They rose before dawn, the air still heavy from the night's rain. Fog drifted low across the fields, cloaking everything in a hazy silence. As Patrocinio brushed the dampness from her skirt, she glanced toward Adrian, who was coaxing a small fire back to life for a quick breakfast.
"Don't burn the rice," she teased, tying her hair back with a strip of cloth.
He smirked. "Says the woman who nearly set the cart ablaze trying to dry her shawl."
"It was wet," she muttered. "And that flame was tiny."
They shared a look—half amusement, half something else—and for a moment the war outside their campsite felt like it belonged to someone else. There was a quiet rhythm developing between them now, like the measured steps of a dance neither had planned but both were beginning to understand.
They ate in silence, side by side, not because there was nothing to say—but because silence had begun to feel safe between them.
By midmorning, they were back on the trail. The air was thick with humidity and expectation.
"Are you sure you can act pathetic enough?" Patrocinio asked, her tone light but her eyes scanning the hills ahead. Somewhere beyond them lay the checkpoint—Spanish-controlled, notorious for its cruelty, and the last real obstacle before Santa Barbara.
"I can try," he said. "I'll think about how much I miss my air-conditioning."
She frowned, confused. "Your what?"
"Never mind.Just don't stab me if I say something wrong."
They rode quietly for a while after that, each lost in thought.
The checkpoint came into view around midday: a weathered tower, wooden barricades, and a handful of soldiers in faded uniforms. One stood lazily chewing something, another leaned against a barrel. But their rifles were clean. Ready.
They were stopped immediately.
A Spanish officer, bored and suspicious, eyed the muddy cart and its passengers. He approached slowly, twirling a polished cane. "Papers?" he said in heavily accented Tagalog.
Patrocinio handed over the forged documents with a bright, exasperated smile. "Of course, Señor. We've been traveling since dawn. My husband insisted we take the long road. Said the air would be good for us. Ha!"
Andres did his part, offering a meek shrug and looking like a man worn down by both weather and wife. His shoulders slumped, his face slackened.
The officer inspected the papers, then the cart.
"What are you carrying?" he asked.
"Wedding linens," Patrocinio replied sweetly. "And two bottles of coconut vinegar for his aunt, who is ill. Very traditional."
The officer's eyes flicked toward the cart's underside. For a moment, Patrocinio's heart stopped. He stepped toward the hidden cloth bundle strapped beneath the seat.
Adrian moved. He coughed violently, falling to one knee.
"Señor!" Patrocinio cried. "He's been weak all week. You—there's no doctor on the trail. If he collapses again, it's your fault."
The officer scowled and backed off. "Just... go. Before he vomits on my boots."
They didn't look back. Not for several kilometers. And when they did, the tower was gone in the distance, swallowed by the trees.
They traveled in silence for nearly an hour after that.
Then Patrocinio laughed. Not the brittle sound of nerves, but something real.
"You coughed like a dying goat."
He chuckled. "You're welcome."
The tension melted. They stopped beside a shaded field, where dragonflies flitted and the wind tugged gently at the tall grass.
"You've saved me more than once now."
"You saved me first," he replied.
The moment deepened.
"What happens if we get there?" she asked.
"To Santa Barbara?"
"No. To... the end of this."
Andres was quiet for a long time. "I don't know," he said finally. "I wasn't supposed to be here. But right now... this feels more real than anything I left behind."
She searched his face. "Are you lying to me?"
"Not anymore."
That night, they stopped earlier than usual. There was a soft field near a stream, ringed by fireflies and shaded by old mango trees. The world felt paused.
He laid out his jacket for her to sit on.
She hesitated. "Why are you kind to me?"
"I don't know how not to be," he said.
The fire was small. Their voices softer.
"You could've lied your way into my mission. Betrayed me. Taken the flag."
"I could've," he said.
"But you didn't."
"No."
"I still don't trust you."
"I don't blame you."
They sat quietly. And then she shifted closer.
"I want to," she said.
He didn't answer. Just let the silence fill the space between them.
And when she laid her head gently against his shoulder, he exhaled, slow and steady.
The fire between them no longer burned in defiance of their surroundings. It burned because something sacred was being built in the ashes of everything they'd lost.
Santa Barbara was close now. But something else—something unnamed—had already begun.
And when they slept that night, it was with hands gently touching, breath falling in time.