a coffee that was 70% sugar, and answering the same five questions she had heard on every press cycle since her album dropped.

And then—

“I have to ask,” the host says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “What do you think about Jhoanna Robles?”

Stacey, mid-sip, nearly choke to death.

The coffee burn down her throat, her entire body seizing as she barely managed to swallow it without it exiting through her nose.

The host grins, clearly enjoying this. “I mean, she’s been talking about you a lot lately.”

Stacey coughs violently. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

The host beams. “Oh, you haven’t seen? She’s been dropping hints all over social media. Favorite song? Yours. Favorite album? Yours. Favorite singer? You. It’s a full-blown courtship, Stacey.”

Stacey sits there, absolutely floored.

Jhoanna Robles.

The woman she had spent years hating (but not really) with a passion. The woman who’s annoyingly beautiful, who had the voice of a damn angel, and who had once—once—beat her out for “Best Female Artist” at the Golden Mic Awards and then had the audacity to be humble about it.

And now she is flirting? In public?

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stacey puts a hand up, like she is physically trying to stop this madness from spiraling further. “You’re telling me Jhoanna Robles—my Jhoanna Robles—”

“Oh?” The host smirked.

“—NOT MY JHOANNA ROBLES—”

“Interesting slip.”

“—IS DOING THIS ON PURPOSE?”

The host pulls up a tweet—a verified, dangerously flirtatious tweet—from Jhoanna herself.

@jhoannarobles: If you could duet with any artist, who would it be?
Me: Stacey Sevilleja. No hesitation. 🎶✨

Stacey nearly blacks out.

And then—it gets worse.

Because the host isn’t done ruining her life.

They pull up another clip. A recent livestream.

Jhoanna, smiling in that effortlessly beautiful way of hers, reading a fan question: Dream collab?

Her answer?

“Oh, definitely Stacey Sevilleja.”

And then—like a final stab to Stacey’s already fragile soul—she sigh dramatically and said, “Maybe one day, if she says yes.”

Stacey launch herself out of her chair. “IS THIS A PROPOSAL??”

The host wheeze. “I mean, she’s waiting for your answer.”

Stacey paces the studio, running a hand down her face. This could not be happening.

Jhoanna Robles.

The bane of her existence.

The reason she lost sleep and also, fine, maybe the reason she stayed up watching certain performances on YouTube, but that was beside the point.

Jhoanna Robles is not allowed to win this.

Stacey slams her hands on the table, leaning into the mic. “You tell Jhoanna Robles—that annoyingly beautiful menace—that I DO NOT LOSE.”

The host blinks. “So… is that a yes?”

Stacey groans.

And somewhere in the deep, dark void of the internet—Jhoanna Robles is probably smirking.

In the quiet of the cafe, the sun setting outside, Mikha, Aiah, and Colet are gathered around Aiah’s phone, watching the absolute best thing they had ever seen unfold in real-time.

Stacey. Spiraling. Live.

The radio interview plays on-screen, Stacey in full-blown meltdown mode, pacing the studio, dragging her hands through her hair like she is experiencing a crisis of biblical proportions.

“IS THIS A PROPOSAL??” Stacey shrieks at the host.

Mikha burst out laughing, nearly dropping her cup. “Oh my god, this is so good.”

“I love this,” Colet declares, eyes twinkling as she took another sip of her coffee. “This is so good.”

Aiah, cackling into her sleeve, could barely breathe. “I—I have never seen her this unhinged. Ever.”

“She deserves this,” Mikha says, shaking her head. “For all the chaos she’s put us through? This is karma. This is divine justice.”

On-screen, Stacey slams her hands on the table, glaring at the host.

“You tell Jhoanna Robles—THAT ANNOYINGLY BEAUTIFUL MENACE—THAT I DO NOT LOSE.”

Colet lets out a wheeze. “ANNOYINGLY BEAUTIFUL MENACE. I can’t—”

Aiah, crying actual tears, rewinds the clip. “No, no, we need to hear that again.”

Mikha, grinning like a menace, drapes herself over Aiah’s shoulders, watching over her phone. “She’s panicking so hard. Like, look at her hands.”

Aiah zooms in. Stacey’s fingers are white-knuckled around her coffee cup, her knee bouncing wildly under the table.

“She’s dying inside,” Colet notes, deeply pleased.

“She deserves it,” Aiah says simply.

Mikha nods. “For all the times she nearly got us doxxed? For throwing me into internet chaos? For the marriage rumors?”

“For the accidental hard launch?” Colet adds helpfully.

“Exactly.”

They clink their cups together in solidarity, reveling in Stacey’s suffering.

Then—

Aiah’s phone buzzes violently.

They glance at the screen.

Incoming Call: Stacku

The three of them immediately loses it.

“Oh my god,” Aiah gasps. “SHE KNOWS.”

“She’s calling for help,” Colet grins, eyes gleaming.

Mikha casually sips her coffee. “Let her suffer.”

Aiah, fully entertained, let it ring.

On-screen, the host is still wheezing, trying to wrap up the interview, but Stacey isn’t even listening anymore—she’s staring at her phone, jaw clenched, clearly seeing them ignore her call in real-time.

Mikha smirks. “She’s so mad.”

“She should be,” Colet muses, still watching. “That’s exactly how I felt when the internet started spiraling about me.”

Aiah wince. “Okay, yeah, fair point.”

Stacey’s call ends.

Then—another buzz.

Incoming Message: Stacku
YOU TRAITORS PICK UP THE PHONE. I KNOW YOU’RE WATCHING.

Aiah casually locks her screen. “Nope.”

And just like that, karma had never tasted sweeter.

Aiah sets her phone down, completely ignoring Stacey’s all-caps death threats, and takes a sip of her coffee.

Across from her, Colet leans back in her chair, legs crossed, completely unbothered. Mikha, ever the agent of chaos, scrolls through Twitter with an amused smirk, watching Stacey’s name skyrocket up the trending list.

And then—

BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.

Aiah sighs, already knowing what’s coming.

She picks up her phone, puts Stacey on speaker, and sets it on the table.

Immediately, the yelling begins.

“YOU TRAITORS. YOU ABSOLUTE MENACES TO SOCIETY. PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONES WHEN I CALL.”

Aiah props her elbow on the table, lazily chewing on her straw. “We did pick up. Hi, Stacku.”

Mikha grins. “You good, bestie?”

“NO, I’M NOT GOOD.” Stacey screeches, pacing audibly on the other end of the line. “JHOANNA ROBLES IS PROPOSING TO ME IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE DAMN COUNTRY.”

Colet hums thoughtfully. “Is it a proposal, though?”

“SHE DEDICATED HER FAVORITE LOVE SONG TO ME ON LIVE TELEVISION.”

Mikha whistles. “Romantic.”

“IT WAS A SETUP.”

Aiah snorts. “A setup for what? Marriage?”

“FOR THE INTERNET TO EAT ME ALIVE.”

Mikha, enjoying this far too much, clicks a link on Twitter. “Oh, look. #MARRYHERSTACEY is trending. People are already making wedding edits.”

“I AM GOING TO SCREAM.”

Colet cackles. “You already are.”

A loud, exasperated groan comes from the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Stacey dramatically flopping onto what is probably her couch.

“This is a nightmare,” Stacey mutters. “A waking nightmare.”

Aiah taps her fingers against her cup. “I mean… Jhoanna is hot.”

A sharp silence.

Then—

“I AM HANGING UP ON YOU.”

“Stacks, be real.” Aiah smirks, crossing her legs. “You always talk about how annoying she is, but you never said she was ugly.”

Mikha, who has been waiting her entire life for this moment, leans in with a grin. “Exactly. What’s the real issue here?”

Stacey splutters. “THE ISSUE IS THAT SHE’S DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.”

Aiah smirks. “And it’s working.”

“I HATE YOU.”

“No, you don’t.”

“NO, BUT I HATE HER.”

Mikha checks Twitter again. “Hmm. Doesn’t seem like it. You’re number one trending nationwide.”

Stacey lets out a noise that sounds like her soul leaving her body.

Colet whistles. “The power of a woman in love.”

“I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH JHOANNA ROBLES.”

Aiah rests her chin on her hand. “Okay, but if she actually proposes, will you say yes?”

Silence.

Then—

A dial tone.

Stacey hangs up.

For a second, the three of them just stare at the phone.

Then, as one, they burst into laughter.

Mikha wipes a tear from her eye. “She’s spiraling so hard.”

Aiah sighs, still grinning. “Karma. It always finds its way.”

Colet raises her coffee cup like a toast. “To Jhoanna Robles.”

Mikha clinks her cup against hers. “To making Stacey absolutely lose it.”

Aiah joins in. “And to us. For getting front-row seats to the chaos.”

And just like that—Stacey’s downfall is officially their new favorite reality show.

Chapter Text

The sun is barely up when Aiah stirs awake, the first traces of morning light seeping through the curtains, painting the room in soft, golden hues. The scent of coffee drifts in from the kitchen—warm, rich, familiar.

Mikha is already up.

Aiah blinks, stretches, and groans at the thought of leaving the comfort of their bed. But the promise of coffee, and more importantly, Mikha, is enough to drag her out from beneath the covers.

She pads barefoot into the kitchen, hair slightly a mess, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, still halfway caught in sleep. Mikha is standing by the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs, her hair pulled into a loose pony tail, still wearing the tank top and pajama shorts she fell asleep in.

