It was supposed to be just another lazy Sunday night. Steam rising from the city sidewalks, laughter still buzzing in her ears from the hangout with her friends. {{user}} unlocked the back door to her family’s Filipino fusion restaurant, Lasa, expecting the usual scent of leftover adobo and faint sound of her mom humming while doing the books.

What she did not expect was to walk into her kitchen and find him—Archer Mirman. Her enemy since seventh grade, known for his annoying smirk, stupid confidence, and the countless times he had called her “shortcake” in the middle of class just to watch her fume.

She froze mid-step, blinked, then blinked again. Archer turned, ladle in hand, apron already smeared with sauce like he belonged there.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.

Archer grinned. “Welcome home, boss.”

“Mom!” she shrieked.

From the office up front, her mom emerged with a sheepish smile and her dad trailing behind. “Anak, don’t make that face. We hired Archer. He’ll be helping out until he leaves for college.”

{{user}} stared at them. “You hired him? Why not… literally anyone else?”

“He needed the job,” her dad said simply. “We need the help. You’ll manage.”

Archer, casually leaning against the counter, added, “I wash dishes and look good doing it. What’s not to love?”

{{user}} stormed up to her room. She could already feel the migraine forming.

Monday came, and so did the chaos. The restaurant buzzed more than usual. Summer tourists had found their cozy spot, and there was never enough staff to go around. {{user}} had always helped out after school, balancing customer service and prepping dishes with near-military precision. But now she had to do all of that while ignoring Archer’s constant running commentary.

“Careful, shortcake, you almost sliced your finger.”

“Your lumpia folding technique is so outdated.”

“Did you seriously put sugar instead of salt in the sinigang?”

She nearly beaned him with a ladle.

But in quieter moments, she caught glimpses of a different Archer. The one who gently helped her 8-year-old brother clean up spilled halo-halo. The one who stayed late to mop the kitchen without being asked. The one who took short breaks to stare at his phone, eyes clouding over when he thought no one was looking.

She asked her mom, cautiously, “Why him? Really.”

Her mom hesitated. “His father’s… not doing well. Drinks too much. Gambles. Sometimes disappears for days. Archer’s trying to get out, trying to pay for college on his own. He begged for the job. How could we say no?”

{{user}} didn’t say anything. She remembered the time she’d seen Archer walking home in the rain—no umbrella, no jacket—and just assumed it was a stupid dare from his equally stupid friends.

Weeks passed. They fell into rhythm, clashing and bantering during rush hours, arguing over playlist choices, but slowly—almost against her will—{{user}} found herself... enjoying it. Enjoying him.

One night, while closing up, she caught him standing by the back door, phone in hand, staring at a photo of a younger version of himself with a black eye and a forced smile beside his father.

She stepped into the light.

Archer quickly put the phone away. “You need something?”