Do you ever wake up and just feel like the universe is up to something?
Like there's this tiny whisper in your brain going, "Today's the day, girl," and you don't know if it means you're winning the lottery or getting hit by a bird on your way to Starbucks?
Yeah. I woke up with that feeling.
And the whisper was suspiciously specific. Like... whispering, "Google Cairo's birthday."
HUH? Why would i? That's so... stalkerish. So desperate. So very not-me. I am a chill, unbothered, mysterious, glowy goddess.
...
Okay, fine. I googled it.
AND GUESS. FREAKING. WHAT.
IT'S HIS BIRTHDAY.
Today.
Like, today today.
As in—"July 28, born to race, currently shirtless in his condo kitchen flipping eggs like a hot anime chef" birthday.
And THEN—
THEN i saw my own phone notification from my mom:
🎂 Happy birthday, iha! Don't forget to eat something that isn't just coffee and oat milk. 🎂
Wait.
WAIT.
I froze.
My mouth dropped open.
I slowly, dramatically, Oscar-winningly—looked back at Cairo's Google profile.
Same. Freaking. Birthday.
I am going to combust.
No. No, this can't be real.
We're not just neighbors.
We're not just each other's emergency soup buddies.
We're not just... jowa.
WE ARE COSMICALLY TIED. BIRTHDAY TWINS. MEANT TO BE.
"OH MY GOD," I said out loud, to no one in particular. "HE'S MY BIRTHDAY SOULMATE?!"
And then i shrieked.
Loudly.
To the horror of the maintenance guy fixing the hallway light outside my door.
Anyway, flash-forward to two hours later.
I was still inside my condo. In pajamas. Hair in the messiest bun known to woman. No makeup. Eyebrows not brushed. Mascara from last night faintly clinging to its final moments of life.
Because i had decided—Elara Celestine Zulueta, daughter of the woman who owns half of Greenhills and the girl who once couldn't tell raw chicken from wet tofu—was going to cook adobo.
Yes.
Adobo.
For Cairo.
For his birthday.
Because i am not just a pretty face. I am wife material when the mood hits.
But here's the thing: I do not know how to cook adobo.
Not even slightly.
Not even remotely.
I watched like, two YouTube videos and halfway through both i accidentally opened TikTok and forgot what i was watching.
So now i was staring at a sad-looking pile of chicken thighs and a bunch of ingredients i panic-bought earlier.
I had no measurements, just vibes.
And i was holding a knife like it was a foreign object sent from Mars.
I took a deep breath.
"Okay," I whispered. "We can do this."
I could not, in fact, do this.
Ten minutes in, the garlic was burning, the soy sauce exploded like it was mad at me, and i had somehow sliced my index finger a little bit trying to butterfly the chicken like they did in the video.
AND THEN—just to really amp up the drama—I started crying.
Because yes, I was bleeding slightly, but mostly because i just realized i had no gift, no talent, and no idea if Cairo even knew it was MY birthday too.
I sniffled over my disaster kitchen, clutching my finger with a piece of tissue like i was about to pass away.
And then—just as the smoke alarm began to threaten to beep, my front door opened.
YEP.
HE WALKED IN.
Like some casually hot knight in denim armor.
"Whoa, what happened here?" Cairo blinked, stepping inside with a cake box in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.
I looked up at him.
Mascara smudged.
Apron half-tied.
Tears down my cheeks.
My hair doing the cha-cha.
Holding a bleeding finger.
"This," I sniffed, "is a chicken graveyard."
He blinked. "You're... crying?"
I nodded. "I was trying to cook adobo for your birthday. But the garlic died. The soy sauce attacked. And i think the chicken was possessed."
He chuckled and walked over to the kitchen like it was nothing. Set the cake down. "You were cooking... for me again?"
I nodded again, biting my lip.
His expression softened. "Elara…"
"What?"
He pulled out the small paper bag.
"It's your birthday too, you know."
I froze. "YOU KNEW?!"
He grinned. "Of course I did."
"YOU KNEW AND YOU STILL LET ME DO THIS?!"
"You didn't have to."
"I KNOW BUT I WANTED TO."
He took my bleeding finger and examined it gently. "It's a small cut. You're okay."
"But my dignity isn't," I muttered.
He looked at me, really looked and then smiled so softly it made me want to burst into tears all over again.
"Happy birthday, Elara."
...
AND THEN HE PUT THE CAKE DOWN AND TOOK OUT A NECKLACE.
LIKE, A REAL ONE.
Not the costume jewelry kind.
This had a tiny gold charm in the shape of a racecar and a single, tiny sapphire on the back.
