I swear, wiping someone's chest should come with an accredited college diploma.
Because there I was, armed with a washcloth, a bowl of water, shaky hands, and zero relevant experience trying not to panic while Cairo sat half-naked looking like a dehydrated Greek god with a mild cold.
"Can I wipe your abs now?" I asked, holding the cloth like it was radioactive.
He cracked one eye open, giving me a smirk. "You want to wipe my abs?"
"No! I mean yes! I mean—this is not about basic desire, okay?! This is clinical," I said, dunking the cloth again like it was holy water. "Do you want to pass away from a fever just because I was too shy to dab your sweaty body? No, thank you."
His lips twitched. "You're cute when you panic."
I almost threw the bowl at his face.
But I didn't, because obviously, he needed care.
I was his Florence Nightingale—if Florence wore rhinestone hair clips and didn't know what the heck she was doing.
I dabbed carefully along his collarbone, trying very hard not to stare at the way his muscles shifted under the cloth.
I mean, okay, fine. I stared a little. I'm human.
"Stop breathing like that," I muttered as I worked down to his chest.
"Like what?"
"Like you're filming a luxury cologne commercial. It's highly distracting."
He laughed—well, cough-laughed—and I completely froze. "Oh no. Did I make it worse? Is it pneumonia? Is it historical tuberculosis?!"
"Elara," he said weakly, but with an amused tone.
"It's a cold."
I dramatically stood up, hands on my hips. "Excuse me, mister, but you're warm and shirtless on a couch and I'm holding a wet towel. This is literally how K-drama tragedy scenes begin."
He shook his head, smiling faintly, then winced. "Ow."
"See? See?! Pain! You're in acute pain!"
"I just moved too fast."
"Don't move at all!" I shouted, pointing at him like I was directing traffic. "You stay exactly there. I'll get soup!"
I ran to the kitchen.
And by ran, I mean I tripped over his minimalist rug and screamed a little because I saw my reflection in the microwave door and realized I looked like a cartoon nurse rejected by Nickelodeon.
The only soup I could find was instant ramen.
But it was spicy, and I didn't want him sweating more than he already was.
So I did what any rational woman would do—I opened Google and typed: "Soup that saves lives."
I still ended up cooking the ramen.
Well, I didn't cook.
I just added hot water.
Because, girl! I can't cook.
It tasted… edible.
Back on the couch, I tried feeding him with all the tenderness of a mom bird feeding a baby chick, except I almost poked his lower lip with the silver spoon and spilled some broth on his sweatpants.
"Sorry! I'm nervous!" I whined. "You're just… so… sick. And warm. And brooding."
"I'm not brooding," he mumbled, taking another spoonful. "This is just my default face."
I set the bowl down, crossed my legs beside him, and gave him a small smile. "You'd tell me if you needed to go to the hospital, right?"
"Yeah."
"Because if you don't, I'll call 911, carry you out bridal-style, and dramatically scream 'Don't take him from me!' while the ambulance drives away."
"I believe you," he whispered.
"And also," I added seriously, "if you die, who will pick me up from my auditions?"
He laughed again, but gentler this time. "So that's what this is really about?"
"Of course not," I gasped. "I mean, partly.
But mostly because I don't want to lose the guy who makes me laugh when I feel like a has-been actress with five lines and a fake boyfriend on a drama I don't even like."
He looked at me for a long, silent second. "Elara," he said.
"Yes?"
"Thanks for staying."
And suddenly… it didn't feel funny anymore.
Not in a sad way, but in a soft way.
Like warm compresses on your skin when you didn't know you needed comfort.
I bit my lip, playing with my ring finger. "You'd do the same for me, right?"
He didn't hesitate. "Always."
A pause.
Then—
"Do you want me to cuddle you for natural warmth?"
I blurted, immediately regretting it.
He raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to?"
"No! I mean yes! I mean—I'm just saying it's one of the organic treatment options, according to Google, okay?"
He leaned his head down onto my shoulder, his eyes closing. "You're ridiculous," he murmured.
"And yet, here I am. Saving your life."
I woke up to the sound of my own snoring.
And not the cute, delicate, "oh-she-snores-like-a-princess" kind.
No.
This was the full-on, open-mouthed, borderline-demonic snore na parang may kinakatay sa loob ng ilong ko.
What a way to welcome consciousness.
I blinked twice, adjusted to the early morning light filtering through Cairo's curtains, and realized two very important things:
I had somehow fallen asleep completely flat on the couch.Cairo was no longer burning like a vampire in the direct sun.
I peeked over the blanket I had dramatically wrapped myself in like a heartbroken telenovela lead.
Cairo was lying on the other side of the couch, still a bit pale but less... about-to-die looking.
His fever must've broken because he wasn't sweating buckets anymore.
"Are you dead?" I whispered dramatically, leaning close.
His eyes fluttered open. "Unfortunately not. You snored too loud."
"HUY!" I slapped his arm. "I saved your life and this is how you thank me? Pure disrespect."
