Chapter Text
(1)
"You're telling me you've only read half?"
Risa doesn't look up from the document in front of her as she speaks. Across the conference table, Sherwin winces.
"It sounds worse when you say it like that."
"It is worse."
"I've been busy."
"You are always busy."
"Thank you for proving my point."
Risa finally lifts her head, one eyebrow raised. Around them, Senate staff members continue packing folders into boxes and discussing logistics for the next day's hearing. The investigation was scheduled for nine in the morning, and everyone involved had spent the better part of the week buried underneath reports, financial records, and witness statements.
Sherwin reaches for his coffee and takes a sip. "I'll finish it tonight."
"You'll finish four hundred pages tonight?"
"I've done worse."
Risa snorts. "That's not the flex you think it is, Mr. Senator."
Before Sherwin can respond, one of his staff approaches with another stack of budget documents requiring immediate signatures. He accepts them with a groan and immediately starts flipping through the pages while the staff member explains several pending concerns. Risa watches the interaction for a moment before returning to her own paperwork.
It doesn't surprise her. After all, Sherwin Gatchalian had many admirable qualities.
Remembering to rest was not one of them.
By the time she leaves the building later that evening, the lights in his office are still on.
---
At exactly 11:43 PM, Sherwin receives an email.
From: Senator Risa Hontiveros.
Attached is a PDF.
He stares at the sender for a moment before laughing, loud enough that he instinctively glances toward the glass walls of his office to make sure nobody was able to witness it.
Because of course it is.
In the ten years they had worked together, Sherwin had listened to Risa complain about PDFs often enough to recite her arguments from memory. Whenever staff members sent lengthy reports digitally, she would inevitably ask whether a printed copy existed somewhere. She preferred reading physical documents whenever possible, annotating directly on the pages before transferring important notes into whichever notebook she happened to be carrying that week.
Sherwin still remembered the time she spent nearly twenty minutes searching for a missing note during a committee hearing, only to discover that she had written it on the back of a restaurant receipt tucked inside a folder. Her staff had nearly staged an intervention after that incident.
And yet here she was, sending an email with an attachment containing forty-three pages.
Forty-three painstakingly organized pages.
As Sherwin scrolls through the document, he finds highlighted sections, annotations in the margins, links directing him toward supporting references, and neatly arranged observations pointing out details that may become relevant during tomorrow's hearing. The summary itself is comprehensive enough that he briefly wonders how many hours she must have spent putting everything together.
The answer is probably more than she should have.
His eyes drift toward the clock in the corner of his screen.
11:47 PM.
The timestamp nags at him.
The Senate building is practically empty at this hour. Most people had gone home long ago, yet Risa had apparently spent part of her evening compiling a report that wasn't even her responsibility to write.
Another notification appears before he can stop himself from thinking about it.
It's a second email which is far shorter than the first.
*Sleep after reading this.*
Sherwin rereads the sentence several times. Then he returns to the summary. Then back again to the email.
The attachment itself is ofcourse impressive, but that isn't what settles heavily in his chest.
What gets to him is the simple fact that he knows exactly how much effort this must have taken.
He knows that Risa dislikes reading lengthy documents on a screen. He knows she prefers printed reports, handwritten notes, and margins she can scribble on with whatever ballpen happens to be closest.
He knows that after several hours in front of a laptop, she starts rubbing her temples and complaining about headaches. He knows all this because ten years of working together has taught him these things, just as it has taught her that he will happily work himself into exhaustion if left unsupervised.
So yes, the summary is helpful. The annotations are useful.
The highlighted sections will probably save him several hours of reading.
But what makes his chest ache is the realization that she had done something she personally hated simply because she knew it would make his life easier.
(2)
The game begins sometime during their fifth year of working together.
Sherwin never tells anyone about it, partly because it sounds ridiculous and partly because he is a sitting senator who should, in all likelihood, have more pressing matters occupying his thoughts than Senator Risa Hontiveros's hairstyle.
Yet every Monday morning, without fail, he finds himself looking up whenever she enters a room and wondering whether his prediction had been correct.
Over the years, he becomes surprisingly good at it.
Mondays often mean soft curls pinned away from her face. Tuesdays usually involve a low ponytail. Most days, however, she prefers wearing her hair down, secured with a simple clip or pin near her left temple.
Fridays are the only exception.
Fridays are unpredictable. Sometimes she arrives with her hair braided. Sometimes pinned up. Sometimes exactly the same as Thursday. Sherwin has long accepted that Fridays cannot be anticipated.
The game itself is harmless.
At least, that is what he tells himself.
The real problem is that Risa has an uncanny ability to lose whatever is holding them together.
