"Gawd, I hate this June bride thing",she keeps telling herself. Dorothy is such an ass for picking June as her wedding month when it's also the start of the new school year. In the middle of preps for "Brigada Eskwela", she was also simultaneously preparing for her wedding as well, she let out a big sigh.
Sheryl Riegos sprinted down a bricked street in a baby pink, off-shoulder satin dress that ended just above the knee, a tiny veil pinned to a small fascinator clinging to her hair by sheer will—and bobby pins. Four-inch heels, white gloves, and a bridesmaid's bouquet small enough to look innocent and large enough to be a problem. She was late. The ceremony would start in twenty minutes. The taxi stand had vanished exactly when she needed it most, and Waze had decided the church was "temporarily inaccessible."
"Taxi!" she called, waving the bouquet like a tiny flag.
Her right heel found a crack in the brick and stayed there. Momentum did the rest. She pitched forward, bouquet flung, veil sliding, the world tilting hard enough to make the city gasp. Her palms met pavement; pain zinged. Somewhere, a jeepney honked like a disappointed aunt.
"Okay ra ka?" a man's voice said—warm, concerned, and not quite Tagalog. "Ay, hulat, hulat—don't move."
He was beside her in two steps, mid-30s, travel-creased shirt, carry-on slung across one shoulder, the soft calm of someone who had landed and seen worse. He set his bag down, scooped up the bouquet with surprising care, and crouched to inspect the trapped heel.
"Sorry—Bisaya ko. Tagalog… gamay lang. You… okay?" He winced at himself, then switched to English. "Are you hurt?"
Sheryl pushed up onto her knees, checked the tiny hat (still pinned), and blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. Pride first; triage second. "I'm fine," she said, breathless and mortified, "except for my dignity and possibly my right shoe."
He smiled, a small one that didn't try to own the moment. "Permission?" He gestured toward the heel. She nodded.
"Bismillah," he murmured under his breath, then slipped a coin from his pocket—an old trick—and wedged it between leather and brick, levering gently until the heel came free with a soft pop. He checked the tip for damage, straightened, and offered the shoe back like a fragile artifact.
"Hero," Sheryl said, sliding it on. The arch protested. The clock screamed. "I'm late for a wedding. Bridesmaid. Obviously." She lifted the bouquet as proof.
"Obvious," he agreed, eyes crinkling. "You run elegant."
A taxi slowed, evaluated the chaos—pink dress, stray veil, kneeling stranger—and decided not today, Satan. It sped off.
The man stood, lifted his carry-on, and whistled sharp and clean, palm out. Another taxi edged closer, curious. He leaned to the window. "Boss, padulong mi sa… ah—" He faltered, Tagalog fleeing.
"San—" Sheryl started.
He switched to Bisaya without thinking. "Boss, sa simbahan duol sa… intramuros? Kuan, dali lang." The driver blinked, caught the gist, shrugged.
Sheryl slid in first, satin squeaking against vinyl. The man hesitated.
"You coming or—?" she said.
He lifted his carry-on. "If you allow. I just landed. Need to get to my place after—SMDC, Parañaque." He said it like a confession.
"Fine. We'll drop me first." She gave the driver the exact church name and street, then sat back, catching her breath as the taxi merged into Manila's daytime ballet of near-misses.
"I'm Sheryl," she said, smoothing her glove where a scuff had bloomed.
"Rafi," he said. "Rafi Adikara." He tried Tagalog again, earnest. "Kagagikan ko sa… Davao. I have—uh—paryente sa Mindanao." He shifted to Bisaya, more at home. "Mura'g mas kabalo ko ani kaysa Tagalog, pasensya."
The name he invented, he can't possibly tell her his name is Rafiq ibn Salman Al-Malik, son and heir to the throne of Indonesia's Royal Family.
Sheryl's mouth quirked. "I catch some Bisaya, not all. English is fine."
His relief was honest. "Thank you. I visited relatives—Cotabato and Davao last week. Then flight to Manila just now. Jet bridge to taxi queue to… you." He glanced at her heel. "God sent me with coin."
"Your coin has saved a life," she said solemnly. "A very small, fashionable life."
Traffic thickened near the old walls. The driver tuned the radio to wedding-appropriate ballads as if the city were in on the bit. Rafi set his bag between his shoes, hands relaxed on his knees, a string of wooden prayer beads peeking from his pocket. He didn't stare. He didn't fuss. He simply watched the road like a person who'd learned to be present.
"You're really from Mindanao?" Sheryl asked, curious despite the ticking clock.
"My mother's sister married there," he said. "We spent summers sometimes—Zamboanga, Tawi-Tawi. My Bisaya is Davao-flavored, my Tagalog is… under construction." He smiled at his own joke. "You?"
"Paranaque, mostly," Sheryl said. "Manila for college and survival. Today, late for a classmate's vows because my Grab driver vanished into the spirit realm."
"Ah, the spirit realm near Terminal 3," he said gravely. "Very active."
She laughed, the kind that shakes loose a knot under your ribs. The taxi took a turn; the veil shifted. Rafi reached out, then stopped himself an inch away, eyes flicking to her gloves like he was counting boundaries.
"May I?" he asked. "The pin is half loose."
"Please." She angled her head. His fingers were quick and careful, moving with the same precision he'd used on the heel. He re-secured the pin without snagging a single hair.
"Used to fixing veils?" she teased.
"Used to fixing things before they become problems," he said, and something about the way he said it—light, but not empty—made her glance at him longer than she meant to.
They fell into easy quiet. Outside, a flower vendor threaded traffic with a basket of sampaguita. The driver cracked his window to buy a string; the scent folded into the car like a good memory. Rafi paid before Sheryl could reach her purse.
"You don't have to—" she started.
"It's for luck," he said, placing the garland gently on the seat between them, exactly halfway. "For your friend."
The taxi braked in front of the church, all stone and shadow and bells. Bridesmaids in matching pink were dots on the steps, waving frantically when they recognized Sheryl.
"That's me," she said, gathering the bouquet and dignity. She paused, hand on the door. "Thank you, Rafi-from-Davao-and-other-places. For the coin. For the veil. For luck."
The taxi braked hard in front of the old stone arch of Intramuros. Pink satin flashed out of the door as Sheryl gathered her bouquet and scrambled for her purse.
"How much for my half?" she asked, already pulling bills from her clutch.
Rafi shook his head. "No. Keep it. I'm the last to get off—the fare is mine to settle."
"That's not fair," she shot back, stubborn as the scuff on her glove. "We shared the ride, we split the cost."
He smiled, calm but firm. "In Manila, the last passenger pays. That's me."
She hesitated, then did the one thing her pride would allow. She plucked a florist's card tucked into her bouquet and scribbled her number on the back, pressing it into his palm. "Then text me the amount for my half. I'll GCash you. Non-negotiable."
For a second, his eyes warmed—like he'd been handed something more precious than pesos. He slid the card into his pocket, prayer beads clicking softly against it.
"Deal," he said.
"Good," she muttered, hopping onto the curb. The other bridesmaids were already waving frantically from the church steps.
Rafi leaned forward to the driver. "Field Residences, SMDC—Sucat," he said, and the taxi pulled away, carrying him south while bells swallowed Sheryl into the city of vows.
The driver glanced at him in the mirror. "Boss, taga-saan ka?"
Rafi tried, failed, and laughed at himself. "Complicated," he said in English. "But for now… here."
And for now—on a bricked street, with a rescued heel, a garland for luck, and a woman who ran elegant—here was the only place that mattered.