The Arrival:
The humid air of Ilocos Sur hung thick with the scent of sea salt and blooming Jasminum sambac—the sacred Sampaguita. For Mateo, returning to his ancestral home in Vigan wasn't just a holiday; it was a reckoning. It was February 14th, and while the rest of the world obsessed over chocolates and roses, the cobblestone streets of Calle Crisologo seemed to whisper older, more primal secrets.
He stood outside a traditional Bahay na Bato, the Spanish colonial stone house belonging to the girl he had left behind five years ago. Liyana.
Liyana wasn't just a woman; she was a master of the Abel weave. In the Philippines, they say a weaver puts their soul into the loom. As Mateo stepped onto the dark, polished hardwood floors of the second story, he found her. She was backlit by the golden afternoon sun filtering through Capiz shell windows. She wasn't wearing modern clothes. She wore a traditional Baro't Saya, the thin, pineapple-fiber piña cloth clinging to her shoulders, translucent and delicate.
"You're late, Mateo," she said, her voice like velvet, not looking up from the rhythmic clack-clack of her wooden loom.
"Five years is a long time to be late," Mateo replied, his voice husky. He watched the way her hands moved—strong, precise, and graceful. The tension in the room wasn't just from the tight threads of the fabric; it was the unspent electricity between them.
In the tradition of their town, Valentine's Day—Araw ng mga Puso—wasn't just about cards. It was about the Harana, the serenade, the slow pursuit. But Mateo didn't want to sing. He wanted to bridge the distance the years had created. He walked closer, until he could smell the coconut oil in her dark hair and the heat radiating from her skin.
Liyana finally stopped. The silence was deafening. She stood up, the floorboards creaking under her bare feet. The piña fabric of her blouse shifted, revealing the elegant curve of her neck and the pulse thrumming at the base of her throat.
"I didn't think you'd remember the way back," she whispered, her dark eyes locking onto his.
"I remembered every inch," he said, stepping into her personal space, his hand hovering just inches from her waist.
The air felt heavy, charged with the kind of heat that only a tropical February could produce—a mix of devotion, ancient tradition, and a hunger that had been suppressed for far too long.
The Harana and the Heat:
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the Vigan sky in bruised purples and deep, burning oranges. Outside the Bahay na Bato, the faint sound of a guitar began to strum—a traditional Harana. But inside the dimly lit room, the only music was the synchronized thrum of two hearts that had been out of rhythm for five years.
Liyana didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into Mateo's space, her breath hitching as his fingers finally brushed the small of her back. The piña fabric was scratchy yet ethereal, a barrier that felt far too thick for the electricity sparking between them.
"The traditions say a man must sing to prove his worth," she whispered, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering light of the gasera (oil lamp) on the side table. Her lips were stained a natural, crushed-berry red, parted just enough to invite trouble.
Mateo's hand slid upward, tracing the delicate line of her spine. "I've spent five years composing a song in my head, Liyana. But my throat is too dry to sing it."
He stepped closer, closing the final inch. The humidity of the Philippine night seemed to melt away their reservations. He reached up, his thumb grazing her jawline before settling on the pulse point at her neck. It was racing—a frantic, rhythmic beat that told him more than her words ever could.
Liyana reached out, her fingers curling into the stiff collar of his Barong Tagalog. She pulled him toward her, not with force, but with an agonizingly slow gravity. When his chest met the soft curves of hers, a low groan escaped him. The contrast was intoxicating: the rough, traditional embroidery of his shirt against the delicate, translucent silk of her saya.
"Show me," she breathed against his skin. "Show me what you remembered."
Mateo didn't hesitate. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over her earlobe, sending a shiver through her that he felt in his own bones. He trailed his mouth down the column of her throat, savoring the scent of her—sampaguita, warm skin, and the faint, sweet musk of the tropics.
The clack-clack of the loom was replaced by the heavy, rhythmic sound of their breathing. Mateo's hands moved to the silk ties of her wrap-around skirt, his touch reverent but demanding. Every movement was a deliberate slow-burn, a testament to the years of longing they had both endured.
The room grew smaller, the shadows longer. As the distant singers outside reached the crescendo of their love song, Mateo captured Liyana's lips in a kiss that tasted of salt, fire, and homecoming. It wasn't just a Valentine's kiss; it was a reclamation.
The tropical heat was no longer outside; it was centered right there, between them, threatening to consume everything they knew of restraint.
