I woke up starving.
Like, model-on-a-detox-level starving.
I had this fantasy when i moved here that i'd live off the land.
Like Snow White, but hotter.
I imagined picking fruits, chopping vegetables, maybe making a cute Pinterest-worthy omelette while wearing silk pajamas.
But the reality?
No food. No staff. No idea where the nearest grocery store even is.
I opened the fridge again, hoping the food gods had miraculously stocked it overnight.
Still just lemons and despair.
"I'm going to die here," I whispered.
And not in a tragic-romantic way either. In a bloated, hungry, regretful kind of way. The kind where you're found by a delivery man two weeks later, clutching an empty wine bottle like a microphone.
Right. No.
I was not going to be that girl.
I was going to the market.
Wherever that was.
There was one tiny, crucial problem: I had no car.
Not here, at least. My usual driver was probably parked outside my Manila condo wondering why i hadn't summoned him like usual.
I didn't bring a car because i wanted to "disconnect." How inspiring of me.
But now i was disconnected and possibly malnourished.
I didn't even know how to commute. Not in the province. What was i going to do, flag down a carabao?
I sat on the porch, chewing on the inside of my cheek, trying to remember if i saw a tricycle or jeep somewhere nearby.
Then again, I wasn't exactly walking around with spare coins and small bills. All i had was a black leather wallet filled with cards and one crumpled receipt from Dior.
Helpful.
Just as i was spiraling into a slow breakdown, I looked up.
And there he was again.
That man.
The vineyard one.
Walking with a paper bag in one hand, probably filled with freshly baked attitude.
He saw me.
I looked away.
He kept walking.
I sighed dramatically, like the world owed me a romantic comedy setup.
And then… I stood up.
"Hey," I called out, arms crossed. "Sorry—wait. Hi."
He turned.
Raised one eyebrow. Very original of him.
I cleared my throat. "Do you happen to know where the market is?"
He blinked at me, dry as ever. "Down the road. About twenty minutes. You walk?"
I looked down at my platform sneakers. My Balenciaga platform sneakers. "I… could. Technically."
He waited. I waited. The silence was suffocating.
"Okay, no," I admitted. "I don't really know how to get around here. Or if i'll survive the sun. Or if tricycles even accept card payments."
That earned me a smirk.
A real, small, evil smirk.
"Do you want a ride?" he asked, voice flat but vaguely amused.
I swallowed my pride like it was kale. "Yes. Please. I'm not trying to get heatstroke before lunch."
He nodded, then tilted his head slightly. "What's your name?"
I blinked. "Celeste."
"Celeste…" He repeated it like he was tasting it. "Imperial?"
Oh God. "Let me guess, you Googled me."
"Nope," he said. "You're kind of on billboards. And magazines. And, you know, bus stops."
Touché.
"Well, i'd ask for your name too," I said, walking toward his truck, "but you don't exactly scream approachable."
He glanced at me sideways. "Calix."
"…That's your name?"
"No, that's my shoe size," he deadpanned.
Okay. Fair.
I rolled my eyes and climbed into the passenger seat.
The truck smelled like pine and old coffee and somehow rosemary. It suited him. Sharp. Earthy. A little bitter.
The drive was bumpy, the road unpaved, but the breeze was nice.
Like… really nice.
I rolled down the window and stuck my hand out like they do in indie films.
The air was warm and smelled like leaves and something sweet. Nothing like Manila.
"Wow," I said softly, almost to myself. "This is the first time i've smelled real air."
Calix didn't say anything, but i saw the way he glanced at me.
Like he wasn't sure if i was being dramatic or genuine.
(Spoiler: It was both.)
The market was exactly how i imagined it.
Loud, colorful, chaotic in the best way.
Bananas hanging from ropes. Kids selling kakanin. Old women with vegetables that still had soil on them. The whole place felt… real.
We got out of the truck and i looked around, overwhelmed.
"Okay," I said, squaring my shoulders. "Let's get me some groceries."
"You sure you don't want to just order from Grab?" Calix teased.
I ignored him and marched to the first stall like i had a plan.
Which i absolutely did not.
"Hi ate!" I smiled at the vendor, eyeing her eggplants. "How much per kilo?"
"₱160 po."
I narrowed my eyes. "₱100 na lang?"
She laughed. "Naku, ang galing tumawad ni Ma'am. Sige na nga, ₱160!"
"…Wait, that's still the same price."
She winked. "Oo nga, pero at least tumawad kayo. Pampagaan ng loob."
I heard Calix laugh behind me.
Actually laugh.
Low and short and unfairly nice.
I shot him a look. "Don't judge me. I'm blending in."
"You're wearing Gucci sunglasses," he said.
"Blending in… with flair."
We walked stall to stall, and i repeated the same pattern:
Me: "How much is the kalabasa?"
Vendor: "₱60 po."
Me: "₱40 na lang?"
Vendor: "Sige, ₱60!"
And every time, Calix would silently watch me, trying not to laugh but failing.
He wasn't talkative, but he didn't walk away either.
He helped carry the bags, nodded politely at the vendors, even paid for a bottle of suka when i realized i didn't bring cash.
And i don't know… it was kinda nice.
Being normal.
Even if my definition of normal included overpaying for carrots.
On the way back, we didn't talk much.
Just the sound of tires crunching over dirt and a plastic bag rustling in the backseat.
"You really don't know how to cook?" he asked suddenly.
I shook my head. "I can boil water. Sometimes."
"That's not cooking."
"Tell that to my instant noodles."
He glanced at me again, amused. "What exactly were you planning to do with all those vegetables?"
I shrugged. "I figured i'd chop them up and… manifest a meal."
He snorted. "Get out of the kitchen."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Give me the bags. I'll cook."
"You cook?"
"Yeah. I'm a chef."
I blinked. "Like… you can make rice without burning it?"
He parked the car. "Like… I own a restaurant."
Silence.
Then— "Wait. What?!"
"And this whole land you've been walking on?" he added, stepping out of the car. "That's my vineyard."
I stood there, still holding a limp pechay in one hand.
"You're that Montemayor?" I asked, stunned.
"Yup."
"…Oh my God."
He smirked. "Still think i don't know what i'm doing?"
I groaned. "Ugh. This is so unfair."
"Why?"
"Because i really, really hate your attitude—but now i have to love your cooking."
He laughed again.
And i hated how nice it sounded.
Back in the kitchen, I sat at the counter while he moved like a magician with a knife.
No recipe. No timer. Just instinct and spice and a ridiculous amount of confidence.
In fifteen minutes, the place smelled like garlic, olive oil, and something that made me want to cry from happiness.
He handed me a plate of pasta.
"Try not to burn yourself," he said.
I took a bite.
Oh no.
It was amazing.
"I'm in love," I whispered, eyes wide.
"With the food?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes," I said quickly. "Obviously. The food."
And maybe, just maybe…