The Vanilla Love (COMPLETED)

CHAPTER 5: The Weekend Shift

“Sometimes what starts as chaos—pranks, thunderstorms, misunderstandings—leads to the most breathtaking calm.”

Saturday, 10:00 AM – School Fair

The field buzzed with energy—colorful stalls, buntings dancing in the summer breeze, laughter bouncing off tents. The annual St. Lorenzo Fair was underway, promising funnel cakes, dunk tanks, and random events like “Pinoy Henyo” under UV lights.

Jaxon strolled toward his assigned booth with a slight limp in his step—not from an injury, but from mild regret. He should’ve signed up for security duty or even the haunted chemistry lab. But no. He had to forget the deadline and land here.

Book-Bazaar-and-Snack Combo Fundraiser.

Two tables. One popcorn machine. A coffee dispenser. And a mountain of donated books that smelled like a library and someone’s lola’s attic.

And next to all of it?

Avery Collins.

Hair tied back in a lazy ponytail, sleeves rolled, lip caught between her teeth in concentration as she arranged donated paperbacks into satisfying color gradients.

Jaxon stopped short.

Of course, I get paired with her.

She glanced up, catching him mid-thought, and offered a faint smile. It wasn’t big. But it was real.

“Coffee or popcorn?” she asked, eyebrow arched in that way that made it hard to tell if she was joking or genuinely curious.

He smirked, tossing his bag to the side of the booth. “Something tells me if I offer Mentos and soda you’ll still arrange the novels by spine color.”

She shrugged. “Someone has to. You can’t just pile Twilight on top of To Kill a Mockingbird. That’s literary blasphemy.”

Jaxon laughed. “Ay, sorry po, librarian-in-chief.”

“Try book fairy,” she said, straight-faced. “It sounds less threatening.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re admitting you’re scary?”

“I’m not scary,” she said, handing him a stack of books. “I’m efficient.”

“You say that like it’s not the same thing.”

Avery glanced sideways at him, a smirk threatening her lips. “I’m guessing you’re here for the ‘snack’ part of this booth and not the ‘book’ part?”

“Excuse me,” Jaxon said, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “I’ll have you know I read. I just finished a graphic novel last week.”

She tilted her head. “Was it Diary of a Wimpy Kid?”

“Close. Batman. Hush. That counts.”

“You only picked it because Catwoman was hot.”

“And Batman’s emotionally unavailable. So really, it was the full literary experience.”

That earned him a quiet laugh—low, breathy, but real.

His chest did a small, traitorous flip.

"Okay, Jaxon," she said, holding out a clipboard. "You're in charge of keeping track of who donates what."

"Why do I feel like this is a trap?"

"Because you’ve earned that paranoia," she said, already turning away to stack more books. "Also, if anyone donates anything cursed, it’s going under your name."

“Wow,” Jaxon said, pretending to write his will on the clipboard. “Betrayed already and the fair just started.”

“Get used to it,” she called over her shoulder, already smiling into her next row of books. “This is teamwork.”

He chuckled, watching her work.

And for a second—just a second—he forgot the chaos of last week. The detention. The accusation. The weight of everything unspoken.

Because under the St. Lorenzo sun, beside a girl who once never smiled but now did—just a little—it felt like something new was beginning.

Not a confession.

Not yet.

But maybe, like the fair itself, just the setup for something bigger.

Saturday, 12:13 PM – School Fair (Rain Chaos Under the Tent)

By noon, clouds swirled like gossip—ominous. The scent of rain drifted into the air, thick and electric, like something waiting to be broken. Then the first drops fell—big, warm, unforgiving. Like sky-tears with somewhere to be.

The chaos was instant.

“Ay, ulan naaa!” someone shouted.

Students scrambled, booths collapsed, cotton candy vaporized mid-spin. Tarpaulins flew. The sound of flip-flops on wet concrete echoed like panic.

Their book bazaar? Instant casualties. Open novels flopped helplessly in puddles. The popcorn machine sparked once and gave up on life. It was apocalyptic.

Jaxon looked at Avery.

She looked at him.

No words.

He grabbed the folded tarp from behind the booth and yanked it over them, awkwardly maneuvering one corner while motioning her in with a jerk of his chin. “Come on, bilis.”

Avery didn’t argue. They dove under the plastic like it was a life raft in a sea of chaos.

Now they sat crouched together on two tiny folding chairs, knees nearly touching, rain pounding above them like applause turned violent.

Her hair dripped at the edges. His hoodie was soaked through the sleeves.

One of her books—its cover slightly warped from water—was clutched protectively in her lap.

Jaxon held up the sad remains of their popcorn tub like it was a tragic offering. “Want some?” he said. “Soggy popcorn’s all the rage now. Very artisanal.”

She laughed softly. “Only if it comes with a free ruined paperback.”

“Package deal,” he nodded. “You get disappointment and water damage, all for the low price of emotional instability.”