Aiah leans against the doorway, watching her for a second.

“How are you already functional?” she mumbles.

Mikha grins, handing her a mug. “Years of training.”

Aiah takes a sip, sighing as the warmth settles into her bones. She shuffles closer, pressing her forehead against Mikha’s shoulder, melting into her like second nature.

Mikha chuckles. “You’re such a cat in the morning.”

“Mmm,” Aiah hums. “Your fault for making me comfortable.”

Mikha kisses her temple before turning back to the stove, flipping something on the pan. Aiah watches as she moves, effortlessly at home in this space, in their space.

“What’s for breakfast?”

Mikha smirks. “Guess.”

Aiah peeks over her shoulder, and—of course. Fried rice, eggs cooked just right, golden chorizo glistening beside crisp strips of dried fish. The same breakfast Mikha made for her that morning after the storm, back when things were still uncertain, still unspoken.

Aiah grins. “You’re so sentimental.”

Mikha rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.

They eat together by the window, the island slowly waking outside, waves lapping gently against the shore. Aiah steals food from Mikha’s plate, Mikha lets her. It’s easy, it’s soft, it’s theirs.

After breakfast, they fall into the rhythm of the day.

Mikha leaves for the cafe first, setting up for the morning rush, while Aiah lingers in their little home, scrolling through emails she hasn’t answered yet.

Some are from brands, still trying to get her to collaborate despite her having stepped out of the limelight. A well-known skincare company wants her to be their ambassador. A streaming platform is inquiring about a documentary on her transition from showbiz to island life. A high-end designer is offering to send her pieces from their new summer collection, no strings attached.

It’s strange—how the world still wants a piece of her, even now.

She stares at the emails for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But then, from the open window, she hears the distant sound of Mikha’s laughter drifting in from the cafe.

Aiah exhales, closes her laptop, and follows.

She slips into the cafe an hour later, greeting regulars, stealing another cup of coffee straight from Mikha’s hands.

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Did you even try to answer your emails?”

Aiah takes a slow sip, grinning. “Mmm, nope.”

The hours pass in warmth, in stolen glances, in fingertips grazing as Mikha hands her a plate, in Aiah tying Mikha’s apron for her when she’s in too much of a rush.

In-between moments.

Domestic, mundane, perfect.

By late afternoon, the cafe slows. Aiah sneaks behind the counter, wrapping her arms around Mikha’s waist, pressing a lazy kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“You smell like coffee,” she murmurs.

Mikha smirks. “So do you.”

Aiah hums. “Occupational hazard of loving you, I guess.”

Mikha turns in her arms, eyes softening, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Aiah’s ear.

“Not complaining, I hope?”

Aiah grins. “Never.”

And when the day finally winds down, when the last customer leaves and the cafe is quiet again, they walk home together, hand in hand, the night air cool against their skin.

They fall into bed, limbs tangled, Aiah tracing lazy patterns on Mikha’s back, Mikha humming some old song against her temple.

It’s ordinary.

Uncomplicated.

The kind of happiness Aiah never thought she’d have.

But here, wrapped up in Mikha, in this life they built together—

She thinks this might be everything.

The next day starts like any other day at the cafe—warm sunlight streaming through the open windows, the scent of coffee thick in the air, the hum of chatter blending with the distant sound of waves.

Aiah is perched on her usual stool by the counter, pretending to help while mostly stealing sips from the drink Mikha made for herself. Mikha, ever patient, simply shakes her head and lets her.

Colet strolls in, guitar slung over her shoulder, sunglasses pushed into her hair. “I just came to check in, but I’m sensing something is about to happen.”

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “You sensed it?”

Colet grins. “It’s a gift.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but before she can retort, the door chimes. A young couple walks in—regulars, the kind who always sit in the same spot by the window, who share pastries and whisper like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

And this time—

One of them looks nervous.

Mikha catches it first—the way the guy keeps checking his pocket, the way his fingers twitch, the way his eyes flick toward his girlfriend like he’s carrying something too big to hold inside any longer.

She nudges Aiah.

Aiah follows her gaze. “Oh.”

The cafe quiets just slightly.

And then—

“I can’t wait any longer.”

The words come in a rush.

The guy—Leon, Aiah remembers—drops to one knee right there in the middle of the cafe, pulling out a small, velvet box with shaking hands. His girlfriend gasps, hands flying to her mouth, and for a second, everything else in the world ceases to exist.

“I was gonna wait for the perfect moment,” Leon says, voice trembling, “but you love this cafe. We always come here, and this just feels right. So—” He swallows. “Will you marry me?”

Silence.

A beat.

And then—

“Yes!”

The cafe erupts into cheers. Aiah claps, Mikha smirks, Colet whistles, and someone from the back yells, “ABOUT TIME, BRO!”

Mikha shakes her head, laughing, as the couple embraces.

And then—because Colet is Colet—

“Well, since this is turning into a full rom-com moment…” She swings her guitar forward, tuning it with a practiced ease.

Aiah grins. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Colet corrects. “For the newly engaged couple, a little something.”

She plucks the first notes of Can’t Help Falling in Love, her voice smooth, warm, carrying through the cafe like it belongs there.

The newly engaged couple sways, lost in their own world.

Aiah leans against the counter, watching as Mikh’s fingers immediately brushed against her wrist in a dance so soft it could lull her to sleep, a small, fond smile playing on her lips.

“You know,” Aiah murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “this place has seen a lot of love.”

Mikha hums. “Including ours?”

Aiah glances at her. “Especially ours.”

Mikha chuckles. “Good.”

Colet catches them looking at each other, and without missing a beat in her song, winks dramatically.

Aiah groans. Mikha just laughs.

And in that little cafe by the sea, love lingers in every corner, in every stolen glance, in every note of a song played for two hearts choosing each other—again and again.

Later that night, the cafe quiets down, the last customers long gone, leaving only the scent of brewed coffee and the distant sound of waves rolling onto the shore. The soft hum of the overhead fan fills the space as Aiah wipes down the counter, Mikha flipping the chairs onto tables, moving through the routine with practiced ease.

It had been a good day. A beautiful one, even. The kind of day that reminds Aiah why she loves being here.

Mikha stretches, rolling her shoulders as she exhales. “You tired?”

Aiah shakes her head, setting the cloth down. “Not really.”

Mikha watches her for a moment, something unreadable in her gaze, before she steps forward—slow, deliberate. “Good,” she murmurs. “Dance with me.”

Aiah blinks. “What?”

Mikha tilts her head toward the old speaker near the register. “One song,” she says, voice softer now, a little nostalgic. “Before we call it a night.”

Aiah hesitates—only for a second. Because Mikha is standing there, waiting, offering something quiet, something tender.

And Aiah—Aiah has never been good at saying no to her.

So she exhales, shaking her head with a small, amused smile. “Alright,” she murmurs.

Mikha’s lips twitch into something warm before she walks over, pressing a few buttons on the speaker.

Aiah lets out a breathless laugh. “Colet really got to you, huh?”

Mikha grins, stepping closer, offering her hand. “Maybe.”

Mikha’s fingers curl around hers, warm and steady, grounding.

The soft, crackling notes of Can’t Help Falling in Love hum through the speaker, slow and delicate, filling the space between them.

Wise men say... only fools rush in... but I can't help falling in love with you...

Aiah lets Mikha pull her in, her hands finding their place against Mikha’s shoulders, Mikha’s arms wrapping around her waist in a way that feels familiar.

Like they’ve always done this before.

Like they’ll do it again.

They sway, slowly, without thought, without need for rhythm.

Just the two of them, moving as if they were made to.

The warmth of Mikha’s hands seeps through the fabric of Aiah’s shirt, spreading through her skin, sinking into her bones.

Aiah exhales, letting herself rest her cheek against Mikha’s shoulder, the scent of coffee and salt and Mikha filling her lungs.

Mikha’s fingers skim over the small of her back—barely there, but enough to make Aiah’s pulse stutter.

A moment stretches.

Then another.

Mikha lets out a quiet breath, her chin brushing Aiah’s jaw, barely a touch, but it sends something shivering down Aiah’s spine.

Aiah swallows. “You’re being sentimental.”

Mikha hums, swaying a little slower, pulling Aiah just a fraction closer. “You make me sentimental.”

Aiah’s grip tightens slightly.

She wants to say something, to fill the space with words that might match the weight of this moment.

But she can’t.

Because what is there to say, really?

What words could possibly capture the way Mikha holds her?

The way their bodies fit together like they were always meant to?

The way Aiah can feel Mikha’s heartbeat, steady against her own, their breaths syncing into something soft, something unspoken?

Mikha shifts, just slightly, just enough to let her forehead rest against Aiah’s.

Aiah closes her eyes.

Feels the warmth of her. The nearness. The quiet pull of something too big for words.

Mikha’s thumb brushes small, absent circles against Aiah’s back.

“I love you,” she murmurs.

Aiah stills.

Her breath catches, heart tripping over itself, the words sinking in, warm and quiet and sure.

It’s not a grand declaration. Not a confession laced with expectation.

It’s just true.

Simple. Certain. Like it’s always been there, waiting to be said.

Aiah swallows past the tightness in her throat, her fingers curling slightly against Mikha’s shoulders.

She exhales, gently presses her forehead against Mikha’s, lets the moment settle between them.

Then, soft, just for her—

“I love you, too,” she whispers.

