Chapter Text
After Hours
Part 1
The BPO building along Commonwealth looked almost peaceful at five in the morning.
Not quiet—never quiet. The city never allowed that. Jeepneys already rattled along the road like loose change in a metal can, tricycles buzzed lazily near the sidewalk, and somewhere farther down the street someone was frying something oily that made the entire block smell faintly of garlic and yesterday’s grease.
But compared to midnight, the fluorescent chaos of headset voices, complaint escalations, and supervisors whispering metrics like sacred prayers, the outside world felt softer.
Hugo Lacson stepped out of the building with the slow, stiff movement of someone whose body had forgotten how mornings were supposed to work.
His headset had left a dent in his hair. His eyes burned faintly from eight hours of staring at a glowing monitor while apologizing to strangers from Ohio who believed broken routers were personal attacks.
He stretched his arms over his head.
“Putangina,” he muttered to nobody.
Another shift survived. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from his sister came in.
Ari: Kuya, yung gamot si Mama para mamaya. Ubos na po.
Right. Hugo exhaled slowly and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
There was a 7-Eleven across the street. The familiar green-and-red glow felt almost comforting at this hour. He crossed the empty road, sneakers dragging slightly against the pavement.
The automatic doors slid open with a polite ding. The air-conditioning hit him instantly.
Inside the store, the fluorescent lights hummed quietly above rows of instant noodles and convenience-store sandwiches that looked like they had been waiting patiently for disappointment.
Hugo grabbed what he always grabbed. One ₱39 siopao and one Kopiko 78. Breakfast of champions.
Or, more accurately, breakfast of overworked call center agents who had to stretch every peso until it apologized.
He paid at the counter, shoved the plastic bag around his wrist, and walked toward the door then stopped. There was a man sitting on the pavement outside. Right in front of the entrance, not leaning against the wall, not crouching politely to the side, just sitting there blocking the door.
Hugo blinked.
For a moment he thought the guy might be drunk. It happened sometimes around this area—late-night drinkers wandering into convenience stores looking for cold water and redemption.
But this one didn’t smell like alcohol. He smelled like expensive laundry detergent.
The guy was wearing branded sportswear with clean sneakers. A jacket that probably cost more than Hugo’s entire electricity bill.
And he was crying.
Not the dramatic kind either. Just quiet, exhausted crying like someone whose brain had finally given up arguing with reality.
Hugo stared at him for three seconds then sighed.
“Kuya,” he said.
No response.
“Kuya,” Hugo repeated, nudging the man’s shoe lightly with the tip of his sneaker.
The man looked up slowly and his eyes were red.
Oh, legit pala. Hugo scratched the back of his head.
“Uh,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry, ha. Pero… pwede bang gumilid ka muna?”
The man blinked, “What?”
“You’re blocking the door.”
Silence. Then the man immediately scooted a few inches to the side like someone who had just realized he’d committed a public crime.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
His voice was calm and polite. Too polite for five in the morning while sitting on the pavement crying.
Hugo stood there awkwardly for a second. The reasonable thing would’ve been to leave. He had a bus to catch. His mom needed her medicine. His brother had school later. His sister had exams this week.
He did not have time for strangers crying outside convenience stores, and yet, Hugo looked down at the man again.
The guy’s shoulders were shaking slightly. He looked like someone who had just discovered gravity existed.
Hugo exhaled slowly. “Teka lang.”
The man looked up.
Hugo crouched down beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. “So,” Hugo said. “Ano ’to?”
The man frowned faintly. “I’m sorry?”
“Why are you crying outside a 7-Eleven at five in the morning.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then the man said quietly, “I failed the bar exam.”
Ah. Hugo leaned back slightly. Well, that would do it. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Valid.”
The man laughed weakly despite himself.
Hugo opened the plastic bag around his wrist and pulled out the siopao. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed dramatically.
“Fine.” He handed it over. “Eat.”
The man blinked. “No, I—”
“Bro,” Hugo said flatly. “You’re crying on concrete. Eat the siopao.”
The man hesitated then slowly accepted it, “…thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The man held the siopao like it might explode.
Hugo studied him quietly now. The guy looked young. Mid-twenties maybe. Clean haircut. Glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. The kind of guy who probably spent most of his life in libraries.
“What’s your name?” Hugo asked.
“Mateo.”
“Mateo what?”
“Ledesma.”
Hugo paused. Ledesma. That sounded like money.
