THE HOUSE WE KEPT

Chapter 1: The Return

Lina’s POV

I wasn’t supposed to come back.

That was the first thought I had when the bus coughed me out at the edge of Malibu.

The second was: The air is too cold.

Bukidnon cold. Not Manila cold. This one sits in your chest and asks why you left.

Ten years.

That’s how long it’s been since I last saw this road. Since Lola Rosa’s hands stopped being warm. Since I promised myself I would never be the girl who runs back to a ghost.

I had one suitcase. One backpack. One key in my pocket that felt heavier than it should.

Fix the house.

Sell it.

Leave.

Two weeks. That was the contract I made with myself on the 12-hour ride.

The hill looked smaller. Or maybe I got bigger in all the wrong ways.

The mango tree was wild now. Scratching the second-floor window like it remembered me.

The roof was half gone. The paint had peeled into something that looked like skin after a burn.

And he was already there.

I didn’t see him at first. I saw the porch. Or the lack of it. The left side had caved into dirt. If I’d stepped up without looking, I would’ve gone through.

Then: “You’re late.”

I looked up.

He was on my porch. My porch. Like he lived here.

Early thirties. Gray shirt. Dust on his boots. A hammer in his hand like it grew there.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the house. Assessing it. The way I used to look at blueprints.

“I didn’t hire anyone,” I said. My voice came out too sharp. Too Manila.

“I know,” he said. He finally looked at me.

Dark eyes. Tired. No pity. No “are you okay?” No “you look like you’ve been crying.”

Just… assessment. Like I was a rotten beam he had to decide to keep or throw away.

“I’m Dreo,” he said. “Santos. I fix houses.”

Lina Vera. Architect. Ex-fiancée. Woman who left and never thought she’d return.

I didn’t say any of that.

“I have two weeks,” I said instead. “That’s it. I’m selling.”

He didn’t react to “selling.” He just nodded at the steps. “You don’t have two weeks if you fall through the porch on day one.”

Fair.

The wind moved through the broken windows then. Not a whistle. A sigh.

The house sounded tired.

And I hated that I heard it too.

“Two weeks,” I said again. To him. To the house. To myself. “You fix what you can. Daily pay. Then I’m gone.”

Dreo didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. He just picked up his hammer and walked up the steps without testing them. Like he already knew where it was safe.

“Don’t go inside,” he said over his shoulder. “Floor’s soft by the door.”

I stayed on the gravel.

I watched him.

He crouched. Ran his hand along the wood. Knocked twice. Listened.

He moved like someone who’d been fixing broken things his whole life.

“You’re from Manila,” he said, without looking at me.

“How—”

“Your hands,” he said. “You’re holding your suitcase like it’s a tube of plans.”

I looked down. I was. God.

I let go immediately. Like I’d been caught.

“Architecture?” he asked.

“Yes.” The word felt foreign in my mouth. I hadn’t said it out loud in three months.

He nodded. That was all. No “oh, so you’ll redesign it.” No “you should keep it then.”

Just work.

I should’ve liked that. I did like that.

An hour passed. The fog lifted. The sun came out, weak and apologetic.

My stomach made a sound. I hadn’t eaten since the bus terminal in Cagayan.

Then an old woman appeared with a plastic bag. “Dreo! Pansit!”

She stopped when she saw me. “Ay. Ikaw ba si Lina? Anak ni—”

“Yes,” I cut in. Too fast.

She smiled, but it was careful. Like she was handling something cracked. “Kumain ka, iha. For both of you.” She set the bag down and left before I could say no.

I didn’t touch it.

Dreo opened it. Two containers. One spoon. He didn’t ask if I wanted any. He just slid one toward me on the tarp.

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten,” he said. He took a bite. “Your hands are shaking. Not from cold.”

I looked at my hands. He was right.

I hated that he noticed.

I ate.

The pansit was too warm. It sat in my stomach like a stone. My eyes stung. I stared at the house so I wouldn’t cry. I was done crying. Three months. No tears. Not for Mateo. Not for the ring I mailed back. Not for the job I quit.

“What’s first?” I asked, to fill the silence.

“Roof,” Dreo said. “Then the bedroom floor. You can’t sleep if the floor gives.”

“I’m not sleeping here.”

“You are for two weeks,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Unless you want to walk 20 minutes in the dark.”

I didn’t answer. Because he was right. And I hated that too.

By 5 PM, the sun was gone and the cold came back meaner.

My fingers were numb. My sweater wasn’t enough.

“You should go,” Dreo said. He didn’t stop working. “Town’s dark early.”

“I have a flashlight.”

“You have no roof.”

“I’ll sleep in the car. If I had one.”

He stopped then. The hammer stopped. And he looked at me.

Really looked.

I was still in my bus sweater. My bun was falling apart. I hadn’t washed my face since Manila. I probably looked like grief in human form.

He exhaled. Quiet. Tired.

“There’s one room,” he said. “Back left. Floor’s solid. No windows, but I’ll board it. You sleep there. I’ll take the porch.”

“I don’t need—”

“You need a door that locks,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t flirting. It was a fact.

I wanted to argue. To say I’ve been fine sleeping with no doors for months. That I don’t need a man to make me safe.

But my throat was tight.

“Fine,” I said. “One night.”

He nodded. An hour later, there was a door. New wood. Solid. With a lock.

He handed me the key.

“For you,” he said. “No one else has one.”

The metal was warm. From his hand.

The room was bare. Water stains on the wall. But the floor didn’t creak when I stepped. He’d swept it. There was a folded blanket. A small battery lamp.

He thought of that.

“Thank you,” I said. And I hated how quiet it came out.

He didn’t say “you’re welcome.” He just nodded and went back outside.

I locked the door.

I sat on the floor. The blanket smelled like wood and clean soap. Not mine. His.

I put my forehead against the wall.

The wall didn’t give.

Outside, the hammering stopped. Then nothing. Then the sound of fabric. Him settling on the porch. Not leaving. Staying.

And for the first time since Mateo’s text said, `I can’t do this anymore`,

I didn’t feel like the floor was going to open under me.

Because someone put a door on first.

I didn’t sleep. Not really.

But I didn’t leave either.

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*End Chapter 1