OUR STORY (BxB)

Chapter 29

-AKIRO-

After the fan meeting in Japan, things picked up again once we returned to the Philippines. Our schedules were packed—guesting on TV shows, filming new episodes for our variety series, rehearsing day and night. It was exhausting, but amidst all the noise and busyness, Roo and I still found time for each other. Especially in the dorm, where the world quieted and we could just exist without performing. We'd recently moved into a new dorm—fresh walls, new routines—but one thing hadn't changed. We were still sharing a room. That part, though, was a well-kept secret. No one outside of the members and a few staff knew about it. If that detail ever got out, it could cause a storm we weren't prepared to face. People talk. People assume. But this room, this quiet space we share, is ours. And in a world that demands so much, it's the one place we don't have to hide.

We were headed to the airport, bound for the US to attend the BBMA 2018. Being nominated felt surreal—we were excited, nervous, quietly proud. Since leaving the dorm, I stayed beside Tamaro. It was instinct by now, this closeness. Media Patch was there too, cameras ready, waiting to capture moments as we passed through—broadcasting every glance, every gesture, every angle they deemed worthy.

After boarding, we waited for nearly an hour before takeoff. Roo sat next to me, drowsy from the early rush and the weight of everything. I watched him fight sleep, eyes fluttering, body leaning toward exhaustion. I handed him my pillow—the one I always bring—knowing it would help. He needs something to hold to fall asleep. And maybe, somewhere in that small gesture, we were still protecting each other from the noise outside.

When we arrived in the US, we checked into one of the luxury hotels reserved for our team. It should've been exciting—glamorous even—but the atmosphere shifted quickly. The staff pulled us aside and informed us that, moving forward, we'd be separated into different rooms. Roo started to protest, but they cut him off. "It's the board's decision," they said, with finality. Since then, the separation extended beyond lodging. Cameras no longer filmed us together. Scenes were clipped. Moments erased before they could be captured.

Despite the growing restrictions, we stayed close whenever we could. We did guest appearances—the Ellen Show, others—and during prep, everything felt a little more chaotic. Backstage before Ellen, I was sitting beside Roo. We huddled around his phone, watching videos, trying to find a bit of laughter in the middle of everything. Then the staff called me over and asked to film a short segment of me singing our song.

I did it. Smiled. Sang. Performed.

But the moment the camera stopped rolling, I went straight back to Roo. His presence was grounding. No matter how far they tried to pull us apart, my gravity always found him.

"Baby, look at my face," he said suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts. I turned to him.

"What's with your face?" I asked, amused.

"I have a floppy face, baby. I gained too much weight," he pouted, and I couldn't help but smile at how adorable he looked.

"So? You look like a bun," I teased, pinching his cheeks as he pouted harder.

"Tsk, I don't look good," he murmured, clearly fishing for comfort.

"Who said that?" I leaned in gently. "Even with your floppy face and that tiny weight gain, you're still the most handsome man I've ever known."

His lips curled into that shy little smile I loved—my baby, always bashful when complimented.

Then, suddenly, he switched gears. "By the way, baby... do you really have to pull up your shirt every time we perform that song?"

"Roo, I've always done that in the choreography," I said, a little amused.

He frowned, looking back at his phone. "I just don't want someone drooling over your abs."

I moved closer and whispered something only he would hear—something that made his ears turn red and his grip tighten around my wrist.

"Don't worry, Roo," I teased, my voice low and sweet. "They can look, but they can't touch me... not like you do." He didn't respond right away, just kept his eyes on his phone—but his face flushed bright red, betraying everything he was trying not to show. I smiled. My baby was adorable when he got shy.

After the Ellen Show, we headed straight into another rehearsal. It was tiring, as always, but familiar. When we finally returned to the hotel, everyone scattered to their rooms. Mine was right beside Roo's. I lay down, trying to force sleep into my body, but the silence felt too heavy. My thoughts wouldn't stop spinning.

Restless, I got up, cradling my pillow against my chest. I stepped into the hallway, quiet as a whisper, and knocked on Roo's door. Once. Twice. Please don't be asleep yet.

The door creaked open.

"Baby?" he said, surprised.

"I can't sleep," I murmured, hugging my pillow a little tighter.

He smiled—so gently, like he'd been waiting for me without knowing it—and pulled me inside without hesitation.

He locked the door while holding my hand, his touch quiet but grounding. The room was bathed in the soft amber glow of the lampshade by the bed, casting long shadows that made everything feel slower, safer. We slipped under the sheets together, and I nestled into his side, using his arm as a pillow. Mine wrapped around his waist instinctively, and I buried my face into the curve of his neck, the scent of him already easing my heart.

"I miss your scent, Roo," I murmured sleepily. "It helps me sleep."

