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Seokmin lingers in front of the building like he always does, long after his shift has ended, long after the rest of his coworkers have melted into the night. He tells himself he should move, that there’s no reason to stand here anymore, but his body betrays him. His shoes stay planted on the concrete, weight shifting just slightly as though he’s stalling for time.
It’s a strange thing, this waiting. It feels instinctive, carved into him from nights when he didn’t have to think about it—when Joshua always came, without fail, motor engine slicing through the quiet, headlights sweeping across the lot like a signal meant only for him. Back then, it wasn’t waiting. It was knowing.
Now, it’s different. Now, they’re broken up. The ending had been clean in theory, messy in practice, like trying to cut through fabric that refuses to tear evenly. They said their goodbyes, and Seokmin told himself he wouldn’t wait anymore. And yet here he is, as if some part of him hasn’t caught up to the truth. His mind insists he’s done, but his body doesn’t move—doesn’t know how to.
Two months have passed since they broke up. The reason wasn’t dramatic; it was almost too ordinary. They were young and stupid, trying to carry the weight of Manila on shoulders still soft from high school. Rent to pay, jobs to survive, classes to attend, futures to chase—and somewhere in the middle of all that, they lost each other.
Days grew shorter, nights grew heavier, and they found themselves orbiting the same exhaustion instead of each other.
They loved in languages that demanded time and touch, but those were luxuries they couldn’t spare. And so, one night, they sat across from each other, admitted that they needed space to grow—and chose to grow apart.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. If he walks away now, he can still lie to himself—that he isn’t expecting anyone, that he doesn’t still ache in the shape of Joshua’s absence. But he stays. Of course he stays.
And then—
The sound hits him before the sight does. A motorcycle engine turning the corner, low and steady, growing louder with every second. His chest tightens on instinct, lungs freezing in recognition. He doesn’t need to look to know. He could pick that sound out of a hundred others, the way someone knows a laugh or a voice.
Headlights cut across the street, and the bike rolls smoothly into view. The rider parks neatly in front of him. Even from here, Seokmin knows that posture, that stillness, that calm.
Seokmin’s chest stutters. Putangina. Of all people, it’s Joshua. That face—sharper in the streetlight, tired maybe, but unmistakably his. And of course, of course, the man still isn’t wearing a helmet. Some things never do change.
It used to be one of their recurring fights. Joshua only ever owned one helmet, one he always insisted Seokmin wear. “‘Wag nang matigas ang ulo, please? You trust me naman diba?” he’d say, every damn time, until Seokmin gave in with a sulky nod. Then Joshua would press a kiss to his forehead, victory sweetened with tenderness.
Seokmin remembers the way his very first paycheck disappeared into the purchase of another helmet—a gift he’d shoved into Joshua’s hands like an accusation. That night, they had both worn helmets as they tore through Manila’s streets, screaming and laughing into the wind like the city was theirs alone, like nothing in the world could catch them.
Now, standing under the streetlamp, he wonders if Joshua remembers too.
“Shua…” Seokmin’s voice comes out soft, startled, but it’s the first thing that leaves him as he walks toward the parked motor.
Joshua’s eyes are on him the whole time, wide, desperate, like he’s trying to convince himself this isn’t a dream. Like he can’t believe Seokmin is right there, flesh and blood, speaking his name again. His gaze lingers, unblinking, until it borders on unbearable. Seokmin feels the weight of it, feels like if he takes one step closer Joshua might shatter.
“...Ano ginagawa mo dito?” Seokmin presses, snapping him out of it.
Joshua blinks, finally breaking away from his eyes before tears can give him away. God, he almost loses it—because Seokmin’s eyes look exactly the same as the night he lost him, and he knows if he stares too long he’ll break in public.
Crying he can save for later. Right now, he needs an excuse. He needs to explain why the hell he’s parked in front of Seokmin’s building at ten in the evening when he doesn’t even live in this part of the city, when his job pulls him all the way across the other side. No reason makes sense except the truth, and that’s the last thing he can offer.
So he blurts out the first half-plausible lie that comes to mind.