She actually smiled—this time not just polite or reflexive. It cracked across her face, wide and unfiltered, like sunlight through blinds.

He stared for half a second too long.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered, nudging his leg with her knee.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to turn into a unicorn or something.”

He grinned. “To be fair, I never thought I’d witness the mythical Avery Collins smiling in public.”

“I do smile,” she said, mock-offended. “You just catch me on my off days.”

“I’ve known you for a month. That’s, like, twenty-seven off days.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned a little closer to the tent pole, where his hand was still braced.

“Sorry about the books,” he said after a moment. “They meant a lot to you, huh?”

She ran her fingers along the soggy edge of her favorite one—The Little Prince, its corners curling like leaves. “It’s fine. They’re just books.”

“Yeah, but…” He hesitated. “I saw the way you looked at them. It wasn’t just.”

A beat passed. Rain still roared above them, but the silence underneath was softer now. Like they were inside something—not just plastic, but private.

“My mom used to read this to me before bed,” she said eventually, holding the water-stained book. “Back when she still remembered to do that kind of stuff.”

Jaxon blinked. “You never talk about her.”

“I never talk about a lot of things.”

He nodded slowly. “But… today, you are.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Then, “What about you? Any tragic backstories you’re hiding under that sarcastic hoodie?”

He smirked. “Too many to fit under one hoodie. I’d need at least three layers.”

“Try me.”

Jaxon shifted, eyes flicking toward the rain then back at her. “Okay. Here’s one. My dad thinks everything I do is a waste of time.”

“Everything?”

“Yup. Sketching, joking, even being here right now. He’s the ‘engineering or bust’ kind of parent.” He did air quotes. “Says I should focus on ‘real goals.’”

“That's messed up.”

He shrugged. “I guess. But it’s easier to be the clown than the disappointment. At least with jokes, people laugh.”

She was quiet for a while.

Then she said, voice soft but firm, “You’re not a joke.”

He met her eyes.

Neither of them said anything else for a long moment.

And then—a single, tiny laugh escaped her lips. The kind that starts as a breath and ends up changing the weather inside someone’s chest.

“Look,” she said, gesturing at the sad, soaked popcorn. “We’re officially losers.”

“Correction,” Jaxon said. “We are cool, literary-themed, rain-drenched, highly misunderstood losers.”

“Mm,” she mused. “That does sound marketable.”

Outside, the rain started to slow.

But under that tent—knee to knee, heartbreak in their hands, laughter still echoing quietly between them—something had shifted.

Not love.

Not yet.

But maybe something braver.

Something beginning.

Their voices were nearly drowned by the rain, so they talked quietly.

“Sorry. I know we lost the books,” he said, adjusting the pole.

She smiled—now fully. “It’s okay. More exciting than the usual fair.”

His chest warmed at that. It was the first time she fully smiled—not polite, not guarded. Genuine.

“Can I sketch you?” he asked softly.

Avery blinked. “You still draw?”

He pulled out his small sketchbook from his backpack. “Just a doodle.”

She nodded, settled back against a dry tote. He drew quickly, quietly—her profile in rain-dappled light, hair wet, lips tickled by relief more than cold.

When he finished, he flipped it around. She stared.

Her cheeks rose. Not from cold.

“You… see me,” she whispered.

“I see you.” Jaxon whisper.

After the rain cleared and the fair was unofficially cut short, a few volunteers were sent to help buy replacement supplies. Jaxon and Avery ended up on the list.

Of course.

“Ang bait naman ng universe,” he muttered as they stepped into the chilly aisle of St. Lorenzo Supermart, cart wobbling, their clothes still slightly damp from earlier.

Avery raised a brow. “You complaining?”

“No. I’m observing, Avery. This is a fate thing. Slow-burn teen trope levels of predictable.”

“Hmm. Maybe you just like grocery shopping with me.”

“Impossible. You made me carry the heavy stuff and the paper towels.”

“Because you put six packs of ChocNut in the cart.”

He grinned. “Therapy in bite-size.”

She let the joke hang for a second. Then… she smiled again.

Not the small, practiced one. The full, face-softening, dimples-visible kind—the one that made Jaxon’s brain momentarily short-circuit like a broken cash register.

They walked side by side in the cold aisle, halfway arguing about what counted as “booth-worthy snacks,” when Avery wandered toward the freezer section.

He stayed a step behind her, mostly because he liked the way she looked when she wasn’t thinking so hard. Like now—face tilted slightly up at the frosted glass, breath fogging lightly against it. Her hair tucked behind one ear. Eyes tracking the labels like they meant more than just popsicles.

His fingers itched.

He hadn’t meant to bring it, but his sketchpad was in his tote bag—wedged under the rain jacket, beside a pen that always leaked slightly at the tip. He looked around. Empty aisle. Fluorescent lights humming.

And before he could talk himself out of it, he slipped the pad out and started sketching.

