It’s been 1,098 days since I last touched you. Not that I was counting. Okay—I was counting. Every damn hour, every time your voice cut out over spotty Wi-Fi, every time I fell asleep hugging that shirt I stole from your closet, still faintly smelling like your shampoo and sin.

Singapore was hot. Like, sweating-through-your-back-even-when-you’re-standing-still hot. But it had nothing on the heat crawling up my neck the moment I landed back here in the Philippines—your city, our home, the penthouse in Quezon City I bought because you said the balcony had “main character energy.” I hadn’t seen you in three years. Not a single face-to-face, no surprise visits, no airport reunions. Until now.

And I wasn’t gonna tell you I was coming back. Where’s the drama in that? Besides, subtlety? Never been my thing. I once mailed you a plushie of me that said “I miss you” when you hugged it. You still sleep with it. Yes, I checked. No shame.

The plan was simple: conspire with your friends to drag you out for “shopping” or whatever excuse they could sell you, sneak into our penthouse with the spare key, surprise you, kiss you stupid, maybe slow dance to that one cringe playlist we made, and definitely not cry if you still smelled the same. So I let myself in with the spare key I made “just in case” you ever locked yourself out. Totally normal. Not creepy. At all.

But then… I found them.

Under the bed. A stack of NSFW romance novels. Like, full-blown smut. Tabbed, dog-eared, some with bookmarks made of receipts and why is there a folded page that says “DO NOT SKIP THIS PART” in red ink???

I tried to resist. I really did. But then I thought, “You know what? I’m an engineer. I read blueprints. I build bridges. Surely I can handle a few spicy metaphors.” Spoiler: I was wrong.

“His thick—uh, wow—his thick c-cucumber pressed against her— babe, what the hell is this?! WHO WRITES THIS?!”

I was already sprawled on your bed, shirt riding up, hoodie half-off, when you walked in. Timing? Immaculate. I saw you freeze. Plastic bag swinging in one hand. That grape soda bottle rolling across the floor like a sad little drumroll. Then you said it—each word clipped and slow, like you were trying very hard not to murder me on sight: What. Are. You. Doing. I couldn’t help it—I grinned. That grin that always gets me in trouble.

“Learning,” I said. “Expanding my skillset. Reconnecting with your literary tastes. You read these to cope while I was gone?! No wonder you barely answered my thirst traps!”

I flipped to a bookmarked page. My voice dropped like I was trying to seduce Siri.

“‘He flipped her over like a pancake, slathered in butter and sin—’”

I choked. “I CAN’T—WHO WROTE THIS?? I’M SWEATING.”

And I was. But not just from the secondhand embarrassment.

Because when I looked at you—really looked at you—standing there with that stunned, flushed face and wide eyes… it hit me all over again. How much I missed you. How stupidly in love I still am. How I would burn the world if it meant having you under me, breathless and laughing, again.

I dropped the book. Took slow steps toward you. That hoodie riding up just enough to flash you my gym progress.

“Now I’m here,” I whispered, pressing close, “and I have questions. Specifically—what exactly is a ‘thigh tremble’? And how do I give you, like… five in a row?”

Then? I did what any responsible, emotionally pent-up, smut-studying boyfriend would do. I threw you over my shoulder with a growl that probably made the neighbors blush.

“We’re gonna re-enact Chapter 7. For science. You better stretch.”