He grinned weakly. "Thanks for staying."
Ugh. Why'd he have to say it like that?
My heart did a tiny cartwheel and crashed straight into my lungs.
I sat up straighter and tried to look composed, despite the structural bird's nest situation happening on top of my head.
I checked my phone.
"OH MY GOSH, IT'S 7:42 AM!" I screamed. "I have a shoot! A five-liner shoot! I'm the evil mean girl today!"
Cairo blinked. "You're still doing that?"
"Yes?! You think I'm just gonna abandon my villain origin story?? I have a boyfriend in that drama. Meaning I have a love team. Meaning I am basically leading lady material. Today is very important to my career trajectory."
I stood up in full panic mode, stumbling toward the kitchen counter where I'd left my tote bag.
"Wait, I'll drive you—"
"Nope!" I pointed at him like a strict school principal. "You are not allowed to be hot, sick, and chivalrous all at once. Stay in bed. You almost died like twelve hours ago."
"I feel fine."
"Oh, really? Then what's your temperature? Your pulse? Your soul alignment? Exactly. Sit."
Cairo groaned but obeyed.
I could see it in his eyes, he wanted to help.
So yes, ladies and gents. I—Elara Celestine Zulueta, starlet of sarcasm and slayer of fever—was about to commute.
COMMUTE.
As in, public transportation.
With normal people.
Without a glam team.
With five lines of dialogue waiting for me in a location three transfers away.
"Lord, if this is my humble era, please make it quick."
I tiptoed back to Cairo, gave his forehead a quick back-of-the-hand check like I saw on a medical K-drama once, and sighed. "Okay. I'm leaving. Rest, eat, and don't die. Again."
"I won't," he whispered. "Thanks again."
I paused.
My heart… ugh. My heart.
I looked at him one last time, taking in the slightly messy hair, the blanket wrapped around his waist, the sleepy eyes that somehow still looked like a curated Pinterest board.
"No kiss?" he teased softly.
I squealed like a dying dolphin and ran straight out the door. "YOU'RE SICK! DON'T SPREAD GERMS, YOU WALKING BIOHAZARD!"
Outside in the hallway, I leaned against my own front door, hand on my chest like I had just survived a high-stakes exorcism. "I swear to God, if I fall any harder, I'm gonna need physical crutches."
But there was no time for drama.
The clock was ticking.
I had five lines to absolutely slay.
I knew it.
I knew it the moment I saw that stupid motivational quote on my vision board staring back at me—today was gonna test every single ounce of my psychological patience.
"Smile. It confuses people."
Girl, it confuses me why I agreed to do this five-line role with a love team I didn't even choose.
So there I was, dragging my fabulous self into the dressing room of Studio 8, trying to summon even one drop of motivation from the seven hours of sleep I did not get because I spent all night Googling how to take care of a man with a fever.
(Yes, Cairo. The fever boy. The guy who looked like a whole K-drama plot twist under my blanket last night.)
I wore my cute yellow sweater today, you know, to bring in good vibes.
But not even my sunshine-core outfit could protect me from the bad energy of this man—James—my surprise love team partner.
"Hey, I'm James," he said earlier with a smirk that gave me the instant ick. "I've been looking forward to working with you."
Ugh. Why does every guy who calls himself "James" act like he owns every single mirror in the country?
"Cool," I said while fixing my lip tint. "I've been looking forward to going home."
Okay fine, I didn't say that out loud.
I just thought it.
But in my head, the delivery was hilarious.
The moment they called "Roll camera!", I switched on my inner Sasha Fierce.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in my tragic, misunderstood, spotlight-chasing life—it's that you can hate the script, the outfit, the love team, and still absolutely slay the scene.
That's called professionalism, babes.
"Take 1, scene 6A!" the floor director shouted.
I flipped my hair like I was born to destroy someone's self-esteem on national television.
My role? The mean girl bestie with five lines and a fake boyfriend whose only purpose was to make the female lead feel insecure.
Yes. Five lines.
And one of them was literally just: "Huh?"
Can you believe it? I had an entire scene where that was my literal dialogue.
But in fairness, I gave that "huh" depth.
I gave it a backstory.
I gave it history.
I gave it heartbreak.
So when the camera started rolling, I turned to the lead actress and let out my best fake-laugh-slash-real-shade combo. "You seriously thought he liked you? Babe, he follows, like, three hundred influencers. And you're not even verified."
Mic drop.
Flawless.
Meryl Streep could never.
Honestly? I knew I ate.
The makeup girl clapped after the take.
The director nodded with that specific look—the kind where they pretend they're chill but you know they're secretly impressed.
But the problem was not my performance.
It was him.
James.
He was supposed to put his arm around me in one scene and say, "Babe, let's go."
Very simple, very basic.
Instead, he looked at me like I had just stolen his phone charger.
Parang galit? Sir, this is acting.
This is not a barangay tanod audition.
