Saturday Night
All week, Sheryl had lived with a chorus: her students whispering about the "mystery visitor," neighbors peeking over the gate, Sharon squealing every hour like she'd won a game show, and Mama pretending not to care while side-eyeing Rafi's every text between K-drama episodes. By Saturday evening, Sheryl wanted quiet—just one night where the world didn't tug at her sleeve.
Rafi arrived in a sleek black sedan that made half the street lift their curtains. He stepped out in a crisp shirt, the kind that made his shoulders look broader than trouble. Sheryl slipped into the passenger seat, cheeks hot.
"Where are we going?" she asked, clutching her sling bag like a life vest.
"Somewhere we can hear ourselves think," he said, fingers brushing hers for the briefest second.
The Restaurant
They wound toward the bay, then ducked into a tucked-away restaurant with linen tablecloths and candlelight puddled like small moons. A single rose waited in a slim glass. Beyond the windows, the city glimmered on the water.
Sheryl sat, suddenly conscious of everything—the weight of the cutlery, the hush of the room, the prices floating on the menu like tiny heart attacks. She leaned in and whispered, "Be honest… did you win the lottery?"
His mouth tilted. "Something like that. But none of it matters if you're not here."
Her stomach did a ridiculous flip. She hid it behind a sip of water.
They ate—seared fish, soft bread, laughter in small, careful doses. Still, beneath the tablecloth, her knee bounced. Beneath his calm, something in him thrummed too.
The Proposal
Dessert plates cleared. A breath hung between them.
"Sheryl," he said softly.
Her name sounded different in this light. She looked up.
He reached into his jacket and set a velvet box on the table. The snap of the hinge was somehow both quiet and loud. Inside, the diamond caught the candle's flame and held it steady—elegant, luminous, not screaming for attention but impossible to ignore.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Be my wife," he said. Not grand, not rehearsed—steady as a promise. "Not for the palace. Not for duty. For me. For us. Walk with me, wherever it leads."
The world tilted a little. In her head, Mama's dry voice clicked from the sofa: Let's see if your story ends better than theirs. And right behind it, Sharon's squeal: Ate! Princess ka na! The noise of both collided.
"I… I don't know, Rafi." The words wobbled out of her. "It's too much. I'm just me. A teacher with bills and papers to check and a family that needs new slippers every Christmas. And you're—" She gestured helplessly at the ring. "—this."
Silence gathered around them, soft as cloth.
Rafi closed the box, not with defeat, but with care. He reached across the table and took her hand. "Then take your time," he said. "I will wait. I don't want just a wife. I want you."
Heat rushed behind her eyes—shame, relief, love, all tangled. She drew a breath, steadied herself, and squared her shoulders.
"Okay," she said, voice firmer. "I refuse to be a full-time drama queen. That's Sharon's job." A tiny, strangled laugh caught between them. She met his gaze. "Give me the ring."
His brows lifted. "Now?"
"Yes. I won't wear it yet… but it's mine. You gave it to me." She held out her palm. "Understood?"
Something like joy flickered in his eyes. He placed the box in her hand as though it were a small, bright living thing. She slipped it into her bag, the weight anchoring her and lifting her at the same time.
She exhaled. "Take me home," she said, then shook her head. "Not Mama's. Not yet. Your place. Ours, just for tonight."
The Condo in Sucat
The ride south was quiet, Manila's neon sliding over their faces and back into the dark. When he unlocked the door of the Sucat condo, the familiar simplicity steadied her: the worn couch, the tower of books by the window, the faint scent of coffee in the air. No gilded frames. No bowing attendants. Just him.
She kicked off her heels and set her bag on the counter—her hand lingering a second on the velvet box inside. When she turned, her voice was low but sure.
"I said no to the ring tonight," she murmured, stepping closer, "but I'm not saying no to you."
"Sheryl…"
She reached for his collar and drew him down until their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling. "Not as a prince," she whispered. "Not as a promise. Just you."
The Night
His answer was a kiss—measured at first, as if carving a door in the air, then deepening when she rose onto her toes and met him halfway. Her fingers knotted in his shirt. His hand found the curve of her jaw, tracing the path to her cheek, then the warm hollow beneath her ear.
When his lips grazed the slope of her shoulder where her blouse had slipped, she shuddered, a soft gasp catching at the edges.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed, forehead resting against her skin. "And I will."
"Don't," she said, bold and shaking and certain all at once.
The room narrowed to the rhythm of their breaths and the hush of the city outside. Buttons fumbled, laughter broke and melted into sighs, the sofa forgotten as they found the quiet geography of each other again—the places you only map when you're not afraid. He moved with a reverence that undid her; she answered with a hunger that surprised them both.
Later, the world expanded again. They lay in the dim, the air still warm with what they'd made together. Sheryl's head rose and fell on his chest; her fingers traced the steady beat beneath skin, a private metronome.
"I'm keeping the ring in your bedside drawer," she murmured, lips brushing his collarbone. "Do not even think about taking it back."
He smiled into her hair and kissed the crown of her head. "It's yours. Always."
The condo hummed softly—the fridge, the far-off traffic, the city still awake. She closed her eyes and let the sound hold them. No crowns. No councils. No verdicts due tonight.
Just Sheryl and Rafi, under the same crescent, staking out their small country of two.