The song fades into silence, but neither of them moves to pull away. They're still swaying softly in the empty cafe, the warmth of their bodies pressed close, the hum of the night settling around them.

The world outside is quiet, the tide rolling in gentle waves against the shore, but here—here, wrapped in Mikha’s arms, there is nowhere else Aiah wants to be.

Mikha’s breath is warm against her cheek, her hands steady on the small of Aiah’s back, fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric of her dress. They aren’t dancing anymore—not really. Just holding each other, rocking in place, like neither of them is ready to let go.

Aiah turns her head slightly, her nose brushing against Mikha’s.

Mikha stills, her grip tightening just a little, as if she can feel the shift in the air between them.

Aiah’s lips twitch into a small smile. “You always hold me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

Mikha exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s something real beneath it, something that makes Aiah’s chest ache in ways she doesn’t have the words for.

“I’m not afraid,” Mikha murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I just—” She stops, swallows, tilts her head like she’s searching for the right words. “I just like holding you.”

Aiah’s breath catches.

It’s simple.

Uncomplicated.

But that’s what makes it so devastatingly heartwarming.

Mikha has never been one for grand declarations. She speaks in actions, in quiet devotion, in the steady way she makes space for Aiah—never demanding, never expecting, just there.

And Aiah—Aiah has spent so much of her life performing, curating, existing under the weight of the public’s gaze.

But here, in the hush of the night, with Mikha looking at her like she’s something worth holding onto—

This is the kind of love that feels real.

Aiah lets out a slow breath, her fingers trailing up Mikha’s arms before settling against the curve of her jaw.

Mikha leans into the touch, eyes flickering to Aiah’s lips.

Then back to her eyes.

A question lingers there, unspoken but clear.

Aiah exhales, her heart steady now, sure in a way she once wasn’t.

She closes the distance between them, pressing her lips to Mikha’s in a kiss that is soft, slow—anchored not in urgency, but in something stronger, something that has been building long before this moment.

Mikha exhales against her mouth, her hands pulling Aiah closer, pressing them together like something inevitable. She kisses her back, deepening it just slightly—like she’s savoring the moment, like she has no intention of letting go.

And neither does Aiah.

Because they are home.

This is the warmth she’s spent a lifetime chasing, the quiet certainty she didn’t know she was allowed to have. Mikha’s lips taste like coffee, like the salt of the sea breeze, like something warm and safe and endless. But it’s not just a taste. It’s her.

It’s the way she loves without expectation. The way she gives without needing anything in return. The way she looks at Aiah like she has never been anything but enough.

Aiah’s fingers slide into Mikha’s hair, sighing softly against her lips, and Mikha smiles into the kiss, like she knows, like she feels it too.

The way she makes this tiny cafe on a quiet island feel like it holds the entire world.

The way she makes Aiah feel free.

The kiss slows, but they don’t pull away.

Not yet.

Mikha rests her forehead against Aiah’s, their breaths mingling, the space between them charged with something heavier, something deeper.

Mikha hums softly. “You taste like cinnamon.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh. “You taste like coffee.”

Mikha grins. “We make a good pair.”

Aiah hums, running her thumb along Mikha’s cheek. “Yeah.”

Silence settles between them again, but it’s different now—thicker, heavier, something unspoken weaving between their heartbeats.

Aiah closes her eyes for a second, lets herself sink into the feeling, lets herself settle in the fact that she was always meant to choose this.

Mikha presses the softest kiss to the corner of her lips. “Let’s go home?”

Aiah opens her eyes.

Home.

It’s not a place anymore.

It’s Mikha.

Aiah exhales, her lips curling into a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Let’s go home.”

And as Mikha laces their fingers together, leading her out of the cafe and into the warm night—

Aiah thinks that, for the first time in her life, she doesn’t feel the need to look back.

A Few Months Later: A Wedding at the Beach

The sun hangs low on the horizon, bleeding gold across the island, casting long shadows that sway with the rhythm of the tide. The sky is a masterpiece of soft pinks and deep oranges, painted as if the universe itself is blessing this moment. The sea hums its quiet song in the distance, a lullaby of waves that rise and fall in gentle applause.

The wedding is simple in the way only island weddings can be—where love is not a grand spectacle but something woven into the very fabric of the place. The salty breeze carries the scent of orchids and saltwater, and lanterns sway from the trees, their glow flickering like the heartbeat of the evening.

Mikha and Aiah sit among the guests, their shoulders nearly touching, watching as Leon and Trisha stand before each other, their vows trembling at the edges, thick with meaning. The air around them is heavy, charged with something tender and unspoken, something that lingers in the hush between words.

Aiah exhales softly.

Mikha notices. She always does.

She turns her head, just slightly, but Aiah isn’t looking at her. Her eyes are fixed ahead, on Leon and Trisha, on the way they look at each other—like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. Like nothing else has ever mattered.

Mikha’s fingers twitch against her lap. There’s a pull, subtle but insistent, something she doesn’t dare name. And before she can think, before she can hesitate—

Aiah’s hand finds hers.

Fingers slotting together like second nature.

Like inevitability.

Mikha doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just feels it. The warmth of Aiah’s palm, the quiet certainty in the way she holds on just a little tighter as Leon wipes a tear from Trisha’s cheek.

The island has always been full of love, Mikha realizes.

Not just in grand declarations, not just in the words spoken beneath archways of flowers, but in the quiet, steady things. In the way fishermen bring extra food to the cafe without being asked. In the way neighbors leave fresh fruit by each other’s doors, no note, no expectation. In the way Yaya still keeps the light on at the hostel, even when no guests are arriving.

And in this—

Aiah’s hand in hers. Held beneath the setting sun, like a promise neither of them has to say aloud.

Mikha squeezes gently.

Aiah glances at her. Their eyes meet, something shifting in the space between them, something soft and unguarded.

And then, without thinking, without warning—

Aiah leans in and presses a kiss to Mikha’s cheek.

It’s barely more than a breath, light and fleeting, but it lingers. The warmth of it, the meaning of it, settles deep in Mikha’s chest, tangling with the rhythm of the waves, the weight of the evening.

For a breath, time stretches. The moment is golden, delicate, untouchable.

And then—

Chaos arrives.

Colet, seated a few rows behind, lifts her phone to capture the scene—the sun dipping into the waves, the warm glow of lanterns flickering against the dusky sky, the wedding bathed in light. A simple, quiet snapshot.

She posts it without thinking.

An Instagram story.

No couple in focus. Just a wide shot of the beach, the sea, the sky—

And, entirely by accident, in the bottom corner of the frame—

Aiah and Mikha.

Hands intertwined.

Aiah leaning in.

Lips pressed softly against Mikha’s cheek.

Mikha, frozen in the golden light, caught in the moment, eyes closed just slightly—like she’s feeling it in every inch of her being.

Like it’s theirs.

The internet does not take it lightly.

Within minutes, the post is shared, zoomed in, dissected.

@aiahupdates: “HELLO?? THIS IS FROM COLET’S STORY. LOOK AT THE BOTTOM RIGHT. LOOK AT THEM. LOOK AT THEM.”

@baristasupremacy: “NO WAY. NO WAY DID SHE ACCIDENTALLY HARD LAUNCH THEM AGAIN. LMAO.”

@aiaharchives:  “If missing Aiah means she gets to have this kind of love, then I’m okay with missing her forever.”

@aiahswifeu: “This isn’t even about the wedding anymore. This is THEIR wedding now.”

And then—just as the storm reaches its peak—

Stacey retweets the fan grabbed image from Colet's Instagram Story.

One word.

Finally.

And the internet explodes. Again. Because what is chaos without Stacey, really?

Colet, blissfully unaware of the wildfire she’s just ignited, frowns as her phone begins vibrating nonstop.

“Oh, for f—” she mutters, staring at her screen, watching as her Twitter notifications spiral out of control.

Mikha and Aiah, meanwhile, are still lost in their moment, still holding onto each other beneath the pastel sky.

Blissfully unaware.

Chapter Text

The first thing Aiah notices when she wakes up is the space beside her, cool and empty.

She exhales slowly, eyes fluttering open to the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains. The house is quiet—too quiet. There are no slow footsteps padding across the wooden floor, no soft clang of a spoon against ceramic, no steady hum of the coffee maker filling the air with the rich scent of something warm, something familiar.

Just stillness.

Aiah turns onto her back, her gaze tracing the ceiling, as if waiting for the weight of the day to settle over her. It always does, eventually. The life she lives now is slower, measured in the rise and fall of the tide rather than the flash of a camera or the dictates of a call sheet. And yet, even here, even in the safety of the home she has built with Mikha, she cannot fully shed the habits of before.

She is always waiting—for something to pull her back into the life she left behind.

A part of her wonders if she has truly let go, or if she is merely lingering in the quiet, waiting to see if the world will call her back.

The bed feels too big without Mikha in it. She frowns. Mikha never sleeps in, but she also doesn’t leave without a word.

Aiah pushes herself up, stretching lazily, letting her body wake in its own time. The moment her feet touch the cool floor, the silence is interrupted.

A low, distant rumble.

Faint at first, then growing louder, vibrating through the morning air.

A motorcycle.

Aiah’s eyes flick toward the window. The sound is coming from the front gate, unmistakable now, a disruption to the quiet that has settled in her bones. It stops abruptly, followed by the familiar creak of the front door.

