Noted with Reservations

CHAPTER 6: Structural Flaw

The start of the following week felt like a structural test I hadn't prepared for. If I thought Waeren had softened up because of the gotohan and his help with CAD, I was wrong.

He became even stricter. Every move I made, every line in my sketchpad—he watched them more closely than a hawk-eyed professor.

"The site model needs to be finished by Friday, Cruz. And I don't mean a rough draft. I mean a museum-quality presentation," he declared as we walked through the hallways of the architecture building.

I was carrying two coffees and his heavy portfolio while he seemed to just float through the crowd of students scrambling up the stairs.

"Waeren, I’m only human. I have three quizzes on top of being your slave," I complained, though I quickened my pace to keep up with his long strides.

He didn't stop.

"Then manage your time. If you can't juggle a simple task like this, how do you expect to manage a multi-million project in the future? Architecture is 20% design and 80% endurance. Show me you have the latter."

He stopped in front of the door to Studio B and faced me. He adjusted his glasses, a gesture I knew meant he was serious.

"And stop calling it 'slave.' It's an apprenticeship. You're learning for free, while I'm paying for your mistakes."

"Learning for free? Waeren, I almost died from lack of sleep last night just formatting your files!"

Before he could respond, a voice from behind us broke the tension.

"Waeren! I thought you were still at the site."

A woman was approaching us. Tall, fair, and with an aura that smelled like expensive perfume and a high GPA. She was wearing a pencil skirt and a silk blouse—a stark contrast to me in my oversized t-shirt with graphite stains on the side.

"Celine," Waeren greeted her curtly. His voice became more formal, colder. "I'm just about to start the physical modeling."

"I heard about the project in Sta. Cruz. Your dad mentioned it during dinner last night," Celine said, looking me up and down.

"And who is... this? Is she your new intern from the lower years?"

"This is Xyloise Cruz. My assistant,"

Waeren introduced. Brief. Emotionless.

"Assistant? I didn't know you needed one. Before, you used to do everything yourself because no one meets your standards, right?" Celine laughed, a sound like crystal falling on the floor. She turned to me.

"Good luck, Xyloise. Handling Waeren is like handling reinforced concrete. Hard, cold, and doesn't bend."

"I'm used to stubborn things, Celine," I shot back, not letting her judgmental gaze slide.

"I can always vibrate it to soften it up a bit."

Celine’s brow furrowed slightly, while I saw Waeren’s shoulder twitch as if he were holding back a laugh—or annoyance, I couldn't tell.

"Anyway, Waeren, let's talk later about the thesis collab. I have some ideas for the structural framing," Celine said before walking away with her head held high.

Once we were alone again, I looked at Waeren.

"Who was that? Your construction rival or the ideal blueprint of your life?"

"She’s at the top of the fifth year. My family and hers have been business partners for decades," he answered while opening the studio door.

"And she's right about one thing. I don't usually let anyone help me. So don't make me regret making an exception for you."

We stepped inside, immediately greeted by the smell of corkboard, glue guns, and styrene. The entire afternoon became a marathon of cutting and pasting. Waeren worked on the main structure of the model, while I was assigned the landscaping and small details.

In the silence, as I carefully glued tiny trees around the building model, I noticed the way Waeren held the cutter. Every slice was exact. Nothing more, nothing less. It was like he was performing surgery.

"Why does everything always have to be perfect?" I asked, unable to stand the silence any longer.

"It’s just a site model. No one’s actually going to live in it."

"Because the model is the promise, Cruz," he said without looking up.

"If the promise is flawed, the reality will be a disaster. People trust us with their lives and their money based on these toys. If you can't respect the small scale, you'll never survive the big one."

"You're always so heavy to talk to. Can't it just be 'I want it to look good'?"

He stopped and looked at me.

"That’s the difference between us, Xyloise. You see beauty in the chaos. I see safety in the order. But lately..." he paused, staring at the landscaping I had done.

"Lately, I’m realizing that an empty, perfect building is just a shell. It needs the 'mess' to feel like a home."

We stared at each other. Inside Studio B, amidst the clutter and the smell of glue, it felt like another wall’s foundation was starting to shake. My mouth, always ready with a comeback, suddenly went silent.

"You're just hungry, Waeren," I joked to break the tension, even though I could feel my cheeks heating up.

"Kidding aside, maybe you just need extra garlic in your goto again to remember you're human too."

He smiled slightly—that dimple-smile that was quickly becoming my favorite view.

"Maybe you're right. Finish that section. We’re not leaving until the trees are properly rooted."

The night caught up to us in the studio. As the other students headed home one by one, Waeren and I seemed locked in our own bubble of concrete and dreams. When we finally finished the model, we stood back to admire it. It was beautiful. The sharp lines of Waeren’s design were brought to life by the chaotic yet organic landscaping I had added.

"Not bad," he said, which for him was basically a standing ovation.

"What do you mean 'not bad'? It's perfect!" I countered.

While packing up my things, I accidentally brushed against a bottle of glue. It immediately spilled across the table, nearly reaching the edge of the model.

"Xyloise!" Waeren shouted, quickly pulling the model away to save it.

In the rush, I lost my balance and fell against him. He held the model in one hand while his other arm wrapped around my waist to keep me from falling.

We were so close. I could smell the mix of coffee, new paper, and his own peppermint scent. My heart was like a vibrating electric eraser—fast, noisy, and unstoppable.

"I told you," he whispered, his voice close to my ear, "you're a safety hazard."

"At least... at least you caught me," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

He slowly let me go once he was sure I was standing steady. He adjusted his glasses and turned away to hide whatever expression was on his face.

"I'll drive you home," he said, returning to his robot mode, though there was a slight tremor in his voice.

As we walked out of the building, I looked up at the sky. It was dark, but the stars were out. Deep down, I knew this project was no longer just about architecture. Every calculation error of mine was slowly becoming part of a design I hadn't expected.

And Celine? She was the structural flaw I needed to reinforce against. Because in this world of straight lines and towering dreams, I wasn't going to let an assistant like me be simply erased from Waeren’s plans.

When we reached my house, before getting out, I turned to him.

"Waeren."

"Hmm?"

"Your passcode... 06-15. You said it was just a coincidence."

"It is."

"You said it was the foundation date of a firm you liked."

"Yes."

"Nothing. I just wanted to say... you have a good foundation. It’s strong."

I didn't wait for his answer and quickly got out of the car.

As I walked through our gate, I heard him give a soft honk before finally driving away. I leaned against the gate, hand over my heart.