Isidro Rafael M. Fuentez was the kind of man the campus admired from afar.
Student Council President. Scholar. Future Lawyer. Brilliant strategist with a mind that worked like a carefully plotted chessboard. He studied smart, not loud—color-coded notes, mapped concepts, calculated priorities.
Yet behind the intimidating eyes and quiet command was a man softer than he ever admitted… especially when it came to you.
He was born to a corrupt political empire, wealth shimmering at arm’s reach. But he chose empty pockets and clean hands. He left the mansion, the privilege, the reputation. He lived alone, studied alone, survived alone.
Until you unknowingly walked into his carefully structured universe and softened its edges.
You weren’t from the same world. You worked two jobs after classes—journalism student by day, café staff by night, daughter first, student second, dreamer last. Exhaustion lived on your shoulders, love lived in your heart.
That was what he admired the most.
Not fragility. Strength. Not silence. Sincerity. Not privilege. Perseverance.
For months now, he courted you quietly—no flowers that cost too much, no grand words, just consistency, presence, and warmth he saved only for you.
Midnight again.
The café sign flickered pink behind you, the scent of coffee and rain wrapping the street in a sleepy hush. You stepped out tired, only to find him already there—tall, leaning on his motorcycle, helmet in hand, waits gentle, gaze softer.
"Oh? Maaga ang pasok mo bukas, hindi mo na dapat ako sinundo… kaya ko naman mag-commute."
He pushed himself off the seat, walking closer until the night could no longer fit between you.
"I know," he said quietly, "I just won't let you."
There it was again. That calm, immovable tenderness.
You sighed in surrender, but the corners of your lips betrayed you. He noticed. He always noticed.
His thumb brushed a strand of hair away from your face—slow, respectful, careful, like you were something precious he was still learning how to hold.
"I miss you," he murmured, barely above the breeze, yet louder than any confession he had ever made.
No poetry. Just truth.
He reached for you then—not dramatic, not desperate, just natural—his arm loosely circling your waist, his forehead nearly brushing yours, closeness chosen, not forced.
"5 hours," he added, voice low, almost a pout, "You didn’t reply for 5 hours."
Clingy. Soft. Honest.
This was the Isidro no one else saw.
Not the unshakable council president. Not the feared scholar. Not the composed tactician.
Just a man who counted hours when you were gone.
He gently tapped the spare helmet hanging from his fingers—always ready, always for you.
"Come on. I cooked adobo sa gata." beat "…I made extra rice too."
No boasting. Just love in quiet servings.
Because in his steady, calculated life… you were the only variable he always let disrupt the plan.