Then footsteps.

And then—

“Good morning, love.”

Aiah turns as Mikha steps inside, looking like she knows she’s been caught. The sleeves of her button-down are shoved up to her elbows, her hair tousled from the wind, her lips curling into a smile that is all sheepish charm and hopeful innocence.

Aiah studies her for a moment. There is something grounding about Mikha’s presence, something that makes the edges of Aiah’s restless thoughts settle, like waves breaking softly against the shore.

But she still crosses her arms. “Where were you?”

Mikha steps closer, pressing a kiss to Aiah’s lips—unhurried, easy, as if that will erase the question entirely.

“Out,” she says simply.

Aiah narrows her eyes. “Out where?”

Mikha hums, reaching out to tap a gentle finger under Aiah’s chin, tilting her face slightly. “Getting ready for our adventure.”

Aiah raises a brow, skepticism creeping into her voice. “Adventure?”

Mikha grins, the kind of grin that is both promise and mischief, the kind that makes it impossible to say no.

“Yep,” she says. “So hurry up and change into something comfortable. We have places to be.”

Aiah exhales, studying her for a moment longer before shaking her head.

When they step outside, Aiah stops short.

Parked in front of their house is a scooter. Not just any scooter—one she recognizes.

She turns to Mikha. “That’s Colet’s.”

Mikha nods, clearly pleased with herself. “Yep. Borrowed it for the day.”

Aiah eyes it warily. “Please tell me you got helmets.”

Mikha just grins, swinging a leg over the scooter effortlessly. “Love, I’m a really good driver. You don’t need to worry.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Mikha pats the seat behind her. “Trust me.”

Aiah hesitates, glancing between Mikha’s easy confidence and the undeniably helmet-less ride.

“Do you want me to worry?” she mutters, climbing onto the scooter anyway.

Mikha laughs, reaching back to squeeze Aiah’s knee before revving the engine. “Hold on tight.”

The island unfurls before them, a winding stretch of road threading through towering coconut trees and dense clusters of banana groves. The ocean glimmers in the distance, the horizon seamless where the sky melts into the water. Sunlight dapples the pavement, slipping through swaying fronds, casting flickering patterns on the ground as Mikha maneuvers the scooter with effortless ease.

Aiah tightens her arms around Mikha’s waist, resting her cheek lightly against her shoulder. The hum of the engine beneath them is steady, a soft contrast to the rush of wind against her skin. She watches as the world moves around them, slow and unhurried—nothing like the city she left behind.

They pass through small villages where life spills into the open. Children run barefoot along the roadsides, kicking up dust as they chase each other with wild, unrestrained laughter. Women sit outside their homes, weaving baskets or washing clothes in metal basins, their voices carrying in lilting conversation. An old man, crouched by the roadside, waves as they pass, his face creased with the kind of smile that belongs to someone who has known this island his whole life.

Mikha lifts a hand in greeting before turning onto a narrow dirt path, slowing as they approach a small roadside shop nestled between tall banana trees. The scent of something warm and sweet lingers in the air, mixing with the faint smokiness of coconut husks burning somewhere nearby. A wooden sign, hand-painted and slightly weathered, hangs by the entrance: Original Moron.

Mikha parks the scooter and hops off in one smooth motion. “Breakfast,” she announces, already tugging off her sleeves.

Aiah raises an eyebrow as she follows, stretching her legs. “And this isn’t just an excuse to stop for sweets?”

Mikha grins, nudging her playfully. “It can be both.”

Inside, the shop is small but inviting, the walls lined with shelves of homemade goods—jars of mango jam, stacks of suman wrapped tightly in banana leaves, bottles of fermented coconut vinegar. At the counter, an elderly couple brightens at the sight of Mikha, their faces creasing into warm, familiar smiles.

“Ah, Mikha!” The old woman wipes her hands on her apron before pulling Mikha into a brief hug. “It’s been a while, anak.”

Mikha laughs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I know, I know. I should visit more, Lola.”

The old man chuckles from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Mikha. Thought you forgot about us old folks.”

Mikha grins, shaking her head. “Never, Lolo. Just been busy.”

The woman beside him, eyes sharp with warmth, turns her attention to Aiah. “And who’s this lovely young woman?”

Mikha doesn’t miss a beat. “This is my girlfriend, Aiah.”

The words are effortless, unhesitating, as if they’ve always belonged to her mouth.

Aiah feels a quiet heat creep up her ears, but it isn’t embarrassment—it’s something softer, something steady. The way Mikha had said it, without any need for explanation or caution, settles deep in her chest.

The woman hums, eyes twinkling as she studies Aiah. “So beautiful.” She reaches out, giving Aiah’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Lucky girl, our Mikha.”

Aiah ducks her head slightly, a small, shy smile forming despite herself. She isn’t used to being introduced this way—with such certainty, with such rightness.

Mikha squeezes her hand, grounding her, before the woman waves them both toward the back. “Come, come. You two are just in time. The moron is still warm.”

Aiah lets Mikha pull her along, her heart swelling with something she doesn’t quite name.

She just knows she likes the way it feels.

The kitchen is simple—an open space where large wooden tables are covered in trays of half-wrapped moron, the sticky rice infused with chocolate and coconut, its rich aroma curling through the air. Several women are gathered, rolling and folding each piece into neat bundles before tucking them into banana leaves. Their hands move with practiced ease, a rhythm passed down through generations.

Aiah watches as one of them carefully ties a finished roll with a strip of thin twine, placing it onto a growing pile. Mikha, beside her, reaches for a freshly wrapped piece and hands it over.

“You used to come here a lot?” Aiah asks, rolling the still-warm delicacy between her fingers.

Mikha nods, watching as Aiah takes her first bite. “My grandparents used to bring me here every Sunday.”

Aiah hums, the taste sinking onto her tongue—soft, sweet, the deep richness of cocoa blending seamlessly with the mild saltiness of coconut milk. The texture is dense yet smooth, each bite melting in her mouth.

She swallows, licking a crumb from her lip. “It’s good.”

Mikha smirks, bumping their shoulders together. “Told you.”

The old woman, watching them with clear amusement, suddenly pushes a wooden spoon into Aiah’s hands.

“You want to try making one?”

Aiah blinks at the unexpected challenge. She glances at the sticky rice mixture, then at Mikha, who is very clearly trying to stifle a laugh.

“I—” Aiah exhales, rolling up her sleeves. “Fine. But if mine looks ugly, I’m blaming you.”

Mikha grins, stepping closer as Aiah hesitantly scoops a spoonful of the mixture.

“Don’t worry, love,” Mikha murmurs, leaning in just slightly, voice warm with teasing. “I’ll still eat it, even if it turns out terrible.”

Aiah shoots her a glare, but the corners of her lips twitch upward despite herself.

She presses her fingers into the sticky dough, feeling its warmth and slight resistance. It clings to her skin, heavier than she expected, and she fumbles slightly as she tries to smooth it into shape. The women around her move effortlessly, hands swift and practiced as they roll and wrap each piece with ease. In comparison, Aiah feels clumsy, her movements stiff and uncertain.

Mikha, of course, is enjoying every second of it.

“Okay, not bad,” Mikha muses, watching as Aiah attempts to press a strip of chocolate into the center. “Could use a little more confidence, though.”

Aiah huffs, narrowing her eyes at the dough in her hands. “If I knew we were doing this today, I would’ve mentally prepared.”

Mikha grins, leaning in slightly. “For rolling moron? Love, it’s not that serious.”

Aiah glares at her. “Says the person who’s not doing anything.”

Mikha chuckles, finally picking up a banana leaf and effortlessly folding it into a neat cone. “I’m supervising.”

Aiah exhales through her nose, carefully rolling the rice into shape before placing it onto the leaf. It’s… not perfect. It’s slightly lopsided, uneven at the edges, and compared to the neatly wrapped pieces stacked on the trays, it looks like it was made in a rush.

Still, she folds the banana leaf around it, fumbling slightly with the twine as she tries to tie it securely.

Mikha watches, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, she picks up Aiah’s finished roll and turns it over in her hands with exaggerated scrutiny.

Aiah braces herself for teasing.

Instead, Mikha hums approvingly. “Not bad.”

Aiah blinks. “Seriously?”

Mikha nods, a playful glint in her eyes. “It’s got… character.”

Aiah narrows her gaze. “That sounds like a nice way of saying it looks terrible.”

Mikha laughs, bumping their shoulders together. “Hey, it’s your first time. If you really want me to be honest—” She holds up the piece again, tilting her head as if contemplating. “It’s a little sad-looking. But it’s also kind of cute.”

Aiah groans, covering her face with one hand. “I knew you were going to say something like that.”

Mikha grins. “You still did a good job.”

The old woman chuckles as she takes Aiah’s finished roll and places it onto the tray with the rest. “Not bad for a first-timer,” she agrees, patting Aiah’s shoulder. “You’ll get better with practice.”

Aiah exhales, shaking her head. “You’re assuming I’ll be doing this again, Lola.”

Mikha nudges her playfully. “Oh, you will. Next time, I’ll even make one with you.”

Aiah side-eyes her. “You mean for me?”

Mikha just smirks, handing her a warm piece of moron wrapped neatly in a fresh banana leaf. “Here. A consolation prize for all your hard work.”

Aiah sighs, but there’s no real frustration in it. She peels back the leaf and takes a bite, letting the rich, familiar sweetness settle on her tongue.