And the way he said "Babe"?—like he was violently allergic to the word.
Like he was gonna vomit a little bit in his mouth right after.
Ew.
What a complete vibe killer.
By the time they called for a production break, I was already messaging Cairo.
Me: Baby, I wanna go home 🥹🧘♀️ this guy's acting like he's allergic to being my jowa. I need cuddles and carbs.
No reply.
Not even a "seen."
Which was fine because he was still technically sick, but also, where is the cosmic justice?
I was about to text again when one of the crew members handed me my bento box.
I opened it.
The rice looked sad.
The egg was cracked.
That's when I knew—I was not spiritually meant to be here today.
I had mentally resigned.
As in, I was ready to go home, remove my fake lashes like battle scars, and eat my feelings through truffle chips and leftover mac and cheese.
I was walking out of the studio—dignity half-intact, one shoe half-unzipped—when the entire day went from "ugh" to absolute GASP!
—
There.
Outside the gate.
Leaning casually on the side of a black sportscar like he was auditioning for his own prime-time K-drama.
Cairo.
Wearing a grey hoodie, a black cap, and holding—wait for it—a full bouquet of tulips.
Tulips, girl.
As in, not the gas station roses na halatang last-minute.
These were intentional tulips.
With pink wrapping.
effort.
ribbon.
I froze like a badly coded video game NPC.
"What. The. Actual. Novel?" I whispered to myself. "Is this real life? Or is my fever dream having a hallucination?"
Because last I checked, he was the one with the fever, not me.
He looked up and smiled—not the barkada joke smile, but the soft, may sinasabing smile, the kind that makes your stomach instantly fold into origami.
And then he said, "Hi."
JUST "HI." Like he didn't just pull up looking like the season finale of my entire life.
My knees? Weak.
My heart? Screaming.
My brain? Buffering.
"You're supposed to be sick!" I said, walking up to him like I wasn't completely melting inside.
"I was," he said, handing me the flowers. "I still kinda am. But you took care of me, so I figured… return the favor?"
Return. The. Favor.
I swear the universe did a slow-motion pan.
The wind blew.
Somewhere, background music played—siguro BINI or James Reid or something highly cinematic.
"You didn't have to…" I blinked, sniffing the tulips like I was born in a French perfume commercial. "I was literally gonna text you 'don't die' again earlier."
He chuckled. "I didn't."
"Yet!" I said, poking his arm. "You could've relapsed! For tulips! Babes, this is high drama behavior."
"From the girl who panicked and asked if hugs or kisses cure fever?" he teased.
I gasped. "You were half-conscious! I didn't know you were listening! And for the record, hugs are emotionally medicinal!"
"So… do you always do this?" I asked, clutching the bouquet like it was made of gold-plated tulips instead of actual, legit, imported-looking flowers. "Like, show up outside buildings like a feverish K-drama lead with a car that probably runs on unicorn tears?"
Cairo, still slightly pale, smirked as he leaned on the steering wheel. "Only on weekdays that end with a Y."
I dramatically gasped.
That was three gasps in less than five minutes.
A new record. "Excuse me?!"
He chuckled, and the sound was raspy but stupidly attractive.
Like, sir, pick a struggle.
You can't be charming and borderline dying at the same time. "I'm saying, you're cute when you're panicking. Like a Chihuahua with lip gloss."
"Oh my god. I can't believe I'm dating someone who compares me to a designer dog."
"Hey, I said with lip gloss. That's premium."
I rolled my eyes but grinned like a sixteen-year-old with a massive diary entry pending.
My heart was doing this embarrassing flutter thing again.
Like, calm down, Elara.
He's just being sweet.
He's not proposing.
Probably.
Maybe.
I don't know.
Shut up.
As he turned onto our street, I clutched the flowers tighter. "So... like, hypothetically. If you were bringing me flowers again because I was sick, what kind would you want if roles were reversed?"
He snorted. "Easy. A cactus."
I blinked. "What?"
"A cactus," he repeated with a completely straight face. "Spiky. Low maintenance. Still cute."
"You're so weird."
"And you're asking me about reverse florals like this is a Vogue interview quiz."
"Well, I'm sorry for caring about your fictional flower preferences!"
He laughed again, and I swear, if laughter was a vitamin, I'd have glowing skin right now. "Okay fine, if not a cactus, maybe a bouquet of hot wings."
"Cairo!"
"What? It's practical and delicious."
"I should've let you melt in bed."
"But you didn't," he said, turning off the engine smoothly as we parked. "You took care of me. You panicked. You Googled how to check a temperature using only vibes."
I covered my face with my hands. "Oh my gosh, you heard me talking to myself, didn't you?"
"Every single word."
Kill me now.
I groaned and slumped in my seat. "Ugh. You're never letting that go, are you?"
He leaned over the console, pressed a soft kiss onto my cheek, and whispered, "Not a chance."
My heart did that annoying thump again.
That exact one that says: yup, girl.
You're in deep.