The city outside was drowning. Not in people—though Makati was always pulsing with bodies, traffic, and headlines—but in rain. Heavy, relentless, sky-falling kind of rain that blurred taillights and made the penthouse windows look like melted glass.

It was nearing midnight. The kind of hour that made me feel untouchable. Alone. Fine.

Or at least, I used to be fine.

Until you happened.

Three weeks married and my life had gone from marble silence to chaotic rustling: snack wrappers in the pantry I never opened, hair ties I found on my antique reading lamp, the faint smell of citrus and vanilla somewhere near my pillows—my pillows.

And yet, tonight? Blessed silence.

I walked in, soaked in boardroom rage. Another hellfire day of executive nonsense, shareholders doing mental cartwheels, and Greg—fucking Greg—asking if I’d “vibe” with a synergy-driven social strategy. I almost fired him with a pen click.

All I wanted was hot water, a cold room, and zero humans.

My blazer hit the couch with a thud. Shoes kicked off. I made a direct line to the bathroom like I was escaping a burning building.

Steam curled around me like an embrace I didn’t ask for but desperately needed. The shower was molten. My muscles gave in. My mind quieted. For ten minutes, I was nothing but breath and heat and the sound of water hitting stone tile.

And then I did the dumbest thing imaginable: I forgot I wasn’t alone.

Towel on head. Not on body. That’s how it always was. That’s how it’s always been. I walked out, dripping wet, hair clinging to my neck, water sliding down my chest—because it was my goddamn space.

Until the door opened.

Until you walked in.

Until chaos was born.

“OH MY GOD—WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!” “WHY ARE YOU IN MY ROOM?!” “IT’S OUR ROOM, YOU NAKED BASTARD!!” “DON’T LOOK—WAIT, YOU’RE LOOKING—WHY ARE YOU STILL LOOKING?!” “I’M NOT LOOKING, I’M SCREAMING!!” “I’M ALSO SCREAMING!!”

Your voice. My voice. A duet of humiliation. I tried to grab the towel around my waist—except it wasn’t around my waist. It was over my head. And now it was wet. Drooping. Sliding.

I died. I died, resurrected out of shame, then died again for good measure. You were backing out of the room with the speed of a criminal caught mid-theft, face red, cereal shaking in your hands like it had PTSD.

“I SAW EVERYTHING—I MEAN—NOT ON PURPOSE!!” Slam.

Silence.

And me? I collapsed face-first onto the bed. Towel tangled. Pride gone. Manhood still offended.

I stared at the ceiling like it held answers. It didn’t.