mocha
@mcsnryts
[ Yves' POV ]
Pagbalik namin, may naka-upo na sa upuan ko. My steps slowed, irritation rising in my chest before my brain could even form words. My eyes narrowed instantly—how dare someone just casually take that seat? That’s mine.
But before I could open my mouth, nagtagpo agad ang mata namin ni Saint. His gaze flicked to the intruder, then back to me, and just like that—without hesitation—he slapped the guy on the shoulder. Not too hard, not gentle either—pabiro pero may diin. Enough to make the man flinch, the sound of the smack echoing over the laughter in the garden.
“Aray,” daing ng lalaki, na agad napahawak sa balikat niya.
“Alis na,” malamig pero nakangiting sabi ni Saint, eyes narrowing slightly—the kind of smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.
The guy raised both hands in surrender. “Oo na,” sagot niya, mabilis at walang laban. He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants like that would save his pride.
It was only when he turned and faced me that recognition settled, slow but heavy. Benedict. Saint’s friend.
“Oy, pucha. Yves, ikaw pala ‘yan. Kaya pala todo sipa si Saint sa—Arayy!”
He didn’t get to finish—the next moment, Saint’s foot struck him again, harder this time. Ben stumbled, laughing, rubbing his leg like it was all a big joke.
“Tangina nito,” reklamo niya, shaking his head, a grin tugging at his lips despite the pain.
I couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped me. Some things never change. Kung ako at si Saint, laging bangayan at asaran; silang dalawa naman parang batang naglalaro ng habulan. Pisikalan at walang sawa—para bang nag-aagawan ng laruan.
Behind me was Lance. I didn’t need to turn fully to know; the scrape of his sneakers on the floor, the slight twitch of his shoulders—it was all telling. His eyes darted across the area, tracking something invisible. Or rather, someone.
Diego.
His chair was empty when we got back—a detail that hadn’t escaped me.
“Andoon siya sa catering. Kakain na rin daw, kaya tutulong,” sagot agad ni Saint, voice steady, casual, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. But of course, his observant ass never fails—always catching details most people would miss.
Lance frowned, brows furrowing. “Doon?” The word clipped, uncertain.
“Yes,” sagot ni Saint, flat and simple.
That was all it took. Lance didn’t wait another beat. He spun on his heel and moved, steps quick, heading straight in that direction like Saint’s word was a map he trusted without question.
“Upo ka na diyan, bossing,” Benedict said, plopping down casually in the chair beside me, arm slung lazily over the backrest, posture loose but calculated.
“CR lang ako, love,” paalam ni Saint. His hand brushed the back of my chair in passing—so subtle, yet enough to send a spark crawling down my spine. Before straightening, his gaze flicked sharply to Benedict, tone changing instantly. “Ben. Ayos mo, ha.”
Benedict smirked, tilting his head like a child caught but unrepentant. “Ano na naman? Behave ako dito oh,” he replied, sing-song, words dipped in provocation. He wanted Saint to bite. He always did.
The moment Saint walked away, the atmosphere shifted. I felt it immediately—the weight of Ben's stare. Heavy. Searching. Surgical, as if dissecting me from the inside out.
I clenched my fingers tighter around my plastic cup, condensation seeping into my palm, grounding me. The bitter tea sat heavy in my stomach, its taste muted under the sharpness of ben's scrutiny.
“If you have something to say, spit it,” I muttered, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
“Best friend love,” he started.
Seat belts on. Here we go.
“Kailan pa naging kayo ni Saint? Paano siya nanligaw? Paano siya umamin?” The questions came sharp, rapid-fire. His brows rose, daring me, watching for cracks. But knowing him—chismoso lang talaga siya na may FOMO.
Too many questions. Too fast. Tito Boy would’ve been proud.
“Bawal isa-isa?” I shot back, sarcasm a weak shield, lips curling into a smirk I didn’t quite feel.
“Pwede naman. Pili ka, alin uunahin mo,” he countered smoothly, leaning on the table, elbows planted. Smirk intact.
I inhaled long and slow, steadying my voice. “Three months ago. He didn’t need to court me, I’m sure you know why. Video call—umamin siya through video call bago umuwi ng Pinas.” I delivered the words carefully, evenly. Smooth. Practiced. Exactly as Saint and I had rehearsed.
“Ah,” Ben replied shortly. Eyes lingered on me, sharp, unreadable, a corner of his lips tugging upward as if he knew something I didn’t.
“Bakit?” I asked, tone sharper, suspicion pricking at my calm.
He leaned back, chair creaking faintly as he put deliberate space between us. Smirk lingering, sly, half-born. “Wala. Akala ko kasi gagawin niya ‘yung kwent—”
“Ben! Ikaw pala ‘yan!”
Kairo’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade. From the garden, he waved.
Ben's attention snapped instantly, interrogation vanishing as quickly as it had come. “Uy, musta?” he greeted, flashing a grin, standing with ease, exchanging casual words before Kairo hooked him by the arm and dragged him toward the garden.
I stayed frozen a moment, breath caught. Slowly, I exhaled, the weight pressing on me finally lifting. My eyes followed Ben's retreating figure, the echo of his smirk still carved into my thoughts.
