Noted with Reservations

CHAPTER 2: Literal Mess

I woke up to the sound of tires screeching.

My head bumped lightly against the car window, and for a few seconds, I didn't know where I was. The last things I remembered were the scent of pine trees and Waeren’s low voice.

But when I opened my eyes, I didn't see familiar walls.

We weren't at my place yet.

We were parked in front of a famous 24-hour coffee shop. The engine was off, but the air conditioning kept the interior cool. I glanced at the driver’s seat. Waeren was gone.

I looked outside and saw him walking back to the car, carrying two coffees and a paper bag that smelled like freshly baked pastries. Even at this hour, even with everyone exhausted, he still looked like a commercial for a luxury watch. No wrinkles, no flaws.

He opened the door and got in. When he noticed I was awake, he paused for a moment.

"You're awake," he said, handing me a cup.

"Black coffee. No sugar. I figured you’d need it so you won't collapse when you get out."

"You have so little faith in me. I don’t fall that easily," I replied, taking the coffee.

The heat against my palms felt like it was reviving my dead nerves.

"Thanks. How much is this? I’ll pay you back."

"Keep your money, Cruz. Spend it on a better tech pen. Yours is scratchy."

I rolled my eyes. Even while drinking coffee, he still had something to criticize.

"Sorry, okay? Not all of us have gold-plated tools like you. My pen fought through three major plates this semester. It has sentimental value."

He took a sip of his own coffee before starting the car.

"Sentimental value doesn't fix a bleeding line. Master your tools so they don't master you."

That was it. I was officially annoyed. He was too serious. Too textbook.

"You know, Waeren—" I didn't get to finish because a dog suddenly dashed into the middle of the road.

"Watch out!" I screamed.

Waeren swerved the wheel hard. My body slammed toward the dashboard, and the coffee I was holding—that hot, black, sugarless coffee he just bought—flew out of my hand.

Everything felt like it happened in slow motion.

The lid popped off, and the contents sprayed like a fountain directly onto the dashboard, the gear shift, and worst of all... onto the black leather seats and Waeren’s white polo shirt.

The car screeched to a halt at the side of the road. The only sounds left were the faint clicking of the wipers and my heavy breathing.

I slowly turned to look at Waeren.

If he looked like a statue of a perfect architect earlier, now he looked like a victim of a tragedy. His white shirt had a massive brown stain right in the middle. Coffee was dripping from the hem of his clothes onto his pants.

"Oh... s**t," I whispered. "s**t. s**t. Shit."

He didn't move. He was still gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His jaw was clenched tight, as if he were fighting the urge to explode.

"Xyloise," he called out softly. It was the first time he used my first name instead of my last. But it wasn't romantic. It sounded like a death sentence.

"I'm so sorry! It was the dog—" I scrambled to get tissues from my bag. In my panic, instead of dabbing gently, I practically scrubbed his chest to get the stain out.

"Wait, I'll clean it. Don't move. Oh no, it’s still hot, did you get burned?"

He grabbed my hand to stop me. His skin was warm, but his gaze was as cold as ice.

"Stop," he said firmly. "You're making it worse."

I looked at the tissue in my hand; it was soaked in brown coffee. I looked around the car. The dashboard that was so pristine earlier was now sticky.

"I'll pay for the cleaning," I said quickly, even though I knew my wallet only held loose change and a grocery receipt.

"We'll have your shirt dry-cleaned. The seat covers, too. I'll do laundry, I'll clean, whatever it takes."

He slowly let go of my hand. He adjusted his glasses, which had tilted slightly from the sudden braking.

"This shirt is a custom-tailored piece, Cruz. And this car... the interior alone costs more than your tuition for the next two years."

My shoulders slumped. I knew he was rich, but did he have to rub it in?

"I know. You don't have to remind me that I'm poor. But it was an accident. I was just trying to save the dog."

"And in the process, you created a mess that I cannot simply red-line away," he said, looking at the stain on his clothes.

"Do you have any idea how important my meeting is this morning? I'm supposed to meet the head of a major firm for my internship placement."

I swallowed hard. This was bad. Beyond bad. I had ruined his chance at a dream internship all because of some coffee.

"What... what do you want me to do?" I asked, my voice small.

He looked at me. In the long silence that followed, it felt like he was weighing my entire soul. The annoyance in his eyes was slowly replaced by something more terrifying—a plan.

"You said you'll do anything to pay for this," he began.

"Yes. As long as I can do it."

"Fine. I don't need your money, Cruz. I have plenty of that. What I don't have is time."

He leaned back against the seat, ignoring the wet stain on his back.

"My assistant just quit last week because she couldn't handle me. Since you're so fond of artistic liberty and making excuses, maybe you can spend your time seeing how the real world works."

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"Starting today, you're my personal assistant. You'll handle my schedules, my coffee—hopefully without spilling it—and you'll be at my beck and call until I decide your debt is paid."

My eyes widened. "Assistant? But I have classes! I'm an Architecture student too, if you've forgotten!"

"Then you better learn how to manage your time, Cruz," he said, shifting gears again. This time, he didn't look at me.