“You’re rich, ’no.”
Mateo blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Your last name,” Hugo said casually. “Ledesma. Sounds like old money.”
Mateo looked slightly embarrassed. “My father’s a judge.”
Ah. There it is.
Hugo whistled quietly, “Okay. So the crying makes more sense now.”
Mateo looked down at the siopao. “I just… didn’t pass.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.”
“My dad expected me to.”
“I’m sure he did.”
Mateo laughed weakly again.
Hugo leaned back against the wall beside him. “So what happens now?”
Mateo stared at the pavement. “I don’t know.”
Silence.
A jeepney roared past the street. Somewhere inside the 7-Eleven the microwave beeped.
Mateo said quietly, “My dream wasn’t even to become a lawyer.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Mateo wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I wanted to be a writer.”
Hugo stared at him. For a moment he genuinely didn’t know whether to laugh or cry himself.
“So,” he said finally.
Mateo looked up.
“You’re crying because you failed at something you didn’t even want?”
Mateo blinked, “…when you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“Medyo.”
Mateo laughed softly.
Hugo watched him for a moment. Then said casually, “I wanted to be a theater actor.”
Mateo looked surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“And…?”
Hugo shrugged.“My dad died.”
Mateo’s expression softened immediately. “Oh.”
“Tapos yung mom ko was diagnosed with cancer.” Hugo added. “And I have two younger siblings. So here we are.” He lifted the Kopiko bottle slightly, “Call center life.”
Mateo stared at him for a moment then said quietly, “You seem… okay about it.”
Hugo snorted, “Hindi ako okay.”
Mateo smiled faintly. That smile was small, yet gentle. The kind that felt like it had been trained not to take up too much space.
Hugo looked at him suspiciously. “Anong tinitingin-tingin mo dyan?”
Mateo shook his head. “Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
“You’re funny.”
Hugo scoffed. “Wow. Thank you. I’ll add that to my résumé.”
Mateo chuckled softly. They sat there for a moment. Two strangers on the pavement outside a 7-Eleven. One holding a half-eaten siopao. The other was holding a bottle of coffee he still hadn’t opened.
Finally Hugo stood up and stretched his arms again.
“Well,” he said.
Mateo looked up.
“Life sucks.”
Mateo nodded.
“Yes.”
“But,” Hugo continued, “you probably shouldn’t cry on convenience store floors every time something bad happens.”
Mateo smiled. “Fair.”
Hugo started walking backward toward the street. “Good luck, Judge’s Son.”
Mateo called after him. “Hugo.”
Hugo stopped.
“You didn’t tell me your last name.”
Hugo grinned. “Lacson.”
Mateo repeated it softly, “Hugo Lacson.”
Hugo pointed at him. “See? You already sound like you’re writing a character.”
Mateo laughed and for the first time that morning—he didn’t look like someone whose world had just ended.
By the time Hugo Lacson returned to the BPO building that evening, Quezon City had already slipped into its usual nighttime rhythm—the one that belonged less to office workers and more to people who survived on caffeine, fluorescent lighting, and the quiet agreement that sleep was a luxury nobody in this building could consistently afford.
The call center floor occupied the entire sixth level of the building, an endless sea of gray cubicles under humming white lights. The air-conditioning ran aggressively, as if determined to remind everyone that outside the glass windows was Manila humidity and traffic and ordinary daytime problems, while inside was a different kind of reality entirely. Rows of monitors glowed softly in the dimness, headset wires looping like vines across desks cluttered with coffee cups, sticky notes, and half-eaten snacks that had long ago stopped pretending to be healthy.
Night shift had its own ecosystem. People who worked nights long enough developed a strange camaraderie—the kind born from surviving the same absurd complaints from strangers halfway across the world.
Hugo dropped his bag onto his chair and collapsed into the seat with the practiced exhaustion of someone who had done this exact movement hundreds of times.
“Good evening, corporate slave,” a voice greeted from the neighboring cubicle.
Hugo glanced sideways.
Rafael “Raf” Zhong was already logged into the system, headset hanging lazily around his neck as he scrolled through something on his phone. Raf had the relaxed posture of someone who treated night shift like an interesting hobby rather than a financial necessity. Which, to be fair, it basically was.
Raf’s family owned several construction companies somewhere in Makati. Nobody on the floor quite understood why he insisted on working here except that every time someone asked, Raf would shrug and say he was “gaining life experience.”
