Anri POV
The next few days passed like something I wasn't used to. Gentle. Steady.
Lucien didn't hover, exactly. He was just there. On set most days, standing near the monitors or quietly watching behind the screens.
When he wasn't around, he still found ways to exist in my day.
Lucien:
Is your annoying co-star trying anything today? Because I swear I saw fear in his eyes when I walked in yesterday.
I snorted the first time I read that one. I was in the makeup chair, half-done brows and a curling iron dangerously close to my ear.
Kelvin had been oddly quiet lately. Still smug, still pretty-boy arrogant, but his flirting had lost its edge. Like he was performing for less of an audience now—or maybe because Lucien was the audience, and something about him made even actors forget their lines.
During a break, I messaged back.
Me:
Honestly? You scare him. He's tolerable when you're around. Should make it a full-time thing.
He replied in less than a minute.
Lucien:
He should be scared.
I didn't even try to hide my smile that time.
Between takes, I caught his eye. He didn't wave. Didn't nod. Just lifted a brow slightly, like: Well? Still alive?
I gave the smallest shrug. Not today.
And just like that, we understood each other.
It didn't help that he'd started bringing food. For everyone.
He never made a show of it. No dramatic deliveries or "Look what I brought!" energy. Just quiet appearances in the break room: boxes from Wildflour, fresh pastries still warm; artisan coffee bottles labeled with our names; sushi trays from a reservation-only place no one could usually afford.
He once brought a whole grazing table setup—like it was nothing. Like it wasn't the kind of thing people posted about on Instagram for weeks.
The crew had noticed too. I overheard them during a lighting reset:
"Sir Lucien is nice, no?"
"Super. Parang extra nice lately."
"Bakit kaya?"
"Ewan. Baka good mood lang."
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Maybe he was just in a good mood. But that didn't explain why my coffee always had oat milk. Or why the sushi on my tray never came with wasabi.
I tried to shake it off. I had to be imagining things—completely delusional—to think any of it was for me.
It's just a coincidence... right?
One night, after the shoot wrapped late, he texted again.
Lucien:
You hungry?
Me:
Always.
Ten minutes later, I was in his car again.
We didn't talk much at first. Manila blurred outside the window in streaks of gold and red. I was tired—not the bad kind. The good kind. The kind that makes your bones feel heavy but your chest light. Like something is quietly going right and you don't want to jinx it by speaking.
He drove without rushing. No destination yet. Just music playing low, the air between us warm and still.
Eventually, he pulled into a private basement somewhere in Taguig. No signage. No crowd.
We took an elevator up to a rooftop bar that looked like it belonged in Tokyo or New York—sleek concrete, soft lighting, a skyline view that felt like fiction.
I leaned against the railing with a fizzy calamansi drink in hand. The glass was sweating against my palm. The city stretched out beneath us, glowing, surreal.
"This doesn't feel like the Manila they warn you about," I murmured.
Lucien glanced at me. "There's more than one version of this place."
I looked at him then—not at the city. "And which one do you belong to?"
He didn't answer right away. Just sipped his drink, eyes on the horizon.
"None, really," he said finally. "But I know how to move through them."
I believed that.
He was so at ease in these settings—expensive, quiet, removed. He didn't show off, didn't try to impress me. He didn't have to. Just being beside him felt like I was slipping into another world.
Not because he made me feel small—but because he never pointed out the difference between our worlds at all.
"I haven't really seen Manila," I admitted. "Not as an adult. Not like this."
Lucien turned toward me. "Then let me show you around. I'll be your personal tour guide."
I gave him a look. "Is that part of the job?"
"No," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But maybe it should be."
Something about the way he said it made me want to say yes. So I did—without needing to say anything at all.
"I grew up in Pampanga," I found myself saying. "Middle class. Not rich, not poor. We had a car. Ate out once a week. Life was okay. But not free."
"Not free?"
I nodded. "You couldn't wear what you wanted without being talked about. Couldn't say what you wanted without someone calling you arrogant. Life was fine, just... clipped. Like someone pre-decided the script for you, and all you had to do was read your lines."