The Moonlit Vow:
The flickering gasera cast long, dancing shadows against the whitewashed stone walls, turning the room into a sanctuary of amber and gold. Outside, the Harana singers had moved further down the cobblestone street, their melodies fading into the chirping of cicadas and the distant rustle of palm fronds. Inside, the silence was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and the intoxicating musk of skin on skin.
Mateo's kiss deepened, his tongue tracing the seam of Liyana's lips until she opened for him with a soft, broken moan. It was a hunger five years in the making. His hands, once hesitant, now moved with a possessive certainty. He gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him until the delicate embroidery of his Barong pressed into her chest.
Liyana's fingers tangled in his hair, her nails grazing his scalp as she arched her back. The thin piña cloth of her blouse felt like a gossamer film between them, nearly transparent under the moonlight streaming through the open Capiz windows.
"Mateo," she breathed against his mouth, her voice a ragged whisper. "Tell me this isn't a dream from the loom. Tell me you aren't leaving when the sun rises."
He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes—dark, liquid pools of desire and fear. "I've crossed oceans to get back to this room, Liyana. I'm not woven into your past; I'm weaving myself into your future."
With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the coconut-shell buttons of his shirt. He discarded the formal garment, his broad shoulders and sun-bronzed skin glowing in the low light. Liyana's breath caught. She reached out, her palms flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, powerful thud of his heart.
He didn't wait. His hands found the silk ties of her saya again. With a gentle tug, the heavy fabric loosened, pooling at her feet like a dark cloud. She stood before him in only her thin, sleeveless chemise, the white fabric clinging to her curves in the humid heat.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Mateo's gaze traveled over her—from the slope of her shoulders to the curve of her hips—with a reverence that was almost tactile. He stepped closer, his hands sliding under the hem of her chemise, his palms warm against the silk-smooth skin of her thighs.
Liyana let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as his touch ascended. The friction of his calloused skin against her softness sent jolts of heat through her body, centering in a deep, throbbing ache that only he could soothe.
He lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms locking behind his neck. He carried her to the large, four-poster narra wood bed, the heirloom lace canopy swaying as he laid her down. The wood groaned under their combined weight, a grounded, earthy sound in a moment that felt like floating.
The tropical night pressed in on them, the heat peaking as their bodies finally aligned without the barrier of cloth or time. Every touch was a question; every moan was an answer. This was the true Araw ng mga Puso—not a festival for the town, but a private fire burning in the heart of Vigan.
The Dawn of the Eternal Weave:
The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of salt air and the musk of spent passion. The lace canopy above the narra bed swayed gently in the salt-tinged breeze, a rhythmic ghost of the intensity that had just transpired. Mateo lay with Liyana wrapped in his arms, her head resting on his chest, her damp skin cooling against his own as the fever of the night began to settle into a deep, soulful glow.
The moonlight had shifted, silvering the polished hardwood floors and the silent wooden loom in the corner. For years, that loom had been Liyana's only companion, a tool to weave her loneliness into intricate patterns. But tonight, the threads of her life had finally been spliced back together with Mateo's.
"The sun will be up soon," Liyana whispered, her voice a soft rasp against his skin. She traced the jagged line of a scar on his shoulder—a souvenir from his years working the docks abroad.
Mateo tightened his grip, pulling the thin sheet up to cover them both. "Let it come. The darkness served its purpose. It gave us back what we lost."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. The "heat" between them hadn't vanished; it had transformed from a frantic flame into a steady, warming hearth. As the first pale grey of dawn began to bleed through the Capiz windows, the world of Vigan started to wake. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed, and the faint smell of woodsmoke and roasting barako coffee drifted through the air.
Liyana sat up, the sheet falling to her waist, her silhouette a masterpiece of shadow and light against the morning mist. She looked at the loom, then back at Mateo.
"Every Valentine's Day, the girls in the village weave a 'Heart Pattern' to attract a husband," she said with a faint, knowing smile. "I never wove one. I didn't need to."
Mateo stood, his bare feet silent on the floorboards. He walked to the loom and picked up a shuttle, then returned to the bed. He took her hand, placing the shuttle in her palm and closing his fingers over hers.
"Then we'll weave something new today," he promised. "No more stories of leaving. No more long-distance longing. Just the rhythm of this house, the smell of the sea, and you."
As the sun finally broke over the horizon, flooding the room with a brilliant, tropical gold, the traditional Valentine's Day of the Philippines began. But for Mateo and Liyana, the celebration was already complete. The "sexy" spark of their reunion had forged something stronger—a bond as durable and beautiful as the Abel cloth itself.
They watched the sunrise together, two souls finally synchronized, ready to weave a lifetime of mornings just like this one.
The End
Akifa,
The Author.