Hugo had once told him that most people gained life experience without sacrificing their circadian rhythm. Raf had laughed and bought everyone milk tea.
Across the aisle, another voice chimed in. “Late ka.”
Hugo turned his chair slightly. Cassandra sat two cubicles down, hair tied neatly into a ponytail as she stretched her arms over her head. Cassandra worked the night shift here but taught dance classes at a small studio in Katipunan every morning before sleeping through the afternoon.
Hugo had no idea how she remained functional.
“I had a very productive morning,” Hugo replied.
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Productive how?”
“I counseled a crying rich kid outside a 7-Eleven.”
Raf leaned over the cubicle wall immediately. “Oh?”
“Bar exam failure,” Hugo explained casually as he plugged in his headset.
Cassandra snorted. “Classic.”
Before Hugo could respond, a cheerful voice cut through the aisle.
“Guys, log in na! Queue is already building.”
Their team leader appeared beside the row of cubicles with the gentle exhaustion of someone responsible for twelve overworked adults and their combined emotional instability.
Dion Santos—known on the floor simply as TL Dy—was one of those rare supervisors who managed to look perpetually calm even while juggling performance metrics, attendance reports, and the occasional meltdown from agents dealing with particularly creative American customers.
Dion had been in the BPO industry long enough to understand two important truths. One: customers would complain about anything. Two: agents would survive anything if given enough coffee.
“Relax, TL,” Hugo said lazily. “We’re logging in.”
Dion gave him a look. “You say that every shift.”
“And every shift I log in.”
Dion sighed, “Bare minimum behavior.”
“Consistent behavior.”
From the far end of the aisle, someone waved.
“Kuya Hugo!”
Hugo glanced toward the IT desk near the wall. Paolo nearly tripped over a network cable while hurrying toward them. The intern had the nervous enthusiasm of someone who had not yet learned that corporate environments rewarded quiet competence far more than energetic panic.
Paolo was twenty, currently studying Information Technology at a nearby university, and had developed a very transparent crush on Hugo within approximately three days of joining the floor. Everyone knew. Especially Hugo.
“Hi, Paolo,” Hugo said calmly.
Paolo stopped in front of his cubicle, suddenly forgetting whatever sentence he had planned to say. “I just—uh—if your system has issues again later—just call me.”
“My system always has issues.”
Paolo brightened immediately. “I’ll be around!”
Raf leaned toward Hugo once the intern hurried away. “Your fan club is growing.”
Hugo ignored him. Another chair rolled into the aisle beside them.
“Excuse me,” someone said politely.
Everyone turned. Johnny adjusted his glasses as he squeezed between the cubicles carrying a neatly organized stack of printed call reports. Johnny worked the same queue but felt spiritually incompatible with chaos.
He was also, according to rumor, the son of some extremely wealthy shipping executive who insisted Johnny learn the value of “starting from the bottom.” Johnny took this lesson very seriously.
“Performance reports,” he announced calmly.
Hugo stared at the papers. “You printed them?”
“Yes.”
“Bakit?”
Johnny blinked, “So we can review them.”
Hugo leaned back in his chair. “You scare me.”
Cassandra laughed, “Si Johnny lang ang taong kusang nagbabasa ng reports sa buong building na ’to.”
Before Johnny could defend himself, another chair rolled loudly across the floor. “Move.”
Diego squeezed into the open space between Hugo and Cassandra with the aggressive confidence of someone who had spent most of his life winning academic debates. Diego was technically the youngest among them, but his personality operated at maximum volume. UP Diliman Journalism major. Call center agent by financial necessity.
“Kaumakayod para makaahon sa buhay,” Diego often said dramatically whenever someone asked why he worked here.
Hugo looked at him. “Diego.”
“Oh?”
“You say that like you’re narrating a documentary.”
“It’s accurate.”
Cassandra pointed at him. “Did you submit your article already?”
Diego groaned, “Deadline tomorrow.”
“Sinusulat mo na nga ’yan ngayon, ’no?”
Diego did not answer which meant yes.
Dion clapped his hands once. “Okay, team.”
Everyone looked up.
“Queue is officially open.”
Hugo adjusted his headset over his ears. The familiar beep echoed softly in the line and another shift had begun. He leaned forward and clicked Accept Call.
“Thank you for calling customer support,” Hugo said smoothly, voice instantly shifting into professional warmth. “How may I assist you today?”
Across the cubicles, Raf mouthed silently: “Corporate slave.”