Lucien was quiet. Listening, always.
"I think if I stayed," I continued, "I would've taken a safe, normal course from university, married someone from my town, posted Bible verses and baby photos on Facebook until I died."
A pause. Then—
"But you didn't."
"I didn't," I said, smiling a little. "I moved to Australia at eighteen. No help. Just my passport, my stubbornness, and some god-awful part-time jobs. Paid triple the fees, put up with more than I should have, lived off cereal, fought for a visa, and somehow—landed here."
I expected a polite response. Maybe a quiet "Wow." But instead—
"I don't think you would've stayed no matter where you were born."
I turned to him, surprised.
"You're not the kind of person who lets life happen to you," he added, voice calm but sure. "You move. You push."
Something twisted in my chest.
I looked down, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. "That's... kind of intense for a compliment."
"It's not a compliment," he said. "It's just true."
I didn't know how to respond to that. So I sipped my drink instead. The calamansi-fused drink became sweet for some reason. Like my brain couldn't decide if it was overwhelmed or flattered.
Some nights after that, it was izakayas in Poblacion. The kind with too much smoke and too little signage, where you had to duck your head going in and pretend you knew the menu by instinct. We sat side by side at the counter, close enough that our knees touched if either of us shifted even slightly.
Lucien always let me order. Never questioned it. Just watched, his glass in hand, like the whole thing was a show.
"You trust me that much?" I asked once, not looking at him.
"I've eaten worse," he said. "But not recently."
"You're welcome."
He poured sake into my cup. Quiet, steady.
"You didn't even ask if I wanted more."
"You didn't say no."
I let him fill it.
Sometimes, his hand would rest on the bar a little too close to mine. Not deliberately, not obviously. Just... there. Like he forgot we weren't supposed to be familiar. Or maybe he didn't care.
Other nights, it was sleek bistros in Rockwell, the kind where people stared when we walked in together. He wore suits like second skin, made silence look expensive. I never dressed for the stares, but I felt them. On me. On us.
He always acted like they weren't there.
At one place, the waitress flirted with him while taking our order—hand lingering a second too long on the menu, calling him sir like it meant something more. I didn't say anything. Just raised an eyebrow across the table.
He glanced at me, already biting back a grin.
I picked up my wine glass. "She seemed nice."
"She was doing her job."
"Mm." I swirled the drink a little. "Very attentive service."
Lucien tilted his head, amused. "You want to say something. Just say it."
"I'm just asking," I said, voice too even to be innocent, "if you thought she was pretty."
He didn't blink. Didn't even pretend to think.
"Why would I look at anyone else," he said, tone light but direct, "when the prettiest woman in the room is sitting right in front of me?"
It hit clean—no smirk, no performative wink. Just quiet and lethal and unfair.
My stomach flipped. Completely traitorous.
"Oh," I said, very intelligently.
He went back to cutting his steak like he hadn't just set fire to my entire face.
I stared at him for a second longer, then looked down at my plate. Then up again. Still him. Still smug. Still too calm about it.
I cleared my throat. "Bit much."
Lucien didn't look up. "Wasn't a line."
And that somehow made it worse.
I took a slow sip of wine, mostly to cool my face and not give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.
He didn't press. Just smiled to himself and took another bite, like he was already used to getting away with it.
Later, we ended up in front of some weird installation—threads hanging from the ceiling, a loop of birds flickering on a projector. Very art school, very serious.
Lucien tilted his head like he was trying to solve it.
"What do you think it means?" I asked.
He gave it a beat. "You really want me to guess?"
"Just don't say trauma."
That made him laugh. "Then I'm out of ideas."
We kept walking. Past couples who looked like they were networking more than dating. Past waiters with champagne and art people pretending not to be bored.
He didn't try to hold my hand. But when I caught my heel on a crack in the concrete, his hand went straight to my elbow. Quick. Steady.
Warm.
He didn't let go right away.
And I didn't say anything.
After that, things felt... looser. Like we'd passed some invisible checkpoint and didn't need to perform anymore.