If this is the reward, maybe she doesn’t mind trying again after all.

The scent of freshly made moron lingers in the air as they step back into the front of the shop, where the old couple is already wrapping small bundles of sweets for them to take on the road.

“You two should come by more often,” the old woman says as she hands the package to Mikha. “Bring your ganda girlfriend again next time.”

Mikha grins, easily slipping an arm around Aiah’s waist. “I will, Lola.”

Aiah, still unused to being spoken about so fondly, ducks her head slightly, but the warmth in her chest stays.

The old man chuckles. “Take care on the road. And Mikha—don’t scare the poor girl with your driving.”

Mikha gasps in mock offense. “I never scare her.”

Aiah snorts. “That’s a lie.”

The old couple laughs as Mikha tugs Aiah toward the scooter, shaking their heads in amusement. As they climb onto the seat, Aiah settles behind Mikha, arms slipping naturally around her waist.

“Ready?” Mikha asks, her voice low, steady, familiar.

Aiah tightens her grip just slightly, pressing her cheek against Mikha’s shoulder once more.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Let’s go.”

The scooter rumbles to life beneath them, and they pull back onto the road, the island stretching out before them once again—an unbroken path, waiting to be explored.

After some time, the road bends, narrowing as they leave the last traces of the village behind. The sound of the engine hums beneath them, steady and rhythmic, as the sea stretches wider to their right. The salty air thickens, mingling with the warmth of the afternoon sun, and Aiah watches as the horizon shifts—unchanging, yet never quite the same.

Mikha slows the scooter as they near a small dirt path, overgrown with grass, leading toward the water.

“Where are we?” Aiah asks, lifting her head from Mikha’s shoulder as she glances around.

Mikha doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she kicks the stand into place and swings off the scooter with ease, stretching her arms above her head. “Come on,” she says, tilting her head toward the path.

Aiah follows, brushing strands of hair away from her face as the wind picks up. It isn’t long before the structure comes into view—a weathered church standing alone against the backdrop of the sea.

The building is old, its stone walls rough with age, darkened by time and salt air. Moss clings to the cracks, creeping along the edges where the earth meets the foundation. The wooden doors, thick and worn, bear the weight of years, yet they remain standing—unyielding, like the rest of it.

Aiah exhales, slowing her steps. “It’s beautiful.”

Mikha smiles, watching her. “Yeah. It’s been here for centuries. Survived every storm that’s hit the island.”

Aiah steps forward, trailing her fingers lightly against the stone. It’s cool beneath her touch, solid and unmoving despite the years it has endured. There is something about it—something steady, something ancient, something that feels like a quiet defiance against time itself.

Mikha leans against the entrance, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. “My Lola used to bring me here,” she says, voice softer now. “Not because she was religious, but because she believed places like this carried the memories of the people who came before us.”

Aiah looks back at her. “Do you believe that?”

Mikha’s lips curve slightly, but she doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she pushes off the doorframe and steps inside, gesturing for Aiah to follow.

The inside of the church is just as weathered as the exterior. Wooden pews line the stone floor, their edges smoothed by time and the hands of those who once knelt before them. The high ceiling is open, allowing the wind to pass through with ease, carrying with it the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

There are no grand stained-glass windows, no gilded chandeliers—just simple carvings of saints tucked into the alcoves, their faces softened by age, watching in quiet stillness.

Aiah tilts her head upward, letting the hush of the space settle into her bones. It feels… different from the churches in the city. There, everything had always felt too much—too bright, too heavy, too suffocating with expectation.

But here, there is only quiet.

No demands. No weight.

Just the steady breath of the ocean, and the presence of something unseen but deeply felt.

Mikha steps beside her, glancing at the altar. “You know, during the worst storms, people still come here to take shelter.”

Aiah glances at her. “Even when everything else is closed?”

Mikha nods. “Especially then.” She exhales, gaze distant. “It’s the one place people know will still be standing after the storm passes.”

Aiah swallows, fingers curling slightly at her sides. There’s something about that thought—something that settles deep inside her.

She isn’t sure what she expected when Mikha brought her here, but now, standing within these walls, feeling the quiet weight of everything they have endured, she thinks she understands.

Mikha looks at her then, studying her carefully, as if sensing the shift in her thoughts.

“I thought you’d like it,” she says simply.

Aiah meets her gaze.

“I do.”

Mikha smiles. Not her usual teasing smirk, not the grin she wears when she’s being playful—but something softer. Something sure.

She reaches for Aiah’s hand, linking their fingers together before tugging her toward the open doorway. “Come on,” she says, squeezing gently. “Let’s go see the ocean before the sun gets too low.”

Aiah follows, the sound of the waves growing louder as they step back into the light.

And behind them, the old church stands, as it always has—watching, waiting, weathering every storm.

By midday, the sun hangs heavy in the sky, casting long shadows over the sand as the tide pulls gently against the shore. The scent of seawater thickens with the aroma of fish grilling over open flames, mingling with the distant sharpness of salt-dried nets and damp wood.

Aiah isn’t sure when exactly Mikha slowed the scooter, or when the winding road gave way to an open stretch of beach, but suddenly, they are here—a quiet cove where a handful of fishermen sit gathered around a makeshift picnic, their weathered hands moving with practiced ease as they eat.

The ocean sprawls behind them, endless and bright, waves licking at the sand in an unhurried rhythm.

Aiah barely has time to take it all in before one of the older men spots them.

“Mikha!” His voice carries easily over the sound of the waves, thick with familiarity. He lifts a hand in greeting, a grin breaking across his sun-darkened face. “Come eat!”

Mikha grins, tugging Aiah forward without hesitation. “See, love?” she murmurs under her breath. “Free food follows me everywhere.”

Aiah huffs, amused but unconvinced. “Or maybe they just feel sorry for you.”

Mikha gasps, clutching her chest in mock offense. But before she can fire back, the fishermen are already making space for them, waving them down to sit among the scattered plates and steaming rice.

The food is simple, but in the kind of way that makes it feel more honest—grilled fish, its skin crisp and glistening with oil; fresh pusit skewered on thin sticks, the edges curled from heat; a wooden bowl of steaming white rice. But it is something else that catches Aiah’s attention.

A small, unassuming dish sits among the others—diced raw fish soaked in something pale and sharp, thin slices of red onion and slivers of chili scattered throughout.

Aiah leans closer to Mikha, lowering her voice. “What… is that?”

Mikha follows her gaze, then smirks. “Kinilaw.”

Aiah doesn’t move. “It looks suspiciously raw.”

Mikha doesn’t hesitate, picking up a piece with her fingers and popping it into her mouth. “It’s just like sashimi,” she says after swallowing. “But with more flavor.”

Aiah eyes the dish warily. She’s had sashimi before—perfectly sliced, delicately plated, paired with soy sauce and wasabi in dimly lit restaurants where quiet jazz hummed in the background. But this? This looks different. Rougher, maybe. Less about presentation and more about taste.

She hesitates.

One of the fishermen notices and lets out a deep chuckle. “First time?”

Aiah glances at Mikha, who is already watching her with barely contained amusement. She exhales, rolling her shoulders back as if preparing for battle. “Yeah.”

The man nods sagely, then gestures toward the bowl. “No better place to try it.”

Aiah sighs, steeling herself before picking up a piece. The fish is firm but tender between her fingers, the vinegar soaking through. She places it on her tongue cautiously.

The sourness hits her first—sharp and bracing—followed by the heat of fresh ginger, the cool bite of onions, the slow burn of chili spreading through the back of her throat. And beneath it all, the fish itself, delicate yet bold, holding its own against the acid.

It isn’t what she expected.

It’s better.

She blinks. “Oh.”

Mikha watches, her expression smug.

Aiah takes another bite. “That’s—” She pauses, rolling the flavors over in her mouth. “That’s really good.”

Mikha bumps their shoulders together, grinning. “Told you.”

Aiah doesn’t argue.

The fishermen laugh, pleased, before returning to their meal, the conversation shifting into easy stories about tides and storms, of summers past and seasons yet to come.

Aiah listens, letting their voices blur into the background, letting the taste of the island settle on her tongue.

After lunch, they walk along the shore, where the sand is warm beneath their feet and the afternoon sun stretches their shadows long against the earth.

The ocean is quieter here, the tide curling in slow, careful waves. Aiah watches as Mikha kicks at the water absentmindedly, their joined hands swinging between them.

Then, after a moment—

“Do you miss it?” Mikha asks, her voice light but deliberate.

Aiah looks up. “The city?”

Mikha nods.

Aiah exhales, tilting her head as she considers. “Sometimes.” She nudges a stray shell with the tip of her foot, watching it tumble before settling back into the sand. “I miss the noise, the late-night food runs, the way things are always moving.”

Mikha doesn’t say anything right away, just watches the waves rolling in and out, waiting.

Aiah squeezes her hand.

“But…” she continues, her voice quieter now, “being here with you has been the best time of my life.”

Mikha stops walking.

Aiah glances at her, a little uncertain, until she sees the look in Mikha’s eyes—something steady, something deep, something like she’s trying to memorize every detail of this moment. The wind-tossed strands of Aiah’s hair, the sunlit reflection in her gaze, the way the words had left her lips like a quiet, unshaken truth.

Mikha lifts Aiah’s hand to her lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

“You don’t regret it?” she asks, voice barely above the hush of the waves.