Hugo rolled his eyes and muted the microphone. “Tangina mo.”
“Love you too,” Raf replied cheerfully.
And somewhere between the ringing phones, the humming monitors, and the quiet laughter echoing between cubicles—the long night shift carried on.
A few days later, the morning air along Commonwealth felt heavier than usual. Manila had that strange kind of humidity that arrived right before sunrise—the kind that made the pavement smell faintly like warm concrete and diesel fumes. The sky above the buildings was slowly turning from charcoal gray into a pale blue that suggested the sun would eventually show up, but not yet. Not quite.
It was 5:06 A.M. Which meant Hugo had just finished another shift of apologizing to strangers from Ohio.
The BPO building behind him exhaled tired agents onto the street the way it always did at this hour—people with messy hair, wrinkled company IDs hanging around their necks, and the unmistakable body language of individuals who had been awake far longer than biology recommended.
Hugo stretched his arms above his head as he crossed the road toward the same convenience store he had visited almost every morning for the past year, 7-Eleven. The red and green sign glowed against the gray dawn like a lighthouse for the sleep-deprived.
There were certain rituals you developed when you worked night shift. Some people went straight home. Some people bought breakfast first. Some people sat on the curb outside the store with instant noodles and stared blankly at the street while their brains rebooted.
Hugo belonged firmly to the second category.
The automatic doors slid open with their familiar ding and the cold air-conditioning wrapped around him immediately. Inside, the store looked exactly like it always did at this hour—fluorescent lights humming overhead, shelves fully stocked with snacks that nobody had bought during the night, and the cashier half-asleep behind the counter scrolling through his phone.
Hugo grabbed what he always grabbed. One ₱39 siopao. One Kopiko 78. Routine was comforting. Especially when most other things in your life were not. He paid, slipped the plastic bag around his wrist, and stepped back toward the door.
The moment the glass slid open, the humid air hit his face again and then he saw him.
Mateo stood near the curb outside the store. Not sitting on the pavement this time. Not crying either.
He looked… different.
For one thing, he was standing upright like a functional human being instead of someone whose soul had temporarily left his body. For another—the man was wearing an entire Adidas outfit. Clean black running shorts, white athletic shirt, a sleek running jacket tied around his waist and expensive-looking running shoes that probably cost more than Hugo’s entire grocery budget for the week.
And a smartwatch, of course, there was a smartwatch.
Hugo slowed slightly as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Mateo was stretching one leg against the curb, head slightly lowered while checking something on his watch.
Probably Strava or whatever rich people did at five in the morning to convince themselves they were healthy.
For a brief second, Hugo wondered if the guy had noticed him. Mateo looked up and their eyes met.
Oh, okay, so he had noticed him.
Hugo nodded politely. The universal Filipino acknowledgment for I recognize you but we are not close enough to make a scene. Then he kept walking because obviously Mateo was not waiting for him.
That would be ridiculous.
Hugo was not the kind of person rich people in Adidas outfits waited around convenience stores for. He made it three steps past the man.
“Hugo.”
Hugo stopped and turned slowly.
Mateo stood there, slightly out of breath from what was probably a long run. A thin layer of sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, and his hair looked messier than it had the first time they met.
But his eyes were clearer now—less broken, still tired, but clearer.
Hugo raised an eyebrow.
“Oh,” he said casually. “You’re alive.”
Mateo smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“Good.” Hugo lifted the plastic bag slightly, “Was worried you’d moved permanently into the 7-Eleven pavement.”
Mateo laughed softly. “I considered it.”
“Rent’s probably cheaper.”
Mateo shook his head. “You come here every morning?”
Hugo glanced at the store. “Siopao supply.”
“Ah.” Mateo nodded thoughtfully, as if this information had solved a complicated equation.
Then there was a short silence. The kind where both people were trying to decide whether the conversation had ended or was about to continue.
A jeepney roared past them on the road, its engine rattling like loose metal. Hugo took a sip from the Kopiko bottle and gestured vaguely toward Mateo’s outfit.
“So.”
Mateo glanced down. “What?”
“You look like you’re about to run a marathon.”
“I was running.”
“Ah.” Hugo nodded slowly. “Right.” Another pause before Hugo added, “You run in full Adidas now? Is that a uniform?”
Mateo looked mildly embarrassed, “It’s just comfortable.”
“Sure.”
Mateo glanced at him. “You’re judging me.”
“I’m observing.”