Hair ties disappear with alarming regularity. Hairpins fare no better. Clips seem to vanish entirely after a few weeks of ownership. During especially long hearings, she often removes whatever is securing her hair, rubs her temples while nursing the beginnings of a headache, and then somehow misplaces the accessory before the day is over.
Sherwin notices because everyone notices. Or at least that is the excuse he gives himself.
After all, anyone would remember the time she borrowed a hair tie from an assistant midway through a committee hearing. Anyone would remember the afternoon she spent ten minutes searching her office for a missing clip before eventually discovering it attached to a folder she had been carrying all along. Anyone would remember the exasperated intern who surrendered her own hair tie after watching Risa search every pocket of her bag.
None of these memories mean anything.
Certainly not.
It's nearing eight in the evening when the familiar pattern repeats itself.
The Senate floor has mostly emptied by then. A handful of offices remain illuminated, occupied by legislators who have yet to admit defeat to the growing pile of paperwork on their desks. Sherwin and Risa are seated across from one another reviewing documents related to a controversial POGO hub, each armed with coffee, highlighters, and varying degrees of patience.
For nearly an hour, the only sounds in the room are the rustling of paper and the occasional scratch of a pen against a notepad.
Then Risa suddenly stops reading.
Sherwin glances up.
She sets her pen aside and reaches into her bag.
One pocket then another.
A slight frown appears between her brows.
Sherwin already knows.
He watches her search through a side compartment before checking a smaller pocket near the zipper. A few seconds later, she exhales in quiet frustration and begins emptying the contents of her bag onto the desk.
At that point, he doesn't even bother pretending to be surprised.
"Senator Risa."
She looks up immediately.
Sherwin reaches into his pocket and places a black hair tie on the table between them.
For a brief moment, she simply stares at it. Then her expression softens into unmistakable relief.
"Oh."
The smile arrives a second later.
"Thank you, Win."
"You're welcome."
The exchange lasts all of five seconds.
Risa picks up the hair tie, gathers her hair into a ponytail, and returns to her paperwork as though nothing unusual has happened.
What continues to amaze Sherwin is that she never asks.
Not why he happens to have a hair tie.
Not why he always seems to have one.
Not why this exact scenario has played out multiple times over the years.
She simply accepts the offered solution and moves on with her day.
Across the table, Risa is already highlighting another section of the report.
Sherwin returns to his own documents. Neither of them daring to mention the matter again.
And perhaps that is for the best.
After all, there is no reasonable explanation for the unopened packet of identical hair ties hidden inside the bottom drawer of his office desk.
There is certainly no explanation for why he purchased them four months ago after watching her borrow one from a staff member during a four-hour hearing.
The purchase had seemed practical at the time. At least, practical enough.
Just as it seems practical to know which days she prefers coffee over tea. Practical to recognize the signs of an approaching headache before she mentions it. Practical to know that she tends to lose focus whenever she skips lunch.
These are things colleagues learn after working together for ten years.
That is all.
And if one of Sherwin's private games involves predicting tomorrow's hairstyle before she walks into the room, no one needs to know.
If another involves guessing whether she will choose plum juice or mauve lipstick for an important hearing, no one needs to know that either.
Some things are better left unexamined.
Especially when they have been quietly growing for years.
(3)
The coffee machine on the fourth floor has developed something of a reputation among Senate personnel.
Unlike its counterpart on the second floor which frequently eats coins, dispenses incorrect orders, and once flooded an entire corner of the hallway, this one is surprisingly reliable. As a result, there is usually a small line forming around it by midmorning, particularly on days when hearings run long and everyone is operating on limited sleep and excessive optimism.
Today is one of those days.
Sherwin arrives first.
The hallway is still relatively quiet, save for a few staff members hurrying toward committee rooms with folders tucked beneath their arms. He checks the time on his watch, fishes a coin from his pocket, and feeds it into the machine before selecting his usual order.
The machine groans in protest.
Then dispenses a paper cup.
A second later, a message flashes across the tiny digital screen.
OUT OF STOCK.
Sherwin sighs.
Typical.
He bends slightly to retrieve the cup. Then pauses.
At the far end of the hallway, walking in his direction, is Risa.
Even from a distance, he recognizes the telltale signs of a difficult morning. The folder tucked against her side is thicker than usual. Her pace is brisk. There is a faint crease between her eyebrows that typically appears whenever she has skipped breakfast or spent the first half of the day dealing with something irritating.
Sherwin knows this because he has spent ten years working beside her.
He also knows she hasn't had coffee yet. The realization arrives so quickly that it barely feels like a thought.
By the time she reaches the machine, the paper cup has already been left beneath it. Untouched.
Sherwin is already halfway down the hallway when he hears footsteps approaching the coffee machine. A second later, Risa's voice calls after him.
"Your coffee?"