Aiah shakes her head.

“Not even once.”

Mikha’s thumb traces slow circles against Aiah’s skin, something thoughtful flickering across her expression. Then, as if deciding something, she exhales and tugs Aiah forward, leading them toward the edge of the water.

“Come on,” she says, smiling softly. “We still have more places to see.”

Aiah lets herself be pulled along, the ocean stretching wide beside them.

The city may have been built on movement, but here—here, time is measured in something else entirely.

And Aiah isn’t in a hurry to catch up.

The sun has softened by the time they reach their final stop, stretching golden light over the quiet village, casting long, dappled shadows through the trees. The air is thick with the scent of ripening fruit and earth warmed by the day, the distant call of birds threading through the silence.

The road narrows, giving way to an uneven dirt path lined with wild grass. Then, finally, the trees part to reveal a small house sitting at the edge of the land, caught between past and present.

It is unassuming, modest in size, but there is something about it—something rooted, something kept. The wood is aged by time and weather, the roof slightly faded from years beneath the island sun, but it stands as steady as ever. The trees that surround it have grown deep into the soil, their thick branches stretching over the house like they, too, have always belonged here.

There is no smoke rising from the kitchen, no voices drifting from an open window, but the house does not feel abandoned.

Just… waiting.

Mikha slows the scooter, bringing it to a stop just a few steps from the front porch. But she doesn’t move to get off immediately. Instead, she sits there for a moment, staring at the house, her fingers loose around the handlebars, her expression unreadable.

Then, finally, Mikha exhales.

“This was my childhood home,” she says.

Aiah reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “No one lives here now?”

Mikha shakes her head. “No. My parents couldn’t bring themselves to sell it. We have someone come in once a week to keep the dust from settling, but…” She trails off, exhaling softly. “It’s just here.”

Aiah studies the house again, taking in the way it stands—rooted, unmoving, like something tethered to the past.

“Maybe that’s why it still feels like yours,” she murmurs.

Mikha glances at her, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She turns toward the house fully then, her voice softer when she says, “Come on. I want you to see it.”

Aiah follows as they step onto the porch, where the wood groans gently beneath their weight. The wind shifts, rustling through the trees, the familiar chime of rusted bells hanging by the door filling the silence.

It is easy to picture Mikha here as a child, running barefoot across these planks, calling out to her parents as she scrambled up the trees that still stand tall in the yard. Aiah lets herself linger on the thought, lets herself step into this piece of Mikha’s past.

Mikha moves with quiet familiarity, trailing her fingers along the doorframe. “This spot right here?” She taps the wood, where faint, uneven markings are carved into the surface. “My dad used to mark my height every year.”

Aiah tilts her head, following the faded pencil lines, each one climbing just a little higher.

“You must’ve been excited every time you grew.”

Mikha chuckles. “Oh, for sure. I was obsessed. I Kept checking even when I knew it wasn’t time yet.”

Aiah smiles, picturing it easily—the impatient tilt of a younger Mikha’s face, the way she must’ve stood on her toes, hoping to be just a little taller.

They step inside.

The house is quiet, but it is not empty. It is full—full of history, full of warmth, full of the kind of life that lingers even when no one is there to carry it forward. Aiah glances around, taking in the details—the wooden shelves lined with books worn at the edges, the cabinet filled with delicate ceramic plates that seem like they’ve been passed down through generations. The dining table is covered in a woven tablecloth that looks handmade, soft with use, but undisturbed.

Everything here has been kept, as if waiting for someone to return.

Mikha slows by the wall, where a series of old photographs are framed neatly. Aiah steps closer, peering over her shoulder.

A younger Mikha grins up at the camera, her hair shorter, her face rounder, standing between two adults who share pieces of her. A man with sharp eyes. A woman with the same soft curve of her smile.

Aiah glances at Mikha. “Do you miss them?”

Mikha doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she exhales through her nose, staring at the photo a moment longer before tilting her head slightly.

“Yeah,” she says eventually, voice quieter now. “Sometimes.”

Aiah waits, giving her space to find her words.

Mikha shifts, crossing her arms loosely. “I mean, we still talk. My parents are still in the States, and they’re happy there. My siblings too. And I get it—I really do. I know why they stayed. But…” She pauses, then exhales, shaking her head with a small laugh. “I don’t know. I guess some parts of me just never really left this place.”

Aiah watches her, taking in the way her fingers linger over the edge of the frame, the way her expression holds something soft, something caught between past and present.

Aiah reaches for her hand again, grounding her. “I think this place never really left you either.”

Mikha glances at her, something unreadable flickering behind her gaze before it settles.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Maybe.”

A silence stretches between them, but it is not heavy. It is the kind of quiet that holds things together.

Then, after a moment, Mikha tugs Aiah toward the back door.

“Come on,” she says, her voice lighter now, her fingers warm around Aiah’s wrist. “There’s something I want you to see before sunset.”

Aiah lets herself be led, stepping out into the last golden light of the afternoon.

And for the first time, she feels like she is walking into a part of Mikha’s life she has yet to know.

A place that was waiting for her all along.

As they step outside, the air shifts—lighter, cooler, carrying the distant hush of waves meeting the shore. Mikha doesn’t let go of her hand, guiding her past the back door and toward a narrow dirt path that disappears into the tall grass. The scent of salt lingers, mingling with something faintly sweet, wildflowers brushing against their ankles as they walk.

Just ahead, where the land meets the sky, the edge of the world seems to drop away.

Aiah follows, curiosity threading through her chest. “Where are we going?”

Mikha doesn’t answer, just glances back at her with a knowing smile. “You’ll see.”

The wind picks up as they reach the crest of the land, and then—

Aiah stops.

The cliff stretches out before them, its jagged edges meeting the open sky, and below, the ocean sprawls endlessly, its surface shimmering beneath the dying light. But it’s the sky itself that steals her breath away.

The sun hangs low, swollen and golden, its edges blurred by the horizon. Streaks of amber and crimson spill across the clouds, igniting them from within, bleeding into deep violets and soft pinks. The water mirrors the sky’s colors, shifting like liquid fire, waves catching the last light of the day before surrendering to the encroaching dusk.

It is vast. It is endless.

And it is the most beautiful thing Aiah has ever seen.

Her breath catches in her throat. Her heart swells, pulled too tightly inside her chest, and before she can stop it, tears sting the corners of her eyes.

Mikha watches her quietly. “So?” she murmurs. “Worth the trip?”

Aiah exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… perfect.”

The words feel inadequate, too small to contain the sheer immensity of what she’s looking at. The colors shift every second, never quite the same, like a painting being remade over and over before her eyes. The sky burns, and then it softens, the horizon blurring into something quieter, something softer.

A tear slips down Aiah’s cheek before she can stop it. She huffs out a laugh, wiping at it quickly. “God. I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

Mikha chuckles, stepping closer. “Because it’s beautiful,” she says simply. “Because this is what the quiet side of the island has been hiding all along.”

Aiah glances at her, feeling something shift in her chest.

Maybe it’s the sunset, maybe it’s the air, maybe it’s just her—Mikha, standing there, bathed in the dying light of the day, watching her like she is something just as breathtaking.

Mikha reaches out, brushing a thumb over Aiah’s cheek, wiping away another stray tear. “You okay?”

Aiah nods, laughing softly. “More than okay.”

They stand together at the edge of the world, hands finding each other in the growing twilight.

Mikha lifts Aiah’s hand to her lips, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her knuckles. “I wanted to bring you here,” she murmurs, “because every time I come, I feel like I understand something I didn’t before.”

Aiah swallows, her voice barely above the wind. “And what do you understand now?”

Mikha tilts her head, studying her with eyes that reflect the last traces of the sun.

“That I never want to watch a sunset without you again.”

Aiah’s breath stutters, warmth blooming beneath her ribs.

She smiles—small at first, then full, as she tugs Mikha closer, pressing her lips against the corner of Mikha's. The wind hums around them, the world settling into twilight, and in this quiet, endless moment, Aiah knows—

She was always meant to find this place.

She was always meant to find her.

By the time they make it back, the sky has settled into a deep indigo, the last traces of sunset fading into a blanket of stars. The ride home had been quiet, filled with the hum of the engine beneath them and the lingering warmth of shared silence. Now, as Mikha parks the scooter in front of their house, Aiah stretches, rolling her shoulders, exhaustion settling in—but it is the good kind, the kind that comes after a day well spent.

Mikha rolls up the sleeves of her button-down, loosening the top button as she exhales. “Hungry?”

Aiah huffs out a soft laugh. “After all that food today?”

Mikha smirks, unlocking the door. “So that’s a yes.”

Aiah follows her inside, the house welcoming them back with its familiar quiet. But it isn’t long before the stillness is broken—the sharp click of the stove being turned on, the soft rustle of Mikha moving through the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of a knife against the cutting board.

Aiah leans against the doorway, watching as Mikha moves easily through the space. “What are you making?”

Mikha doesn’t look up as she sprinkles salt over freshly cut chicken. “Adobong manok.”

Aiah raises a brow. “Have I had that before?”

Mikha finally glances at her, smirking. “Not my version.”

Aiah chuckles, stepping closer, watching as Mikha tosses the chicken into a pan, the sizzle filling the air almost immediately. A splash of soy sauce follows, then vinegar, garlic, bay leaves. The scent is intoxicating—deep, rich, something that smells like home.