“That sounded like judging.”
“It’s a thin line.”
Mateo laughed quietly again.
Hugo studied him for a moment. The guy looked less like someone who had just experienced a life crisis and more like someone who had slept at least three consecutive hours.
Progress.
“So,” Hugo said casually. “How’s the emotional recovery from crying on convenience store floors?”
Mateo winced slightly, “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never.”
Mateo nodded. “That’s fair.”
Hugo leaned against the side of the building. “So what are you doing here?”
Mateo hesitated then said simply, “I was running.”
“Obviously.”
Mateo exhaled. “And I thought I might see you.”
Hugo blinked. Okay, unexpected. He recovered quickly. “You’re assuming I buy siopao every morning.”
“You said it was your routine.”
“Routine changes.”
Mateo nodded. “That’s true.”
Another short silence settled between them and the city was waking up now. More jeepneys passed, a tricycle driver parked nearby and lit a cigarette. Inside the 7-Eleven someone microwaved instant noodles, the faint beep echoing through the doorway.
Mateo looked at the plastic bag in Hugo’s hand. “You bought siopao again.”
“Of course.”
“You didn’t buy one for me this time.”
Hugo squinted at him. “Excuse me?”
Mateo smiled slightly. “You gave me your breakfast last time.”
“That was charity.”
Mateo tilted his head. “So today there’s no charity?”
Hugo sighed dramatically and opened the plastic bag. “Jesus Christ.” He handed over the siopao.
Mateo accepted it with quiet gratitude and a small smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mateo took a bite. They stood there on the sidewalk again. Almost the same place as before, except this time neither of them looked like their lives had just ended.
Mateo chewed thoughtfully then said, “I checked the bar exam results again yesterday.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow, “And?”
“I still failed.”
“Consistency is important.”
Mateo laughed softly and said something that made Hugo glance at him again. “But I started writing.”
Hugo blinked. “Writing what.”
“A story.”
“Oh.”
Mateo looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s not very good yet.”
Hugo shrugged. “That’s normal.”
Mateo glanced at him. “You say that like you know.”
Hugo leaned back against the wall. “Theater scripts,” he said casually. “I used to write them sometimes.”
Mateo’s eyes brightened slightly. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they good?”
Hugo opened the Kopiko bottle again. “Di ko ‘sure.”
Mateo smiled, “I’d like to read one someday.”
Hugo pointed at him with the bottle. “Careful.”
“Why?”
“You’re starting to sound like a writer already.”
Mateo laughed and this time the sound carried easily into the quiet morning air.
By the time Saturday night arrived, the entire call center team had already been warned twice. Once in the group chat. Once again in person by Rafael himself, standing dramatically in the middle of the aisle between cubicles like a man announcing a national holiday.
“Attendance is mandatory,” Raf declared, pointing at everyone individually as if he were distributing legal subpoenas. “If you don’t come, I will assume you hate me personally.”
Cass rolled her chair away from him.
“Bakla ka,” she said. “You say that every time someone refuses free food.”
“It’s a very effective emotional strategy.”
Diego looked up from his laptop. “Saan ba yan, ‘te?”
Raf grinned. “BGC.”
Hugo groaned immediately, “Of course.”
“Don’t complain,” Raf said cheerfully. “I booked a private room.”
“Of course you did.”
Raf pointed at him. “Dress nicely.”
“Dalawa lang t-shirt ko.”
“Choose the less tragic one.”
Two nights later, Hugo stood outside a rooftop bar in Bonifacio Global City wondering how his life choices had led him here.
The building was tall enough that the city below looked almost peaceful—Manila lights stretching across the horizon like a field of quiet stars. Music drifted softly through the open rooftop space, mixing with the hum of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter from groups scattered across polished wooden tables.
This was not Hugo’s natural habitat. The bar had decorative plants, actual candles, and even a bartender wearing suspenders.
Hugo adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Putangina,” he muttered.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. “You made it.”
Hugo turned and Raf stood there wearing a black button-down shirt that looked expensive enough to qualify as a financial investment.
“You look uncomfortable,” Raf observed.
“I am uncomfortable.”
“You’ll survive.”
Hugo glanced around the rooftop. Half the people here looked like they owned start-ups. The other half looked like they invested in those start-ups.
“Your friends are terrifying,” Hugo said.
“They’re harmless.”
Before Hugo could reply, a voice shouted from across the room. “Raf!”