“Ah, ano kasi—nag tayo raw ng bagong shop si Han, malapit lang dito. Dumaan lang ako.”
It sounds reasonable enough, at least to his panicked brain. He even mentally pats himself on the back for pulling that out so smoothly. And when Seokmin nods, lips pursing in thought, Joshua almost lets himself breathe.
Though four months of working in the area isn't that long, it's long enough—long enough to know there’s no new shop anywhere nearby. Long enough to know Joshua has no business being here at this hour, unless he has a reason. Unless he has a someone.
Joshua clears his throat quickly, redirecting before the silence stretches too long. “Ikaw? Ba’t nandito ka pa? Gabi na ah. Diba kaninang alas singko pa out mo?” His brows knit together, his voice laced with that old familiar worry.
“Ah, kasi—” Seokmin starts, but Joshua cuts him off, tongue clicking, voice low and disapproving.
“Ginagatas ka nanaman ng boss mo na ‘yan, ‘no? Hindi pa ba siya nadala nung pinagsabihan ko siya dati?” The more he talks, the quieter he gets, as if realizing mid-sentence what he’s doing. What business does he have, talking like this? Acting like nothing’s changed?
“Okay, final boss,” Seokmin teases, tone light but his words sharp enough to land where Joshua’s heart is softest. The inside joke. Their inside joke.
Joshua feels his chest tighten. Seokmin had given him that title back when he stormed into his office one evening, marching straight to his boss and lecturing him about labor laws for keeping Seokmin past his hours. Joshua had gone full pseudo-lawyer mode, pulling RA Acts from memory, practically demanding justice. Seokmin had wanted the floor to swallow him whole, but from then on, Joshua had been his “final boss of all bosses.”
“Baliw,” Joshua mutters now, rolling his eyes, but the soft smile tugging at his lips betrays him.
“‘Deh,” Seokmin insists, shaking his head. “Nag-OT talaga ako para matapos na lahat ng gawain ko, tsaka para narin maka-early out bukas. ‘Wag mo na pa-barang si Dan.”
Dan. The bald, snappy boss they used to flame in whispers whenever Joshua picked him up, Seokmin whining about extra tasks that weren’t even his and Joshua always having something to say about his shiny head.
Joshua throws his hands up in mock surrender, and for a moment it almost feels like they’re back there, teasing and laughing like no time has passed.
Silence drapes over them again, but it’s gentler this time, easier to hold.
Then Joshua breaks it. “Hinihintay mo ba sundo mo?” His voice is careful, too careful, but the words still betray the smallness he feels, sitting on his bike while Seokmin towers over him.
Seokmin tilts his head, startled. “Sundo?” The little crease between his brows forms instantly. Joshua remembers that look—it always made him ache with the kind of cuteness aggression that left him spouting nonsense just to see it again.
Joshua rubs at the back of his neck, caught. How is he supposed to admit he’s been driving past here every night since the breakup, timing it late enough to avoid him but sometimes early enough to catch a glimpse? That once, he saw Seokmin actually get picked up—and the ride home after, was something Joshua swore would stay sacred. He doesn't wanna talk about it.
“Ah, wala,” Joshua says quickly, trying to sound casual. “Napadaan kasi ako dati, ta’s nakita ko na may sumundo sa’yo.”
Technically true. Not the full truth. Just a fraction, enough to ease the tension in his throat.
Seokmin furrows his brows, gaze tilting upward like he’s digging through memories. And then his face lights up. “Ah! Si Gyu ba nakita mo? Yung matangkad na mukhang tuta?” He grins as he says it, and Joshua looks away instantly, unable to watch him smile while talking about someone else.
“Oo ata. Basta naka-auto, pinag-buksan ka pa nga ng pinto.” He tries to make it sound casual, but the bitterness leaks anyway, coloring the end of his sentence. Anyone else might have missed it. But not Seokmin. Never Seokmin.