"Really huh?" he whispered, squeezing me closer.

"Really. You know I'm used to sleeping beside you," I said, lifting my gaze to meet his eyes.

"Me too, baby," he admitted. "I was actually about to go to your room—but you came first."

We chuckled softly, the kind of laugh that needs no volume. It was warm and sleepy and full of everything we hadn't said aloud. Nothing extravagant. Just love—in its quietest form.

"Roo, I really have a bad feeling about Mr. Chan," I whispered, my voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner. The memory of his lingering stares—those carefully timed gifts, the way he looked at us when we stood too close—flickered uncomfortably in my mind. "I know he's one of the reasons the staff made us separate rooms on this trip. It just... it doesn't feel right."

Roo exhaled gently, brushing his thumb along my hand before leaning in to kiss my forehead. "Just don't mind him, baby," he said quietly. "Let's just follow what he wants for now."

I looked into his eyes, letting the comfort of his presence settle deep in my chest. "I love you, Roo."

"I love you more, baby," he whispered back.

And with that, the world outside our room faded away. The cameras, the whispers, even Mr. Chan's quiet pressure—they all disappeared as we fell asleep in each other's arms, wrapped in a kind of peace that felt both defiant and tender.

The BBMA day finally came. We pulled up in a limousine, lights flashing, fans screaming—hundreds of faces lining the venue entrance, all waiting for us. The excitement pulsed in the air, wrapped in glitter and noise. Before the program began, we had the chance to meet several Western artists. And then came John Legend—Roo's idol. I didn't have to ask. The way his eyes lit up said everything. That kind of happiness, raw and honest, didn't need translation.

I watched him from a distance. I couldn't stand next to him—staff had warned us before we even left the hotel. We were under scrutiny, and this night wasn't ours to claim. Still, I saw him smile. And somehow, that was enough to hold me together.

As the program began, we were seated on opposite sides of the venue. I felt it immediately—the absence of him. My anxiety crept in like a shadow, threading itself into every breath. But then I felt Renz beside me, quietly making sure I didn't unravel. A gentle word here, a light joke there. He didn't try to replace Roo. He just anchored me.

And in all that noise, behind the cameras and beyond the rules... it was love that kept me calm. Even if it had to come from opposite sides of the room.

We won Top Social Artist—an honor carried on the shoulders of our fans, who never stopped believing in us. The energy backstage was electric. After receiving the award, we stepped into the spotlight once more, performing our song for the first time on a U.S. stage. The applause thundered, the lights burned bright, and the moment etched itself into memory.

After the BBMAs, we returned to the hotel, hearts still racing. We held an after party with the staff, laughter spilling as we toasted to the victory that had once felt impossible. Cameras rolled for our Phonix Episode, capturing our grateful words, our glowing faces, our tired but proud smiles. But even in celebration, the subtle boundaries remained.

The staff kept us apart again. Roo sat on one side of the room, and I was placed between Harly and Jemuel. No one mentioned it directly, but we felt it—the invisible lines drawn for us. I caught glimpses of him in stolen moments, and he, me. Our happiness was real. So was the ache. But in that sea of voices and raised glasses, we found comfort in what couldn't be said aloud.

We were mid-conversation when Mr. Chan entered, flanked by staff. His presence was sharp—too aware, too calculated. We glanced his way but didn't pause. We kept talking, trying not to flinch under the weight of his gaze.

I watched Roo as he spoke, and the shift in him was immediate. His shoulders stiffened, his tone softened. He wasn't just distracted—he was uncomfortable. I waited, giving him space, but silently hoping he'd look my way. And when he did, I raised my hand subtly, shaping the sign for "I love you." He saw it. I saw him gulp, nervous. He lifted his hand too, curled low at his side, returning the sign. Quiet. Secret. Ours.

Mr. Chan stood nearby, watching everything as filming continued. Roo kept his eyes down, withdrawing into himself. I wanted to pull him back—so I reached for the crackers, bit into one, then tossed the rest onto the table with just enough noise to make him look up.

When our eyes met, I gave him a silent cue: just relax. He didn't smile, but something in his posture shifted. And for now, that was enough. A quiet tether. A reminder that even when the world watched, I was still there.

As soon as filming wrapped, I stood and walked straight to Roo. I didn't hesitate—I slipped my arm around his waist, drawing him close. He leaned slightly into me, and I felt the tightness in his posture soften. The other members began greeting Mr. Chan politely, but I kept my focus on Roo.

"Roo, are you okay?" I asked gently.

"Yes, baby. I'm okay," he replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Out of respect, we greeted Mr. Chan too. He was powerful—well-connected, his businesses stretching across countries—but something in me didn't sit right. His presence always felt calculated, like he was watching more than he let on.