He turns and finds her standing beside the machine, one hand resting on the folder tucked against her hip while the other points toward the paper cup waiting beneath the dispenser.
Sherwin glances at it before looking back at her.
"No," he says easily. "It's yours."
Risa blinks.
"What?"
"I pressed the wrong button."
For a moment, she simply stares at him. Then she looks at the cup, back at the machine, and finally at him again.
"You accidentally bought my usual order?"
"Apparently."
The skepticism on her face is immediate.
Sherwin keeps his expression neutral.
Risa narrows her eyes. Sherwin remains perfectly calm.
The silence stretches long enough that a passing staff member glances between them before wisely deciding not to get involved.
Eventually, Risa sighs.
"Mahirap kang kausap."
"So I've been told."
The corner of her mouth twitches despite herself. Sherwin considers that a victory.
He starts walking again, fully expecting the conversation to end there.
Behind him, he hears the familiar sound of a coin being inserted into the machine. A few seconds later, there is nothing.
No whirring.
No grinding.
No coffee.
Just silence.
Sherwin closes his eyes briefly. The machine had only dispensed its last cup.
Of course she would try to replace it.
A moment later, his name echoes down the hallway.
"Win."
The use of his first name stops him more effectively than any formal title ever could.
Over the years, he has noticed that Risa only calls him that when they are alone, or when she is distracted enough to forget herself. Most days he is Senator Gatchalian, sometimes Sherwin if the conversation is particularly informal, but Win is rare. Win usually slips out during late nights, long hearings, and moments when neither of them has the energy to maintain professional distance.
He turns around.
Risa is still standing beside the machine, the paper cup now cradled between both hands. There is a look on her face that he recognizes immediately. It is the same expression she reserves for resource persons who have been caught contradicting themselves during a hearing. Patient. Knowing. Mildly exasperated.
"You did this again."
Sherwin feigns confusion.
"Did what?"
"The coffee."
"What about it?"
"Win."
His name carries all the accusation necessary.
Risa shakes her head before taking a step toward him. "You know exactly what."
Sherwin looks away first. Mostly because she is right.
Partially because this conversation has happened before, even if neither of them has ever spoken about it directly.
The coffee is only the latest example.
There had been countless others over the years.
The last available seat in a crowded committee room somehow ending up beside her.
The only functioning printer on the floor mysteriously becoming available whenever she needed it.
The umbrella that found its way into her hands during a sudden downpour.
The final copy of a report.
The better parking space.
The sandwich from the cafeteria she had been eyeing but arrived too late to buy herself.
Looking back on it now, Sherwin isn't entirely sure when it started.
What embarrasses him most is that these things rarely feel like decisions.
He simply notices her. Then adjusts.
Like shifting slightly to make room for someone walking beside you.
Like holding a door open.
Like reaching for a second coffee because you already know how the other person takes theirs.
The actions arrive before the thought does.
Instinctive.
Effortless.
Dangerously easy.
Risa continues watching him, waiting for an explanation he has no intention of providing.
Finally, he lifts one shoulder in a small shrug.
"Enjoy your coffee, Senator."
The smile that escapes her is brief enough that most people would miss it.
Sherwin never does.
After ten years, he has become something of an expert on Risa Hontiveros's smiles.
He knows the polite smile she gives cameras. He knows the diplomatic smile she uses during interviews. He knows the triumphant smile that appears whenever a hard-fought bill finally advances.
This one is different.
Smaller and softer.
The kind of smile that only appears when she is trying not to smile at all.
For reasons he has spent years refusing to examine too closely, it remains his favorite.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
The words should not affect him as much as they do.
It is only coffee.
A paper cup from an aging vending machine in a Senate hallway.
Nothing important. Nothing worth remembering.
And yet he carries the image of that smile with him for the rest of the day.
Risa returns to her office a few minutes later with the coffee still warming her hands.
The drink itself is perfectly ordinary. It is slightly too bitter, slightly too hot, and objectively inferior to anything sold in the cafés downstairs. Nevertheless, she finishes every drop.
Later that afternoon, one of her staff members notices the empty paper cup still sitting on the corner of her desk.
"Ma'am, itapon ko na po ba yan?"
Risa glances at it.
For a brief moment, she considers saying no.
The thought startles her enough that she immediately hands the cup over.
"Yes, please."
Her assistant leaves without another word.
Risa waits until the office door closes before returning her attention to the report in front of her.
The words blur after a few lines.
Somewhere else in the building, Sherwin is probably working through lunch again. He is probably surviving on coffee and stubbornness. He is probably ignoring at least three reminders from his staff to go home at a reasonable hour.
The thought makes her smile despite herself.
Then sigh.
Because after ten years, the most dangerous thing about Sherwin Gatchalian has never been the things he says.
It has always been the things he remembers.