“Kaibigan ko lang yon, aning,” he says, breaking into laughter. “Intern yun dito dati, bago nakahanap ng abogadong papakasalan siya kaya nag back out. Sabi niya pang-house husband lang raw siya.” He keeps giggling, rambling the details, not even noticing how much he’s overexplaining. But it’s instinct—Joshua’s jealousy was always like breathing between them, something to soothe with reassurance, light jokes and soft kisses. He used to find it cute, endearing even, when Joshua sulked. Maybe part of him still does.
Joshua can’t help it—his lips curve when the word ‘kasal’ lands. He thanks every god he can name in his head, relief flooding through him.
Silence again. It stretches long, restless, like they’re both fumbling through the dark for something steady to hold on to. Neither of them dares to break it cleanly, so the words come out clumsy, overlapping—
“Uwi ka na ba?”
“Sabay ka na sa’kin?”
They blink at each other, startled, their voices tangled until neither knows what was actually said.
“Ano sabi mo?” Again, at the same time. The absurd synchronicity of it makes them both pause, then laugh—real laughter, bubbling out raw and unrestrained, shaking off the stiffness that had threatened to root itself between them. For a second, it feels like nothing was ever broken.
Joshua recovers first, lifting a hand in a small, exaggerated gesture. “Mauna ka na.” His grin is wide, boyish, almost too much, like his face can’t contain the way his chest feels.
“Ikaw na!” Seokmin bounces lightly on his feet, that tell he never outgrew—the one that betrays his giddiness no matter how hard he tries to stay grounded.
“Ikaw na nga.” Joshua grins back, refusing to yield.
Seokmin narrows his eyes, clicks his tongue, sets both hands on his hips—the stance that always meant enough, Joshua. His cue to give in. “Shua.” His voice dips into warning, familiar enough to crack through Joshua’s chest. He wonders if Seokmin even realizes how much power he still has, how Joshua is still hopelessly tuned to him.
“Ang sabi ko, sabay ka na sa’kin.” Joshua pushes the words out steady, but insecurity frays at the edges. It’s there in the slight hitch of his tone, in the way his shoulders stiffen, bracing himself for Seokmin to laugh it off, to walk away.
But Seokmin doesn’t. He just smiles, soft and steady, “Sure ka? Baka nakakaabala. Layo pa naman ng uuwian mo.”
Joshua frowns, brow pinching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Kailan ka pa naging abala sa’kin?”
Heat prickles up Seokmin’s neck. He scoffs, tries for casual, fails spectacularly. “Ang harot, puta.” His voice is steady but his ears burn; he prays it doesn’t show.
Joshua’s laugh bursts out, bright and disarming, cutting through the night until it feels lighter, freer. He pats the empty seat behind him. “Upo na. Iniwan ko yung helmet kasi dadaan lang naman sana ako—dadahan dahanin ko lang, promise.”
“Bastos.” Seokmin fires back, laughter spilling with it, their voices weaving together again, too easy, too natural.
When he swings onto the bike, the seat molds under his weight like it’s been waiting for him, and the thought almost undoes him. “Who kept my seat warm for me when I was gone?” the younger teases, light enough to pass as a joke.
“Wala. I know you like it cold.” Joshua’s reply lands sharper, steadier, cutting through the air until Seokmin stills, words lodged in his throat. His pulse jumps, useless, and nothing clever will come.
“Asus, bolero.” He forces it out, voice trembling despite the mask.
Joshua doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches back, takes both of Seokmin’s hands, and pulls them firmly around his waist. His palm lingers, giving a gentle tap. Grounding. “Wag ka nang bibitaw, ah?” he murmurs. It’s a simple request, but the weight in it is impossible to miss.
The engine stirs beneath them, low and steady, but the silence between their bodies thrums louder. Seokmin doesn’t answer, doesn’t even breathe, too caught on the press of Joshua's body heat on his own. The words hang there—wag ka nang bibitaw, ah?—and God, he knows they mean more than balance, more than safety.
Joshua eases forward, slow on the throttle, as if the whole world might break if he rushes.
Seokmin closes his eyes, presses closer, and dares to believe: maybe this is how it begins again. Not where they left off, but somewhere new.
Something finally theirs to keep.