Mikha stirs the pot lazily, glancing at Aiah. “You want to help, or are you just going to stand there looking pretty?”

Aiah crosses her arms. “I am pretty.”

Mikha grins, flicking a bit of sauce at her with the wooden spoon.

Aiah gasps. “You did not just—”

Mikha laughs, dodging as Aiah reaches for her in retaliation. “Okay, okay, I surrender! You can just watch, princess.”

Aiah huffs but stays by the counter, letting the warmth of the kitchen wrap around her. She’s getting used to this—the way the scent of home-cooked food fills the space, seeps into the walls, lingers even long after the meal is done. Living with Mikha has meant most nights are like this, where the quiet is softened by the sound of simmering pots and the steady rhythm of a knife against the cutting board. It’s familiar now, comforting in a way that feels like it’s always been hers to have.

When they finally sit down to eat, the table is simple—two plates, a steaming bowl of rice, the rich aroma of adobo thick in the air.

Aiah takes her first bite, the flavors sinking onto her tongue—savory, slightly tangy, the garlic and soy sauce blending perfectly with the tenderness of the chicken. She hums in approval. “Okay, yeah. You weren’t kidding. This is good.”

Mikha smirks, scooping a spoonful of rice. “Told you.”

Aiah nudges her foot under the table. “So, what I’m hearing is, I should ask you to cook for me more often.”

Mikha rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

The night stretches slow and easy between them, the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but full—of warmth, of laughter, of the smell of good food shared between two people who have made this place their own.

Aiah exhales, leaning back in her chair. “Today was perfect.”

Mikha looks at her, something soft flickering in her eyes. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It was.”

And as they sit there, in the heart of their home, Aiah thinks—

If every day could feel like this, she wouldn’t ask for anything more.

Later, with the dishes washed and the kitchen tucked back into its quiet, they find themselves on the balcony outside their bedroom, two cups of warm tea resting between them.

The night is still, the only sounds the distant rush of waves and the occasional chirp of crickets hidden in the trees. Above them, the half-moon hangs low, as if it has drifted closer just for tonight, silver light spilling over the wooden railing, catching the soft edges of their skin.

Aiah curls her fingers around her cup, the ceramic warm against her palms. This has become something of a routine—finishing the night like this, side by side, sharing the quiet. It hadn’t started deliberately, but at some point, it became theirs.

She glances at Mikha, who leans against the railing, her own cup cradled loosely in her hands. The moonlight sharpens her features—the line of her jaw, the curve of her nose, the way her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheek.

“You’re staring,” Mikha murmurs, not looking away from the sky.

Aiah exhales a soft laugh, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Just thinking.”

Mikha tilts her head slightly. “About?”

Aiah turns her gaze upward, watching how the moon seems impossibly close, like she could reach out and trace its craters with her fingertips.

“How different my life is now,” she says quietly. “How different I feel.”

Mikha finally looks at her, her expression unreadable. “And?”

Aiah swallows, feeling the warmth of the tea settle in her chest, feeling this—this life, this night, this moment—settle into something deeper inside her.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Mikha watches Aiah for a long moment before setting her cup down on the small table beside them. Then, she shifts closer, her fingers grazing lightly over Aiah’s wrist before slipping into her hand.

Aiah lets her, lets their fingers tangle together as they settle into the quiet, the night stretching wide before them.

After a beat, Mikha tilts her head slightly, turning toward Aiah. “Hey,” she says, her voice quiet but certain.

Aiah looks at her, tilting her head in response. “Hmm?”

Mikha’s gaze lingers, something thoughtful behind it. “If you ever miss your late-night food runs in the city again… or if you just get hungry in the middle of the night…” She pauses, smirking slightly. “You can wake me up.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? You’d actually wake up for me?”

Mikha rolls her eyes. “Of course. I’ll cook for you. Whatever you want.”

Aiah studies her, warmth unfurling in her chest. It’s such a simple offer, so Mikha—a promise wrapped in something ordinary, something easy.

She swallows, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Mikha grins, lifting her cup again and gently knocking it against Aiah’s in a quiet toast.

“Deal.”

Aiah sighs, shifting so she can rest her head lightly against Mikha’s shoulder. Mikha hums in contentment, pressing a slow, absentminded kiss to Aiah’s temple.

And as the half-moon hangs low in the sky, closer than it has ever felt before, they sit there—wrapped in a quiet that isn’t empty, but full.

Chapter Text

The night deepens as they slip back inside, the warmth of tea still lingering on their tongues, the hush of the island settling around them like a second skin.

Their bedroom is dimly lit, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow against the wooden walls, flickering slightly when the breeze from the open window stirs the curtains. The air smells like salt and chamomile, like the remnants of dinner still clinging faintly to the space between them.

Mikha moves first, tugging off her hoodie and tossing it onto the chair before settling onto the edge of the bed. She rolls her shoulders, stretching briefly before sinking back against the pillows, the fabric of her worn-in shirt soft against her skin.

Aiah follows, slower, more deliberate, slipping beneath the sheets until the warmth of Mikha’s body is within reach.

For a while, they just exist there—breathing in sync, legs brushing, listening to the distant murmur of waves.

Then—

Mikha shifts, turning onto her side, fingers reaching out, tracing Aiah’s cheek.

“Still awake?” she murmurs.

Aiah hums, tilting her head slightly toward Mikha’s touch. “Mmhmm.”

Mikha studies her, thumb grazing along her jawline. “Thinking about something?”

Aiah exhales, her gaze drifting over Mikha’s features—the lazy curve of her lips, the way her dark eyes hold steady, like she’s seeing through her.

“Just…” Aiah trails off, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. It feels like today was… important.”

Mikha doesn’t ask her to explain. She just nods, shifting closer, tangling their legs together beneath the sheets.

“It was,” she says softly.

She lifts Aiah’s hand, pressing a kiss to her palm, then another to the inside of her wrist, slow and deliberate. Aiah feels the warmth of it settle beneath her skin, something deep and grounding.

A quiet shiver runs through her, but she doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she moves closer, her hand slipping over Mikha’s waist, fingers resting against the dip of her spine. Mikha sighs at the touch, her body instinctively molding into Aiah’s, like she’s always meant to fit there.

Aiah presses her forehead against Mikha’s.

“You feel like home,” she whispers, the words barely a breath between them.

Mikha stills for a second, then exhales against Aiah’s lips, her voice barely audible when she says—

“So do you.”

And when their lips finally meet, it’s not about urgency or longing, but something deeper. Something certain.

Mikha kisses her slowly, deliberately, like she has all the time in the world. Aiah melts into it—into the warmth of Mikha’s mouth, the way her hand skims down Aiah’s back, grounding and wanting all at once.

They move together in quiet understanding, as though the world beyond the dim glow of the room has softened to a hush. Between shared breaths and the tender sweep of fingertips, they lose themselves in a language only they know—spoken not with words, but with closeness, with trust. There is no rush, no urgency, only the patient unfolding of something inevitable, something deeply felt. In that moment, the space between them disappears entirely, leaving only the ache of closeness, the quiet surrender to feeling fully seen, fully held.

Night folds itself around them, slow and tender. Between shared heartbeats and the hush of the waves, sleep finds them at last, draping gently over their bodies like a well-worn blanket.

When Aiah stirs next, the sky still clings to the last shades of night. She finds herself cocooned in warmth, tangled with Mikha beneath the covers—quiet, full, and entirely theirs—as if the darkness is cradling them for just a little while longer before it lets go.

But gradually, almost shyly, the light begins to stretch across the floor in long, golden ribbons, brushing against their skin like a gentle nudge from the day.

The warmth of the bed lingers between them, the weight of shared touches and whispered promises still pressed into the sheets. But the air has cooled—a quiet reminder that time, as always, moves forward.

Neither of them is in a hurry to meet it yet.

Aiah shifts softly, brushing a kiss to Mikha’s temple, her voice still hushed with sleep. “Come shower with me?”

Mikha groans into the pillow, her arm tightening possessively around Aiah’s waist. “Only if you do the washing.”

Aiah laughs under her breath, already sliding from beneath the covers. As she stretches, pale light spills across her bare skin—soft, early, golden at the edges. “Deal.”

Mikha watches her with sleep-heavy eyes, something tender blooming just behind them. Then she moves too, slower, but following.

In the bathroom, the quiet is broken by the sound of running water. Steam rises quickly, curling along the tiled walls like breath. The shower is warm, wrapping around them as they step beneath it, their movements fluid, familiar.

Aiah stands behind Mikha, hands gliding over her shoulders, down the length of her arms, smoothing lather over her skin with slow, steady care. Mikha leans into her, eyes closed, her head resting back on Aiah’s shoulder as the water spills down around them.

“You’re spoiling me,” Mikha murmurs, voice low and content.

“I plan to,” Aiah whispers, pressing a kiss to the damp skin just beneath her ear.

They move through the water the way they move through each other—slow, deliberate, unspoken in rhythm. Fingers trace the curves of shoulder blades and spines, rinse soap from softened skin, linger where words aren’t needed.

When they step out, wrapped in warm towels and the glow of a morning finally arrived, the day feels quieter somehow.

New. Soft around the edges.

And still entirely theirs.

Mikha heads to the kitchen while Aiah towels off her hair. The smell of fresh garlic and oil starts to fill the air not long after—the early notes of sinangag hitting the pan, followed by the comforting aroma of tuyo crisping in oil, and a small pot of eggs boiling quietly in the background.

