My Lover Is A Boss

The neon sign of the convenience store buzzed with a sharp, erratic frequency that seemed to vibrate straight into Riva’s temples. It was exactly 11:42 PM according to the cracked screen of her budget smartphone. Outside, the Manila rain was no longer just falling; it had transformed into a heavy, suffocating sheet of water that erased the skyline and turned the asphalt of the avenue into a dark, swirling river. Riva clutched her plastic expandable folder tightly against her chest, treating it like a shield against the damp chill creeping through her thin blouse. Inside that folder were ten pristine copies of her resume. Ten copies, all bearing her freshly minted degree in Business Administration, major in Marketing Management, with latin honors proudly stated in bold, black ink. Yet, none of that mattered tonight. Today had been another exhausting, demoralizing cycle of traveling from one high-rise office building to another, only to be met with the same generic, polite dismissals. “We will review your application and get back to you within a week, Ms. Santos,” direct translations of which always meant the same thing: don't hold your breath. “Ugh. I need a ride. It’s getting very late,” she muttered to herself, her voice swallowed by the roaring cadence of the downpour. Her legs were aching from hours of walking in cheap, synthetic leather flats that had already given her blisters on both heels. The soles were starting to unglue, soaking her feet in the grimy, cold floodwater. She had stayed late at a coffee shop near a tech hub in Taguig, endlessly refreshing job portals, rewriting cover letters, and sending out applications until the establishment closed down and forced her out into the midnight storm. Now, she was stranded under a leaking canvas awning of a closed bakery, praying for a stray jeepney or a tricycle that could take her to the boundaries of her residential block. Every time a vehicle passed by, throwing up massive plumes of muddy water against the curb, her heart would leap, only to sink when she saw the bright red ‘Full’ sign glowing through the fogged-up windshields. She was exhausted, hungry, and entirely vulnerable. In this part of the metro, staying out past midnight as a solo woman was an invitation for trouble, and she knew it. Her mother’s constant warnings echoed in her head like a broken record. A sudden, metallic thud cut through the ambient roar of the rain. Across the two-lane street, a sleek, charcoal-gray sedan abruptly pulled over to the curb. Its hazard lights cut through the heavy mist, blinking a rhythmic, amber warning that cast long, distorted shadows across the flooded concrete. Riva watched, momentarily distracted from her misery, as the driver’s side door swung open. A man stepped out into the torrential rain. He didn't have an umbrella, nor did he seem to care. Within mere seconds, his crisp, light-blue button-down shirt was completely plastered to his skin, detailing the broad, athletic frame beneath. Even from across the street, under the dim, yellow glow of a flickering lamppost, there was an unmistakable air of refinement about him. He was tall—easily six feet—and moved with a certain fluid grace that felt entirely out of place in this gritty, working-class neighborhood. He hurried to the back, popped the trunk, and stared inside for a long, agonizing moment before slamming it shut with visible frustration. He ran a hand through his dripping, dark hair, pushing the wet strands away from his forehead as he looked around the deserted, rain-slicked street. He looked entirely lost, his posture radiating a profound sense of isolation. Then, his gaze shifted across the asphalt, his dark eyes locking onto the only other human being in sight. Riva tensed instantly. Her knuckles turned white around the edges of her plastic folder. Rule number one of late-night commuting in the city: do not talk to strangers. Especially not a strange man at midnight, regardless of how expensive his car looked or how handsome his silhouette appeared through the rain. The man crossed the street, his long strides cutting through the ankle-deep water with a strange, hesitant urgency. As he stepped under the narrow canvas awning, just a few feet away from her, the harsh neon light of the adjacent convenience store caught his face. Riva caught her breath, her survival instincts momentarily clashing with pure, unadulterated aesthetic shock. He was strikingly handsome—sharp, aristocratic jawline, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes that looked entirely overwhelmed by a mixture of exhaustion and confusion. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, possessing the kind of polished look usually found in high-end business districts, but right now, his eyes held the desperate, wild look of a cornered animal. “Excuse me,” he said. His voice was a rich, low baritone, though it trembled slightly from the biting cold of the wind. “I’m... I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know where the nearest vulcanizing shop is? My front tire is completely shredded, and I... I don't think my spare is in the trunk.” Riva blinked, maintaining her distance, her back pressed flat against the locked metal gate of the bakery. She assessed him thoroughly. He wasn't wearing jewelry except for a high-end leather-strapped watch that looked heavily water-resistant, but his hands were shaking. “A vulcanizing shop?” Riva replied, her voice loud enough to be heard over the rain but guarded. “It’s almost midnight, sir. Most shops are already closed. The nearest 24/7 vulcanizing would be approximately 3 kilometers away from here.” The man’s shoulders sagged dramatically. He looked down at his ruined leather shoes, a desperate, hollow laugh escaping his lips. “Three kilometers. Right. Of course. In this weather.” “You could just call a tow truck or use an app,” Riva suggested gently, her initial suspicion beginning to soften at the sheer, undeniable helplessness radiating from him. “It would be better if you try to book using your phone.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, premium smartphone, shaking his head with a sigh. “My battery completely died about an hour ago. Out of juice.” He looked at the dead screen, his expression neutral, just standard annoyance at a dead gadget. “And to be honest, I’m a bit turned around. I’m not originally from this area, and I was just driving around to clear my head, but now my phone’s dead, the tire’s blown, and I don't even know which direction the main highway is from here.” He spoke with complete calm, his tone perfectly grounded and articulate. There was no hysteria, no manic pacing, no wild eyes. To Riva, he just sounded like an out-of-town guy who had a really, really bad string of luck on a stormy night. He acted completely normal. Riva’s brow furrowed. “Oh? Do you live far from here? Maybe you could try to drive your car to the main road?” He gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle, looking over at the sad tilt of his sedan. “I wouldn't risk it. The rim is practically scraping the asphalt. If I drive any further on that, I’ll completely ruin the axle. I just need a place to charge this thing for a bit so I can pull up a map and find my way back.” Riva stared at him, her heart thumping against her ribs. It was still a bit risky to trust a random guy at midnight, but he didn't seem dangerous. He wasn't aggressive or overly pushy; he just looked wet, tired, and thoroughly inconvenienced by a flat tire and a dead battery. He was shivering violently now, his skin turning a ghostly shade of pale under the fluorescent light. Riva looked from his dead phone to his expensive, useless sedan across the street, and then down to her own reflection in the puddles. She was a fresh graduate with zero money, an uncertain future, and enough personal problems to fill a lifetime. Helping a strange man was the last thing she needed to do. But as she looked at his polite, weary expression, the innate kindness her grandmother had raised her with won the battle against her cynicism. “Alright,” Riva sighed, taking a deep, stabilizing breath. She unclasped her folder slightly to ensure her documents were safe before looking back up at him. “Look, my apartment is just four blocks away from here. It's inside a secure compound. My landlord owns a small tricycle, and he actually knows a mechanic who lives nearby and works late nights for emergencies. If you want... you can use my charger and wait out the worst of this storm there. It's better than freezing to death inside your car.” The man stared at her, a profound, almost reverent look of gratitude washing over his features. The tension in his jaw slackened. “Are you serious? You'd trust a complete stranger like that? After what I just told you?” “I'm probably breaking every safety rule my mother ever taught me,” Riva admitted, offering a small, breathless, and slightly self-deprecating smile. “But you look like you're about to pass out from hypothermia, and I’d rather not witness a medical emergency tonight. I'm Riva, by the way.” He reached out a cold, dripping wet hand toward her, his fingers trembling. When her smaller, warmer hand closed around his, a strange, electric spark of awareness seemed to pass between them, sharp enough to make Riva’s breath hitch. “I'm... Valen,” he said smoothly, pulling out his wallet with his free hand and glancing briefly at his driver’s license just to double-check his own name out of habit, completely unbothered by the fact that the face on the card felt strangely distant. “Valen Canlas. It’s nice to meet you, Riva.” “Well, Valen, I mean, sir Valen” Riva said, pulling her hand back and gesturing toward the dark, flooded street ahead of them. “Let’s get you out of the rain before you catch pneumonia.” As they stepped out from under the awning together, the heavy rain enveloped them, but for the first time in hours, the biting cold didn't feel entirely unbearable. Riva guided him through the familiar labyrinth of the city's side streets, entirely unaware that this single act of late-night compassion was about to rewrite the entire trajectory of her life.