"Because from this moment on, your life is no longer just yours. It's under my supervision. And I have zero tolerance for mistakes."

As the car moved toward my dorm, I felt the weight of the situation I had walked into. My calculation error hadn't just resulted in a ruined plate; it led to a professional debt that I knew would change my life.

"Noted with reservations," I whispered to myself, staring out the window.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Nothing," I replied, leaning my head against the glass.

"I just said your coffee still smells good even on the seat."

He didn't reply, but I saw the corner of his lip twitch upward slightly. A smirk I wasn't sure whether to be afraid of or happy about.

The car stopped at a familiar corner.

"Is this it?" Waeren asked, looking out the window as if he were exploring a foreign planet.

"Yeah, just there at the yellow gate. The one with the 'Ice Candy for Sale' sign," I pointed.

He looked at the gate, then at me, then back at the stain on his polo.

We had arrived late into the morning because he had to stop for something important, and he just let me sleep in his car.

"I expect a message by 8:00 a.m. regarding my schedule for the afternoon. And don't be late for our 10:00 a.m. History of Architecture class."

"8:00 a.m.?! Waeren, it’s 6:00 a.m. now! I still have to shower, get some sleep, eat—"

"Precision, Cruz. If you can't manage two hours of preparation, how will you manage a construction site?" he said, eyes fixed forward.

"Now, get out. My car smells like a cafeteria."

"A cafeteria? It was just coffee," I muttered, opening the door.

"Fine, thanks for the ride. And sorry again for... you know. For your chest."

He didn't answer. I just watched him speed away. I shook my head. Architect Waeren was going to be a huge hassle.

When I entered the house, the smell of fried rice greeted me.

"Oh, Xy, home this late again? I thought you were going to school, why'd you get out of a car that looks like it belongs to a rich person?" my mom asked while preparing coffee—just the 3-in-1 kind, not Waeren's "custom-tailored" stuff.

"Long story, Ma. But starting today, I have a part-time job. I'm a personal assistant to a robot," I replied before heading straight to my room and collapsing onto the bed.

At exactly 7:55 a.m., my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

0917-XXX-XXXX:

List of tasks for today:

1. Pick up the structural model from the 5th-floor locker.

2. Coordinate with the printing shop for the A1 blueprints.

3. Buy me a new shirt. White. Oxford cotton. Slim fit. Size Medium.

Don't mess up the size, Cruz.

I sat up abruptly.

"Is this guy serious? I'm a personal assistant, not an errand girl." But then I remembered the stain. The price of his car seats. And the way he looked at me like he could kick me out of this world.

I grabbed my phone and typed:

Noted with reservations, boss. Where do I get the money for the shirt? I don't have a budget for 'Oxford' anything. I can probably only afford Bench.

0917-XXX-XXXX:

Check your GCash.

Ding!

My eyes widened when I saw the notification.

You have received 5,000.00 PHP.

"Holy crap," I whispered. "It's just one shirt, why five thousand? Is it really this expensive to be perfect? And how did he even get my GCash number?"

By 10:00 a.m. at the university, I was completely drained. I was carrying a paper bag from the mall and a large tube of blueprints. The heat was no joke, and running from the mall to our building felt like a workout in hell.

I saw him in the hallway. He was wearing a spare jacket to hide the stain on his shirt. He was leaning against the wall, reading a book, looking perfectly calm while everyone around him was scrambling for the next class.

"Here," I panted, handing him the paper bag. "Oxford cotton, slim fit, size medium. I even asked the sales lady what size an emotionless guy would wear, and she said 'medium' was definitely it."

He slowly took the bag. "You're three minutes late."

"Traffic, in case you forgot," I shot back.

"And I had to wait in line at the counter. You’re lucky I didn't keep the change as a service fee."

He opened the bag and inspected the fabric. "This will do. Go to the restroom and wait for me to change. I need you to hold my jacket while I do it."

"What?! Why do I have to wait outside the men's room? What are you, a kid?"

"I have a meeting right after this class, Cruz. I don't have time to go back to my locker. Just do as you're told."

I had no choice but to follow. As I stood outside the male restroom, holding his expensive jacket, I felt the stares of people passing by.

"Xy? Why are you standing there?" Reese asked as she walked out of the ladies' room nearby.

"And why are you holding Waeren’s jacket? Are you guys a thing?!"

"No! It's a debt. A literal debt," I replied crossly. "And keep it down, people might think I'm that robot's bodyguard."

Right then, Waeren stepped out. The new shirt fit him perfectly. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the first three buttons were open. He looked... unnecessarily attractive.

"Staring is a sign of poor spatial awareness, Cruz," he noted as he took his jacket from me.

"You just got lucky I bought a good one," I countered, looking away. "What's next, Master?"

He checked his watch. "History of Architecture. Sit beside me. I need someone to take down notes while I finalize the CAD files for the afternoon submission."

"Wait, I have my own notes to take!"

"You can share mine. If you can understand my handwriting, that is."

He started walking into the lecture hall. I just sighed.

As I walked behind him, only one thing came to mind.

Waeren is a blueprint. And I am the ink smudge he didn't see coming.