"Congratulations, boys. This calls for a celebration," he said, facing us all with a polished smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Chan," Renz responded casually. "But why are you here in the U.S.?"

Mr. Chan's eyes drifted immediately to Roo before answering. He smiled—not warmly, but with a kind of interest that made me instinctively pull Roo even closer. Roo stayed quiet, his body barely shifting under my arm. Mr. Chan then turned his gaze to me, still smiling.

But that smile didn't reassure me. It only confirmed the unease I'd been trying to ignore.

"Ahhh, I had an urgent call with my company here," Mr. Chan said smoothly. "And since I watched the BBMAs, I dropped by to congratulate you—and bring a little gift." His staff stepped forward and handed us sleek paper bags, each stamped with the logo of an expensive brand.

Joshua smiled politely. "Thank you, Mr. Chan. You're very generous."

"Anything for you boys," he replied, his tone pleasant but almost too rehearsed.

He looked at each of us, one by one. But when his eyes reached Roo, they lingered longer—too long. My stomach turned. I didn't like it. Not the way he looked at Tamaro. Not the familiarity in his gaze. It wasn't admiration—it felt like something else. Something possessive. I looked at him and fought the urge to say what I was really thinking: I want to pluck your eyes out and keep them in your pocket.

Because no matter how generous his gifts were, no matter how polite he played it—his presence didn't feel safe. And when it comes to Roo, I trust my instincts without question.

"Let's drink, Mr. Chan," Stephen said, voice light but deliberate—steering the man's attention away from Roo. The conversation shifted toward business and congratulations, the clink of glasses filling the room. But I saw Roo falter, his smile dim, and I couldn't ignore it.

"Let's talk," I whispered, gently taking his hand and guiding him toward the veranda. In my peripheral vision, I saw Mr. Chan's eyes following us. I slid the glass door shut behind us, cutting off the noise, sealing in the quiet.

Roo looked at me, confused but soft. "What is it, baby?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, watching his throat tighten as he swallowed hard.

"Tell what?" he said, turning toward the glittering city lights.

I stood beside him, mirroring his stance, but my heart beat fast with unease.

"Don't try to fool me, Roo. I know you're not comfortable with Mr. Chan. I've seen the way you shrink when he's nearby. What did he do?" My voice was gentle, but strained—holding back all the fear and protectiveness rising in me.

Roo took a deep breath, the kind that stretched silence into something heavy. His fingers twitched. And for a moment, the city lights reflected in his eyes like they carried every word he couldn't say.

"I don't know, baby," Roo murmured, rubbing his hands together. "There's just... something about him that makes me uncomfortable. And when we were in Japan—he told me I was handsome. In person."

I froze. "What? And you didn't tell me?" The sharp edge in my voice came before I could soften it. "I already told you, Roo. I don't like the way he looks at you. Now I know why. That old hag."

He winced at my words, clearly regretful. "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't tell you."

I didn't answer. Not because I was mad at him—but because my thoughts were spiraling. The rest of the party blurred around me. I barely spoke to Roo, not out of punishment, but because my mind was elsewhere. I kept replaying that moment, that comment, that look. Something felt off. Too calculated. Too personal.

And now, what was once a vague unease had sharpened into a quiet storm I couldn't ignore.

I sat on the edge of my bed, facing the glass wall. The city lights blinked back at me—quiet, distant, like stars trying to hold my thoughts in place. But the overthinking refused to stop. It moved through me like a tide. I didn't even realize I'd been holding my breath until someone knocked gently on the door.

I stood, opened it. Roo was there, hugging his pillow, eyes searching mine.

I didn't say anything. Just stepped aside and let the door remain open behind me. I turned my back, returning to the glass, watching reflections move beneath the skyline.

Then I felt him—his arms wrapping around my waist from behind, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. No words yet. Just touch. Just presence. Just the warmth of someone who never needed permission to hold me when the silence got too loud.

"Baby, are you mad at me?" he asked, his voice fragile in the silence. I took a deep breath and wrapped my hands around his, resting them against my stomach.

"I'm not, baby," I said gently. "I was just thinking."

"What about?" he asked, eyes searching mine.

"I'm scared, Roo. Of what Mr. Chan might try. I know he likes you—I can feel it."

He turned me toward him, his gaze suddenly more serious. "Would you let him do anything to me?"

"Of course not," I said without hesitation, holding his stare. "I don't care who he is. I won't let him come near you."

A smile crept into his face, soft and grateful. "That's my baby," he whispered, leaning in.

His lips touched mine—tender, certain, full of everything we couldn't say in daylight. His arms curled around my neck, and I pulled him even closer. The world outside the glass wall faded. There was only us, and the moonlight stitching our silhouettes together like a promise.