After the humiliation of discovering Cairo was basically just a decorative extra in the project, I decided I needed distance.
Emotional distance.
Dignity.
Self-respect.
So naturally, I spent the entire next morning thinking about him.
I was already composing my dramatic monologue before the elevator doors even opened.
No music.
No audience.
Just me, bathed in overhead lighting that made my highlighter glisten like I was ready to accept a posthumous acting award.
It was a betrayal of Shakespearean proportions.
I wasn't his love interest.
Not. Even. A. Side character.
Just a blurry background starlet in a teleserye scene that's gonna last what, four minutes?
I even practiced my one line in front of my mirror with three different emotions: hopeful, heartbroken, and hungry-but-trying-to-hide-it.
I was ready.
I was glowing.
I was practically Emmy bait.
They said he was in it.
So naturally, I assumed we were in it.
Together.
Like destiny.
But no.
Mr. Raceboy—whose cheekbones alone deserve their own credit roll—was just doing a cameo.
A cameo.
And I, Elara Celestine Zulueta—full legal name with extra syllables—was once again the woman with one line and an overachieving contour.
I was devastated.
Like, emotionally pancaked.
Steamed flat by the waffle press of rejection.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened.
And then I saw it.
The hallway floor.
Wet.
A crime scene.
A tragedy.
A hostile work environment for YSL heels.
It was giving Flooded Dior Runway meets Slippery Corporate Sabotage.
"Ew. What is this? What in the Milan Fashion Week is THIS?" I gasped, clutching my handbag dramatically.
It wasn't even that wet.
But still.
There was a glisten.
A subtle sheen.
The kind of wetness you feel in your soul.
I pressed myself against the elevator wall like the floor was lava and I was the main character in Survivor: Condominiums Edition.
And then—
like Zeus descending Mount Olympus in Uniqlo—
he appeared.
Cairo.
Fresh from wherever cold-hearted beautiful people come from.
Hair unfairly perfect.
Black shirt.
Expression still showing no signs of a soul.
He stared at me like he accidentally subscribed to a reality show and forgot how to cancel it.
"Oh, thank God," I whispered dramatically. "Can you help me survive this storm?"
I pointed at the water.
Okay, it wasn't a storm.
It was probably maintenance spilling half a bucket.
But my heels were suede.
Suede.
I wasn't about to sacrifice Yves Saint Laurent to floor moisture.
He blinked slowly.
"You want me to…?"
"Carry. Assist. Provide moral and physical support," I explained, gesturing like a beauty queen answering a pageant question.
He looked at the floor.
Then at me.
Then back at the floor like he was double-checking reality.
"It's water."
"Yes," I said, eyes wide. "And I'm wearing shoes worth more than my emotional stability."
Another pause.
I could practically hear him judging me in Helvetica font.
Then, to my surprise, he stepped closer.
Closer.
Until he was standing inside the elevator with me.
And for one deeply inconvenient second, my brain stopped functioning.
Then—
without a word—
he slipped off his shoes and placed them over the wet tiles.
I stared.
"Are you offering me your shoes as stepping stones?"
He nodded once.
I blinked. "You know what? You're weirdly considerate in the least romantic way possible."
"No problem," he said flatly, already walking away barefoot like this was completely normal behavior.
I carefully stepped across his shoes like a rich goblin escaping a puddle.
When I reached my unit, I turned back.
"Hey."
He paused.
"Thanks," I said. "Try not to fall in love with me next time."
He didn't even hesitate.
"Unlikely."
My jaw dropped so hard I almost lost an eyelash.
RUDE.
Later that night, I sat cross-legged on my couch replaying the entire thing like it was an Oscar-winning indie film.
I even lit a candle for ambiance.
Sandalwood vanilla.
Didn't match the mood at all, but I was committed.
Because somehow—
despite the fact that he barely smiled, barely flirted, and constantly acted like human interaction exhausted him—
there was something about Cairo that kept pulling me in.
Maybe it was the way he never pretended.
Maybe it was the way he looked at me like I was ridiculous… but real.
Or maybe I just enjoy making emotionally unavailable men uncomfortable.
Hard to say.
I opened my chat with Ari. Btw, Ari is my gay bestfriend.
Me:
I think I met the human version of an ice cube.
Ari:
Girl, you literally looked stranded in the hallway CCTV.
Me:
But he offered me his shoes.
Ari:
That is not romance. That is customer service.
I gasped.
Disrespectful.
I walked toward my balcony, still staring at the messages.
Then I looked down.
Cairo stood on his balcony holding a mug.
Shirtless.
Honestly, at this point, I was starting to think shirts offended him personally.
He wasn't looking at me.
Just standing there quietly like some brooding character in a perfume commercial called Daddy Issues Noir.
And suddenly—
I wanted to bother him again.
Not flirt.
Not seduce.
Just… interrupt his peace a little.
Like glitter thrown into a grayscale movie.
"Hi!" I called.
He looked up immediately.
Because obviously.
I'm impossible to ignore.
"What?" he asked.
I leaned over the railing. "Do you always give women your shoes?"
He took a sip from his mug. "Only when they're too dramatic to walk through water."
"Dramatic?" I gasped. "I was in distress."
"You were in YSL."
"Exactly."
There was a pause.
Then—
a tiny smirk.
So quick I almost missed it.
But I saw it.
"There!" I pointed aggressively. "Emotion!"
"I wasn't aware this was a performance review."
"Oh, it is," I said proudly. "You're improving."
He shook his head, looking faintly amused now.
And wow.
That was somehow worse for my mental stability.
"Elara," I offered.
"I know."
My brows lifted. "From the drama?"
"From the packages outside your door."
Right.
Fair.
"I'll see you around, Cairo."
"You will."
And somehow, the way he said it sounded less like a statement…
and more like a warning.