A petite man waved enthusiastically from a large table near the railing. Raf gestured toward the group.
“Come.”
Hugo followed reluctantly. And as they approached the table, Raf began introductions like a tour guide leading someone through a museum of rich people.
“That’s Lorenzo Gutierrez,” he said casually, pointing to the petite guy who had shouted earlier.
Lorenzo stood and shook Hugo’s hand warmly, “Nice to meet you.”
He had the relaxed confidence of someone who had never once worried about tuition payments in his entire life.
Beside him sat Kenji Takahashi-Del Rosario, who was scrolling through something on a tablet while sipping wine like this was a perfectly normal Saturday activity.
“Kenji works in finance,” Raf explained.
Kenji glanced up briefly, “Consulting.”
“Same thing,” Hugo said.
Across from them sat Vincent Yang, leaning back comfortably with one arm draped over the back of his chair. Vincent looked like the type of person who owned multiple passports.
Next to him was Johnny, who was currently arguing with someone across the table about cryptocurrency.
“Crypto is not real,” Johnny insisted.
“It’s literally digital currency,” someone replied.
“That’s the problem.”
Further down the table sat Leandro Zobel de Ayala, whose carefully styled hair suggested he spent a concerning amount of time thinking about aesthetic symmetry.
Raf gestured dramatically. “And these two,” he said, pointing at the women near the end of the table, “are Sabrina Tan and Nina Ong.”
Sabrina waved cheerfully, Nina smiled politely. Hugo nodded at them.
“Hello.”
Then he froze because sitting between Lorenzo and Leandro—was Mateo Ledesma.
Mateo glanced up from his glass and caught Hugo’s gaze. They held each other’s eyes for a moment before Mateo smiled faintly.
“Hi,” Mateo said.
Hugo blinked. “You’re here.”
Mateo tilted his head slightly. “Yes.”
Raf frowned, glancing between them. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Hugo pointed at Mateo. “He cries outside convenience stores.”
The table went quiet.
Mateo shut his eyes briefly. “Oh no.”
Lorenzo leaned forward immediately. “Hold on.”
Vincent grinned. “You cried?”
Mateo sighed. “…Yes.”
Kenji laughed loudly. “Dude, that’s so lame.”
Lorenzo covered his mouth to hide a smile. “This is incredible.”
Mateo looked at Hugo. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I did not promise that.”
Sabrina leaned across the table. “What happened?”
Hugo leaned casually against the chair beside Mateo. “Bar exam.”
Nina gasped slightly, “Oh.”
Leandro nodded sympathetically, “That’s brutal.”
Lorenzo patted Mateo’s shoulder. “Respect for surviving.”
Vincent raised his glass. “To emotional breakdowns.”
“Cheers,” Kenji added.
Everyone laughed while Mateo looked mildly horrified.
Hugo grinned, “You’re famous now.”
Mateo sighed. “I regret telling you my life story.”
Raf leaned toward Hugo. “You met outside a 7-Eleven?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
Diego arrived at that exact moment, slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. “Sorry, I’m late.”
He froze when he saw the group. “Oh.”
Hugo pointed, “Diego, meet rich people.”
Diego shook Lorenzo’s hand immediately.
“Journalism student,” he announced confidently. “Kumakayod para makaahon sa buhay.”
Lorenzo blinked, while Vincent whispered to Kenji, “I like him.”
Cass arrived next, still wearing a jacket from her dance class. “Anong meron mga bakla?”
Hugo pointed at Mateo.“Bar exam trauma boy.”
“Ah.” She nodded calmly. “Siya pala yun.”
Paolo hovered awkwardly near the edge of the table.
Johnny greeted him politely. “He’s the intern. ”
Paolo nodded nervously. “H-hi.”
Kenji leaned back. “This group is chaotic.”
Vincent grinned. “You should see Raf’s high school friends.”
At the center of the table, Raf lifted his glass.
“Okay,” he announced and everyone quieted. “To another year of my incredible existence.”
Hugo rolled his eyes. “Ang yabang mo.”
“It’s my birthday.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
Raf pointed at Mateo, “At least I didn’t cry on concrete.”
Mateo buried his face in his hands and the table erupted in laughter again.
And somewhere between the teasing, the noise, and the endless stream of food arriving from the kitchen—Hugo realized something strange.
Mateo was laughing too.
Not politely. Not awkwardly. Actually laughing.
And for the first time since they met—he didn’t look like someone waiting for his life to start again.