Aiah pads barefoot into the kitchen, still wearing nothing but one of Mikha’s old shirts, oversized and falling off one shoulder. She doesn’t say anything at first, just walks up behind her and wraps her arms around Mikha’s waist.

Mikha pauses, glancing over her shoulder, lips twitching. “Miss me already?”

Aiah rests her chin against Mikha’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss just beneath her ear. “Always.”

Mikha laughs under her breath but doesn’t stop stirring the fried rice. “You’re clingy this morning.”

“You like it,” Aiah says, her lips trailing slowly down the curve of Mikha’s neck, pressing another kiss to the sensitive spot just above her collarbone.

Mikha shivers despite the heat of the stove. “Don’t distract me. I’m holding hot oil.”

“I trust you.”

Mikha hums, biting back a grin. “Dangerous.”

Aiah smiles against her skin, nuzzling in closer, arms still snug around Mikha’s waist. She doesn’t let go, not even when Mikha flips the dried fish or plates the rice. She just stays there, holding her, pressing occasional kisses to her shoulder, her back, her jaw—anywhere her mouth can reach.

Mikha eventually leans her head back just enough to bump it lightly against Aiah’s. “You planning to let go so we can eat?”

Aiah pretends to consider. “Maybe. If you feed me.”

Mikha snorts, turning slightly to kiss her on the temple. “You really are spoiled.”

And Aiah, warm and loved and held by the scent of breakfast and the arms she calls home, only smiles.

“Only by you.”

They linger there a little longer, Aiah still wrapped around Mikha’s back, swaying gently with her as she moves between pans and plates. It’s a quiet rhythm they’ve fallen into—domestic, soft, sacred in its own way.

Eventually, Mikha nudges her lightly with an elbow. “Alright, go set the table, clingy.”

Aiah huffs but obeys, pressing one last kiss to the side of her neck before stepping away.

The plates clatter softly against the wooden table, the sunlight streaming through the open windows casting golden streaks over everything it touches. The air smells of garlic and rice, of dried fish and the rich aroma of coffee. It’s nothing extravagant—simple island breakfast fare—but Aiah knows by now that when Mikha cooks, it always tastes like comfort. Like home.

They sit side by side at the small table by the kitchen window, their thighs brushing beneath it, their movements unhurried. The early light pours in gently, painting golden edges on everything it touches.

Aiah scoops a spoonful of garlic rice, then pauses to blow gently on the steam before lifting it to her mouth.

Mikha watches her with a soft smile. “Good?”

Aiah chews thoughtfully, then nods. “Mm. Perfect.”

Mikha chuckles, peeling one of the boiled eggs and slicing it cleanly with the edge of her spoon. She tears off a bit of crispy tuyo, pairing it with the tender egg white before scooping them both with rice. “You say that every time.”

“Because it is. Every time.”

Without missing a beat, Mikha turns toward her, offering the bite on her spoon. “Here. Open.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow but leans forward anyway, lips parting as Mikha feeds her. She hums softly as the flavors settle—salty, rich, familiar—eyes fluttering closed just for a breath.

“Okay,” she mumbles, still chewing. “That bite was better than mine.”

Mikha grins. “Told you.”

Aiah retaliates with her own spoonful, holding it up with exaggerated care. “Your turn.”

Mikha rolls her eyes but leans in, smiling as she accepts it. “Not bad.”

They keep eating like that—passing bites between them, nudging knees under the table, sharing food the way they now share everything else: easily, instinctively.

At one point, Mikha reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Aiah’s ear, her knuckles grazing the curve of her cheek. Aiah catches her hand before it retreats, turning her head to press a soft kiss into the center of Mikha’s palm.

“You always do that,” Mikha murmurs, voice low, fond.

“What?”

“Kiss my hands like they’re something special.”

Aiah holds her gaze, her thumb brushing slowly across Mikha’s skin. “They are,” she says softly. “They’ve taken care of me. Fed me. Loved me.”

Mikha looks at her like the whole world has narrowed to just this table, this meal, this moment. “You’re gonna make me cry into my tuyo,” she whispers.

Aiah grins. “Please don’t. It’s already bathed in salt.”

They both laugh—soft, unguarded—the sound rising and falling like a shared breath, echoing gently through the quiet house.

Breakfast stretches on slowly, filled with teasing bites and lazy touches beneath the table, until the plates are clean and their hearts feel a little fuller than when the day began.

Outside, the island hums softly in the morning light.

But inside, at their kitchen table, the world pauses. There is only the warmth of food, of laughter, of two people who have learned how to love each other in every small, deliberate way.

Eventually, the spell begins to lift—subtle and reluctant. Mikha rises to clear the plates while Aiah lingers, elbows on the table, chin propped in one hand, watching her move around the kitchen with the ease of routine and something quieter.

The clink of dishes, the scrape of a chair, the soft pad of bare feet on wood—signs that the day, slow as it started, is finally asking for their attention.

Mikha slings her apron over her shoulder, keys already in hand, but she hasn’t made it two steps toward the door before Aiah intercepts her like a silent ambush.

Arms slide around her waist, warm and firm, and Aiah presses herself against Mikha’s back, cheek resting on her shoulder.

“Don’t go yet,” she murmurs.

Mikha sighs—but it’s soft, affectionate, laced with a smile she doesn’t bother to hide. “Love… I have to open the cafe. People are probably waiting already.”

“Let them wait,” Aiah whispers, tightening her hold. “Just five more minutes.”

Mikha glances down at the clock. “That’s what you said fifteen minutes ago.”

“And this time,” Aiah says, trailing a kiss along the slope of Mikha’s shoulder, “I really mean it.”

Mikha melts a little, as she always does when Aiah is like this—barefoot, wrapped in her shirt, hair still messy from sleep and the shower, lips warm and persuasive against her skin. She turns in Aiah’s arms, facing her fully now, hands sliding over her hips.

Aiah gives her a look—half pout, half mischief—and leans in for a slow kiss, one that doesn’t beg but lingers. Mikha sighs into it, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Aiah’s head, fingers slipping into her still-damp hair.

“You’re dangerous,” Mikha mutters against her lips.

“I know,” Aiah replies smugly. “It’s why you love me.”

Mikha rests her forehead against hers, closing her eyes for a brief, quiet moment. “If I don’t leave now, I’m not going to.”

“Then don’t.”

Mikha laughs, shaking her head, but doesn’t step away. Not yet. Her hands slide down Aiah’s back beneath the loose cotton of the shirt, skin against skin. She’s not even sure if she remembers what she was doing a few minutes ago, only that the girl in front of her feels too good to leave.

“You could come with me,” she murmurs. “Sit at the counter. Make googly eyes at me while I make coffee.”

Aiah quirks an eyebrow. “And distract you until you burn someone’s toast? Tempting.”

“I’ll feed you pandesal.”

Aiah pretends to consider. “Will you warm it up for me?”

“I’ll even butter it.”

“Mmm. Sexy.”

Mikha leans in and kisses her again, softer this time, more goodbye than invitation. “I really do have to go.”

Aiah groans dramatically, burying her face into Mikha’s neck. “Fine. But only because I know where to find you.”

Mikha grins, pulling away just enough to grab her keys again. “And you’re bringing me lunch later, right?”

Aiah salutes, still pantless, still standing in the middle of the kitchen in Mikha’s oversized shirt. “Absolutely. I’ll wear something scandalous.”

“Please don’t,” Mikha says over her shoulder with a laugh. “Or do. I’ll give you free coffee either way.”

Aiah watches her slip out the door, apron flapping slightly in the breeze, and lets out a long, lovesick sigh before turning back toward the kitchen.

The house feels a little too quiet the moment Mikha disappears from her sight.

Aiah stands in the middle of the kitchen, aimless, listening to the wind chimes clink softly through the open window, to the birds calling out in the trees. The stillness feels louder than it should.

She sighs and wanders back into the bedroom, flopping face-first onto the unmade bed like a cat bored of its own freedom.

Eventually, not guilt, but a twinge of curiosity nudges her toward her laptop—the one she’s been ignoring for days. It sits untouched on the desk like a reminder of the life she stepped out of but somehow still lingers. She opens it slowly, half-expecting it to hiss at her.

The screen brightens, and her inbox blooms with unread emails.

Brand collaborations. Media requests. A streaming platform offering her a “low-pressure, creatively empowering” return vehicle. A polite follow-up on her "pending response" for an appearance at an awards show she doesn’t even remember being invited to.

She scrolls, not opening anything. Her heart ticks up, just slightly. The digital edges of her old life reaching for her with perfectly manicured fingers.

Before she can click on any of them, a video call request pops up:

Stacey Calling...

Aiah freezes. Then sighs. Then smiles.

She clicks accept.

“WELL, WELL, WELL—look who finally remembered how to use technology!” Stacey’s face fills the screen—sleek hair pulled into a sharp center-part bun, statement earrings catching the light, and perfectly winged eyeliner, even though it’s barely 8 a.m.

Aiah laughs. “You’re so loud, it’s like you knew I wasn’t ready for this.”

Stacey sips dramatically from an oversized mug. “It’s called popstar’s intuition, babe. Also, I’ve sent you, like, seventeen memes, two TikToks, and a voice note of me singing ‘Where Is the Love’—with feeling. No response. I was this close to calling Mikha and demanding a wellness check.”