Onyx's POV
"Come here, Onyx. Sit beside me," Sam said, patting the empty space next to her as if she were a queen summoning a courtier. "I think we have a lot of things to talk about."
The music inside the bar throbbed through the floor, bass vibrating up my legs like a warning. Colored lights flashed over her face—pink, blue, gold—turning her grin into something theatrical.
"No," Jace cut in smoothly. "We're leaving."
The shift in the air was immediate.
Sam's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. "Excuse me? You dragged us here to drink, and now you're ditching because he showed up?"
"There's an emergency," Jace said flatly. "We have to go."
I remained standing there like a decorative plant—present, silent, mildly confused. I was not sure whether I was the emergency or the excuse.
"At least let him drink before you kidnap him," Sam said, shoving a mug of beer toward me.
The glass hovered inches from my face.
Foamy.
Cold.
Condensation sliding down the sides like it was sweating on my behalf.
It smelled like everything I disliked about this place—fermented bravado and bad decisions.
I swallowed.
Should I drink it?
"Come on, Boss, drink," Sam urged, her arm extended dramatically. "Don't keep my hand waiting."
I opened my mouth to explain that I did not drink beer—had never liked it, never pretended to like it, never would like it—
But before I could speak, Jace took the mug from my hand.
And drank.
He did not sip.
He did not hesitate.
He gulped.
As his throat moved with each swallow, and his eyes never left mine.
Deliberate.
Unblinking.
As if the beer was not the point.
As if I was.
The entire bar seemed to fade into background noise.
"Wow," Sam muttered slowly, shaking her head. "Just... wow."
Jace placed the empty mug down with a soft, controlled thud.
"He doesn't drink beer. He hates it," he said calmly.
There was something almost territorial in the way he said it—not loud, not aggressive. Just certain.
Sam's smirk deepened. "That so? You are being protective, Jace."
"We're leaving. See you next time," Jace added.
And just like that, he turned away as if the decision had been made long before tonight.
I blinked at the three of them, still processing what had just happened.
"Nice to meet you all," I said awkwardly. "We're going now. See you again soon."
They stared at me.
Confused.
Amused.
Possibly enlightened.
Then they nodded slowly, lips parted like they had more questions but had collectively decided to save them for later gossip.
I bowed my head slightly—out of habit, politeness, survival instinct—and hurried after Jace.
* * *
The moment Jace's car doors shut, the chaos of the bar collapsed into silence.
The engine hummed softly. The city lights reflected across the windshield in streaks of red and gold.
I turned to him immediately.
"Wait," I said. "You drank beer and you're driving? I can call Pa to come here and drive for us."
"I hadn't drunk before that," he said calmly, buckling his seatbelt. "That was my first one tonight. The mug I took from Sam."
I blinked.
"Why weren't you drinking? You were the one who invited them."
He started the engine and glanced at me with a faint smirk. "I was testing something before I drank."
"Testing what?"
"To see if my plan would work," he said lightly. "And it did. Good thing I didn't drink earlier."
My suspicion sharpened. "What plan?"
"To see if you would really come," he said. "I wasn't expecting you to show up. Maybe five percent chance. If you didn't, I would've just stayed and drink after 7 p.m. because for sure you'd be at home by then. But If you did..." He shrugged slightly. "I knew I'd have to drive you home."
Unbelievable.
"So you planned this?" I demanded.
"Partially," he said.
I exhaled sharply. "Even if that was your first beer, are you sure you can drive properly? You could get charged for drunk driving. If you feel even slightly unstable, I'll just call my father."
"Relax," he said, shifting gears. "I don't get drunk easily. I'll drive. It might be a little fast, though."
"No," I said immediately, pointing at him. "You are not driving fast. You will follow the speed limit. Exactly. Drive slowly. I do not want flashing police lights in my life tonight."
He grinned. "Okay, Boss."
I narrowed my eyes at the nickname but did not argue.
Silence settled between us.
