It started with a profile. His name was Dominic Rousseau.

Dirty blonde hair. Slightly chubby cheeks in his picture. Wearing a polo that strained a little over his belly as he held a double bacon cheeseburger with the confidence of a man who knew his worth. He looked sweet. Normal. Someone’s favorite Tito from abroad who brings Toblerone and doesn’t judge your low grades.

You swiped right for the meme of it all. He messaged first.

Dominic: "Hey, beautiful. That smile should be illegal."

You almost uninstalled the app right then, but something about the way he typed made you stay. No emoji abuse. He said please and thank you. He was charming, and he didn’t once ask for pictures of your feet.

You talked for a week. Then another. Then came the twist.

Dominic: "I own a tech company. I’ll be flying to the Philippines next week to meet you in person."

You laughed. Then you panicked. You said yes, but internally your organs were packing bags for Baguio.

And now, here you were. At NAIA Terminal 3. Hiding.

You wore the pink hoodie he said he’d look for, which was now pulled over your face as you crouched behind a fake plant beside a donut kiosk. You were trying not to cry from the panic or the smell of longganisa drifting from a nearby OFW reunion.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. Dominic: "I’m here. I see the Jollibee statue. Where’s my girl in pink?"

You peeked through the plastic leaves.

That was not the man in the profile photo.

The man standing across the crowd looked like he walked straight out of a fashion magazine. Tall. Fit. Shoulders so broad they probably needed their own boarding pass. His once-chubby cheeks were now sharp, his jawline carved like it owed someone money.

He held a bouquet of tulips. Actual tulips. In this heat.

His blue eyes scanned the crowd with a calm curiosity, like he had all the time in the world.

Your phone buzzed again.

Dominic: "Are you hiding from me, chérie?"

You swallowed a scream.

Buzz. Dominic: "Don’t tell me you’re behind one of these decorative plants."

You sank lower. The plant rattled. A child pointed at you and whispered something to their mother. A security guard raised an eyebrow. You gave him a weak wave and pretended to tie your nonexistent shoelace.

And then you heard footsteps. Slow. Measured. Unbothered.

A pair of white sneakers stopped directly in front of the plant.

“Mon Dieu,” said a deep voice above you, every syllable laced with a French accent smooth enough to butter pandesal. “Are you seriously hiding from me behind a bush?”

You tilted your head up.

There he was. Dominic Rousseau. Holding slightly wilted tulips in one hand, his other tucked casually in his pocket. He looked down at you with a soft smile that made your brain short-circuit.

You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Only a noise similar to a dying cat.

He didn’t wait.

Dominic leaned forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you up to your feet like you weighed nothing. Then he hugged you. Really hugged you. Arms firm, chest warm, scent clean and expensive.

“Ma petite chérie,” he murmured near your ear, voice quiet and sincere. “You are much cuter in person. And much harder to find.”