"For you," he said.
My jaw dropped. "Are you proposing?!"
Cairo laughed. "It's just a birthday present."
"OH."
"Unless you want me to propose?"
"I mean—NO—unless—DO YOU?!"
He walked to the stove. "Let me cook first. Then we'll talk."
I watched him take over like a pro, like he belonged in a cooking show, like Gordon Ramsay's younger, hotter Filipino cousin.
He sautéed and simmered and stirred with the kind of confidence i only have when i'm lying on Instagram.
Well today i tried to cook.
Today i tried to love someone in my little clumsy way.
And he still came through—with a cake, a necklace, and a laugh that made me forget all the garlic crimes i'd committed.
But wait, there's something wildly unfair about watching your boyfriend cook while looking like a literal Calvin Klein model who also knows how to properly sear chicken.
Like, excuse me, why are you hot in my trauma kitchen?!
I sat there, sulking cutely at the counter while Cairo moved around with the confidence of a man who knew what he was doing. "Babe," I said, voice soft and a little sheepish, "am i the worst girlfriend ever for almost poisoning you on your birthday?"
He looked over his shoulder and grinned. "You're the best girlfriend for trying."
Ugh.
This man.
This gorgeous, annoyingly patient man.
I swear, he could make me commit to a lifetime of domestic life with just one look.
All i need is an apron, a rice cooker, and some waterproof mascara.
"Taste this," he said, dipping a spoon into the now-legit adobo he somehow saved from the ashes of my failure.
I leaned forward, tasted it, and—
"OH MY GOD." I clutched my chest. "That's illegal."
He laughed. "That good?"
"No. It's better. I feel like i just got kissed by a Filipino grandma wearing Chanel No. 5."
We ended up eating at the bar, kasi hindi ko pa naayos 'yung dining table.
We were both barefoot, Cairo's hair was slightly messy from the steam, and i was wearing his hoodie because... of course i was.
Sabay kaming nag-eat. As in like, sharing food, stealing bites, me pretending to be full just so he'd feed me the last piece of chicken with his fork.
I was smiling so much my cheeks hurt.
Tapos biglang he said, "Can i give you your other gift now?"
"Wait, other?!" I blinked. "You already gave me a necklace that looks like it came from a jewelry commercial starring Pia Wurtzbach!"
He reached under the counter and pulled out something wrapped in soft gold paper.
"Okay," I gasped. "That's illegal."
"Open it."
I peeled it slowly, OA-style.
With dramatic gasps and sound effects like i was unboxing the Holy Grail.
Inside was... a photo album.
Not digital.
Like, actual photos. Printed. Real.
And on the cover?
It said:
"Moments with You."
I froze.
"Open it," he whispered.
So i did.
Page one: A selfie of us from our first day as neighbors — the one i didn't even know he took. I was blurry in the background, holding a can of tuna with a disgusted face.
I started tearing up. Like, full-on, "I didn't wear waterproof mascara for this" tears.
"You've been collecting these?" I asked, voice cracking.
"I wanted to remember everything," he said. "Even the small things. Especially the small things."
I stared at him.
This boy.
This man.
This racecar-driving, hoodie-lending, chicken-rescuing idiot of a man who somehow made me feel more like me than i've ever felt in my entire life.
"Cairo..." I whispered, leaning forward.
"Yeah?"
"I have a gift for you too."
He tilted his head. "Yeah?"
I stood up, walked around the counter, and cupped his face with both my hands.
Then i kissed him.
Properly.
Not an almost-kiss. Not a maybe-kiss. Not a birthday-twin oopsie moment.
But a real, slow, "hey i'm yours now and I love you" kind of kiss.
He kissed me back immediately, pulling me closer, one hand on my waist and the other cradling the back of my head like he never wanted to let go.
It was soft. Then deep. Then soft again.
His lips moved with the kind of tenderness that made my knees literally buckle.
I had to hold onto the counter just to keep from melting into a puddle of lovesick goo.
When we pulled away, breathless, he rested his forehead against mine.
"That," he whispered, "is the best gift i've ever received."
"Better than the adobo?" I asked, eyes twinkling.
He grinned. "Way better."
I kissed him again, quick this time.
Just because i could.
Just because he was mine.
After dinner, we ended up dancing in the living room.
No music. Just us, swaying side to side like fools in love.
He kept humming some random tune, I kept stepping on his foot.
But neither of us cared.
Because Cairo Cruz and I? We were now officially the kind of couple who shared birthdays, burned garlic together, and kissed like the world was ending tomorrow.
And honestly?
Best. Birthday. Ever.