The city moved outside the windows—neon signs, pedestrians, headlights streaking past like fleeting thoughts.
Then, quieter this time, I asked, "You're not angry at me anymore?"
He paused.
"Oh," he said casually. "I forgot."
I stared at him.
"I still am angry," he continued. "Why would you ask me to leave when I was enjoying myself at your house? Talking with Pa. Eating the food he cooked. Do you think it's pleasant to be told to go away like that?"
My chest tightened.
"I'm sorry," I said carefully. "I know it was sudden."
He let out a low laugh.
"Is that you apologizing," he asked, glancing at me, "or because your father told you to?"
"It's me this time," I said firmly. "Not because of him."
He studied my face for a quick second.
Then he smiled.
"Fine. I'm not angry anymore."
I frowned. "That easy?"
"Yeah."
"Then why did you make it so hard?" I demanded. "I tried talking to you all morning. You ignored me."
"Because I was upset," he said simply. "And I didn't want to raise my voice at you."
He turned his head slightly, meeting my eyes directly.
The city lights cut across his face in passing flashes, sharpening the angles of his jaw.
"You wouldn't like me when I'm angry," he said quietly.
I knew that.
I had experienced it before.
Even a single message from him could feel like a verdict.
"Okay," I said quietly, turning toward the window before my voice could betray me.
The city outside dissolved into streaks of neon and gold, traffic lights bleeding into one another like a watercolor painting dragged across the glass. Buildings passed in silent procession. Strangers moved in flashes. The world felt distant — manageable — as long as I kept looking at it instead of at him.
"So... Sam isn't your girlfriend?" I asked, too casually for someone who had clearly not been thinking about it for the last ten minutes.
He laughed.
Not the polite one. Not the smug one.
The real one.
"Why did you suddenly bring that up?" he asked. "Did you see her face earlier? She looked like she was about to throw up when you said that."
I frowned slightly. "But I'm sure that was her voice I heard from your phone last time. Maybe it just sounded like her," I said.
He tilted his head, glancing at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. "Why? Are you genuinely curious about my girlfriend?" he asked.
"No," I replied quickly. "I'm just... professionally concerned. Does she even care about you? I see you around all the time and I've never once seen her."
There. Neutral. Academic. Like I was conducting a field study.
He smirked.
"Don't be too curious," he said. "You might lose sleep over it. And speaking of sleep..." His tone shifted lightly. "So I'm staying at your house tonight?"
"No," I answered immediately. "Sleep at your own house."
"Come on," he insisted. "At least let this be your peace offering for making me leave last time."
I crossed my arms. "Why do you even want to stay at our house?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Even though your house is small and simple," he said, eyes fixed on the road, "it felt warm. Lighter. Compared to mine. Cold. Silent."
The streetlights slid across his face in alternating gold and shadow. His hands gripped the wheel — steady, controlled — but his voice had dipped just enough to make something in my chest shift.
Maybe I had been a little harsh.
Maybe I could let him stay.
We could just work on our Capstone project. That would be normal. Academic. Safe.
"...But your bed sucks," he added dryly, "and you don't have air-conditioning."
I stared at him.
Never mind. I took back what I said.
Then, without warning, he handed me his phone.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Order an air-conditioner," he said casually. "I'm driving."
"What?" I stared at the phone now in my hands. "Are you serious?"
"Just do it. Don't ask questions."
"We don't want to pay the electricity bill when it skyrockets because of this." I demanded.
"I will."
"Then don't buy it," I said firmly, placing his phone into the holder between us.
He clicked his tongue. "You make everything difficult. Fine. I'll just tell Pa. He's easier to convince. I'm sure he'll agree."
"Don't use him to get what you want," I said sharply. "He'll say yes because he feels indebted to you. Don't take advantage of that."
His jaw tightened.
"Why do you have to make me feel guilty?" he muttered.
"I'm not trying to," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "I'm just telling you the truth."
He exhaled deeply and shook his head.