What was he about to say?
Left alone, I lowered my gaze to my drink. Condensation dripped lazily down the plastic cup, cold trails slipping against my fingers, smudging faint circles on the table. The long table stretched endlessly, cluttered with abandoned utensils, half-finished drinks, crumpled napkins—remnants of noise that had long drifted outside.
Yet it felt hollow.
From the garden, laughter carried faintly, a muffled blur of overlapping voices. Kairo’s laugh rose above all—bright, magnetic, commanding attention without effort. He always was the sun in every circle.
Me? I sat here, anchored in my own little silence. Detached. Floating. It was easier this way—not pretending I belonged in their rhythm.
The scrape of a chair startled me out of my thoughts.
It was Saint.
“Okay ka lang?” His voice low, gentle, with an edge of scrutiny—as if he wasn’t just asking, he was reading.
“Oo naman,” I answered quickly, a little too quickly, lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. My fingers fiddled with the plastic lid, tracing grooves, pretending to be busy so I wouldn’t have to meet his gaze.
“Kung gusto mo nang umuwi, tapikin mo lang ako, ha.” Calm, steady, but subtle protectiveness beneath it—the kind that felt like a blanket… and a leash at the same time.
As if I would go home now. Hindi ako aalis nang hindi successful. At least, not tonight. So far, so good. Walang nagdududa. No sharp stares, no hushed questions behind our backs. On the surface, Saint and I were pulling it off—our act flawless, seamless.
..........
“Kamusta ’yung usap niyo ni Lance?” he asked suddenly, voice low, cutting through the quiet.
The question hit harder than I expected. My fingers tightened around the plastic cup, cold water beading and slipping between them. “Okay lang,” I replied curtly, tone steady, eyes fixed on the half-melted drink instead of him.
“Anong pinag-usapan niyo?” His voice carried weight, curiosity sharpened.
“Things,” I said, clipped, deliberately vague.
“Like?” he pressed, persistence heavy.
My pulse stumbled. Heat crawled up my neck. Could he not dig right now? “We just talked about Diego,” I lied. My voice betrayed nothing, but my chest pulled tight. Every breath careful, like one slip would give me away.
Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating. His eyes stayed on me, unrelenting, like he could peel the truth straight out of my skin.
Then—without warning—he nudged my chair closer. The jolt made me gasp. His hand settled briefly at the back of my chair, fingers brushing the edge, guiding me nearer. And then, just as suddenly, he leaned sideways, his head dropping onto my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I asked, startled, voice thin.
“Taking a quick nap. Hindi ako nakatulog kagabi, I was drafting,” he murmured, tone lazy, muffled against my shirt.
“Then you should’ve stayed home instead of showing up early,” I muttered, soft and distracted.
“Shh. I’m sleepy po.” The word slipped out like a spark, casual, hot. “Relax your shoulders. Stop being so tense. Ako lang 'to.”
At first, I stiffened, every nerve screaming to pull away. But Saint didn’t move. Crossed arms pressed lightly against me, weight steady, deliberate. My shoulder brushed his side. Slowly… impossibly slowly… I let it settle. I felt the faint press of his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest, the subtle rhythm of him against me.
My breath hitched. I gripped the straw tighter. Resistance melted a little. I sank fractionally into the warmth, letting my shoulder relax, letting him in.
Butterflies tore through my stomach, insistent, merciless. My heart pounded, stumbling against my ribs. Every second stretched unbearably, trapped and safe, teased and comforted.
.......
I don’t know how long we stayed like that before his phone buzzed. Instead of getting it, his hand shifted—warm, brushing mine as he pried the cup from my grasp. The graze was brief, but it sent a shiver down my arm.
“Akin 'yan,” I blurted, startled, protest weak, too slow.
He didn’t look away. Deliberate, unhurried, he lifted the cup—straw catching the light—and took a slow sip. His eyes stayed fixed on me the entire time, calm but sharp, daring me to react. The clink of ice sounded deafening in the quiet. My heart stuttered, then thundered embarrassingly loud, as if he could hear it too.
Then, as if it meant nothing, he set his own cup down beside me. The switch was smooth, intentional. Before I could speak, before I could even catch my breath, he was already pushing back his chair.
“Palit. I like this one better,” he said simply. No explanation. No hesitation.
And then he stood and walked away—phone in hand, stride loose but unreadable. Detached. Distant. Like he’d already left long before his steps carried him out of reach.
I stared at the drink he left behind—the sweet mocha, condensation slick on the plastic walls, whipped cream sinking, chocolate streaks clinging stubbornly to the lid. Chips pooled at the bottom, straw bent from where he’d bitten it.
I blinked once. Twice. Confusion tightened across my chest.
“But that’s so bitter,” I whispered, voice barely there, eyes still following his fading figure.
Saint was a sweet tooth. Always has been. Sweet, rich flavors—the kind that wrapped you up, indulgent and warm—that was him. That was Saint. Not bitter tea. Never bitter tea.
And yet… he’d taken my drink. My bitter drink. Sipped it as if it didn’t matter. And left me with his own.
There he goes againㅡdoing the one thing I hated about him.