Then — just as suddenly — he glanced at me, smirked, and looked back at the road as if he hadn't just been brooding seconds ago.
"You really like my leather jacket," he teased. "You haven't taken it off."
I blinked. "I forgot."
I started to remove it, but his hand shot out briefly, stopping me.
"Keep it on," he said. "It looks good on you."
I looked down at the jacket. The leather felt unfamiliar. Expensive. Dangerous in a way my usual clothes weren't.
"It does look good," I admitted quietly. "I never wear things like this."
"You can have it."
"No. It's yours."
"I'm giving it to you."
"I'm not a charity case where you donate your old clothes, Jace."
"Hey," he protested, sounding offended. "That jacket is expensive. And it's not old. I bought it last month. I'll get another one anyway. It's yours."
I studied him suspiciously. "Why do I suddenly feel like I'm the younger sibling who gets all the hand-me-downs from his big brother?"
He burst out laughing.
Not controlled.
Not strategic.
Actual laughter.
I stared at him. "I wasn't joking. Why are you laughing?"
He tried to compose himself, failing slightly. "So you want to be the younger brother? I can be your big brother if you want. You can call me Kuya Jace if you want."
* * *
Author's Note:
In Filipino culture, "Kuya" means older brother.
* * *
"No. Between the two of us, I'm clearly the more mature one," I shot back. "So I'll be the older brother here. You're the younger."
"And why do I get to be the younger one when I'm actually older than you?" he asked. "I'm also possibly an inch taller than you."
"Height and body proportions don't determine age," I replied calmly. "Sometimes the oldest sibling is the smallest. Sometimes the youngest is the tallest."
He shook his head, defeated.
"And wear that jacket if you ever go back to a bar," he added. "Try not to seduce anyone."
"I'm not going back to that bar or any," I said, my voice steady but tight. "They were disgusting. The way they stared at me—like I was something to claim. And who in their right mind thinks it's acceptable to touch a stranger? And don't twist it into something else. I wasn't 'seducing' anyone. I was minding my own business."
"Have you seen yourself in a mirror when you wear that fitted white T-shirt?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Every morning before going to the university as I wear my uniform."
"Boss... Boss... Boss..." he muttered, almost to himself.
"What?" I asked, genuinely confused. "It's just part of the uniform. What is so 'seductive' about a white shirt?"
He sighed.
"You really don't see it, do you?"
"See what?"
The traffic light shifted to red, and the car rolled to a quiet stop. He kept his eyes forward at first, as if considering something. Then he turned to me—slow, measured, stripped of any trace of teasing or humor.
"You don't know that you're..." His voice lowered slightly.
"Just say it," I insisted. "Stop making me wait."
His jaw flexed.
His eyes moved over me once — deliberate, assessing — before settling back on my face.
"...You're attractive."
I swallowed as the car suddenly felt smaller, the quiet hum of the engine pressing in around us. Streetlights slid across his face, casting him in alternating shadow and gold. He didn't smile. He didn't laugh. He didn't take it back.
And for the first time that night, I didn't know where to look.
Why did it feel different when it came from him?
The light turned green, and the car moved forward, but the silence between us only deepened—thick, alive, and impossible to ignore.
"Can I open the window?" I asked abruptly. "It's warm."
"I'll turn up the air-conditioning," he said. "No need to open it. I don't like smoke getting inside."
His fingers adjusted the controls — steady, unhurried. Controlled.
I watched his hand.
Mine felt colder.
Unsteady.
Something beneath my ribs felt unfamiliar. Annoying.
After that, I didn't speak.
"Why did you suddenly go quiet?" he asked after a while.
"I have nothing to say," I replied, gazing back out the window.
The city lights blurred past again, but my thoughts stayed fixed in place. I didn't know what to say—because no one had ever told me that before. Not like that. Not without laughing it off. Not without taking it back.
And I wasn't sure which unsettled me more—the fact that he said it, or the quiet, unspoken truth that I wanted to hear it again.
End of Chapter 16