Quick strokes. Light pressure.

He didn’t want to capture every detail—just her shape in this moment, the angle of her shoulders, the soft fall of her hair, the little dent between her brows as she read.

He had drawn people before. Faces. Expressions. But never with this much care.

Never like this.

“Are you… drawing?” she asked suddenly, not looking away from the freezer glass.

He froze mid-line. “Uh. No.”

She turned, slowly, lips tugging at a smile. “You're totally drawing.”

“Am not.”

She took a step closer, eyes narrowing playfully. “You are. And you’re red. You blush when you’re guilty.”

“I’m not blushing. It’s the freezer! Science! Blood circulation!” he defended, hiding the sketch behind his back like a middle-schooler hiding a love letter.

She giggled. Giggled.

He blinked. “Did you just—did I imagine that or did you just—”

“Shut up,” she said, still smiling. “Show me.”

“Nope. Never. Bawal. Off-limits. Trade secret.”

Avery crossed her arms. “That good, huh?”

“That dangerous.”

She stepped forward, close now—so close he could see the tiny flecks of green in her otherwise brown eyes. “I want to see how you see me.”

His breath caught.

That wasn’t just a playful line.

That was loaded. Vulnerable.

He stared at her for a beat, then slowly handed her the sketchpad.

She looked down.

The sketch was rough but honest. Soft lines. The smallest tilt of her lips. A warmth he hadn’t meant to put in but couldn’t help.

She stared.

Then, quietly: “I don’t look like this.”

“You do,” he said, voice low. “You just don’t see it.”

For a second, the aisle felt too still.

Too charged.

And then—without even thinking—her hand brushed his as she handed the sketchpad back.

She didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

Their fingers barely touched. But it was the kind of barely that made your chest tighten. The kind of barely that said, If I move even a little, everything changes.

They stood there. Frozen.

Not because of the freezer.

But because something had cracked open between them.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

But real.

They left with three bags of snacks, two new inside jokes, and a silence that wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was full.

Lingering.

Like a sentence waiting for the next word.

2:00 PM – Break in Rain

The steam curled upward from her mug, curling like breath between them. Avery held it in both hands, fingertips slightly red from the cold, but her shoulders were relaxed now.

They stepped out to reorganize the booth. Wet books replaced with makeshift signs: Bring Dry Books Tomorrow.

Not stiff. Not guarded.

Just… still.

Jaxon handed her a mug of warm brew—coffee, sweet with brown sugar.

She drank. Eyes closed.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. “For everything.”

They didn’t talk for a while. Just stood in semi-quiet. Rain slowed to mist. The fair carried on around them, voices muffled, lanterns now reflecting moist air.

“Lasang bahay,” she murmured after a sip.

He looked over. “Ha?”

She cracked half a smile. “This coffee. Brown sugar, slightly too much instant granules. Tastes like something my lola would make when I pretended to like coffee at eleven.”

Jaxon chuckled. “I was going for gourmet nostalgia. Success pala.”

“May points ka.”

He leaned back against the half-wet booth table. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like your words are wrapped in stories.”

Avery tilted her head. “You always flirt like that?”

“I’m not flirting,” he said, mock-offended.

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe konti lang. Half a sentence.”

She laughed softly, more breath than sound. “It’s fine. I’m just not… good at this.”

“At what? Coffee?”

“No.” Her eyes dropped to the mug. “Letting people in.”

Something about the way she said it—so casual and not—made his throat go dry.

He didn’t push. Instead, he reached down and adjusted the tarp rope that had come loose near their feet. “You think I’m good at it?”

She didn’t answer right away.

And then, “No. But you’re loud enough that people don’t notice.”

Jaxon blinked. “Ouch.”

“It’s not an insult. Just… the truth, di ba?”

He smiled crookedly. “Okay, fair. Pero you should see me during math recitation. Silent as the grave.”

She laughed again. Genuine, this time. “Gusto ko ‘yon. A funny ghost.”

They fell quiet again.

This time it wasn’t awkward. It was full of something else.

Maybe understanding. Maybe just caffeine and damp clothes and the quiet thrill of saying things you weren’t supposed to.

Then she asked, gently, “Why me?”

“Ha?”

“Why do you keep… showing up? Talking to me. Helping.”

He stared into his mug. Then at her.

Avery. Quiet but sharp. Distant but thoughtful. With hair that frizzed slightly when it rained and a voice that could cut if she wanted—but never did unless it mattered.

“Because,” he said finally, “you’re not what people say you are. You’re not ice.”

“What am I then?”

“Fire. But the kind that hides under coals. Warm, not loud. Dangerous if ignored.”

She stared at him, lips parted slightly, blinking like she hadn’t expected that.

Then, softly, “You keep saying things that feel like pages I’ve never read.”

“That’s because you keep acting like your story’s already finished.”

She looked away quickly, and he thought he’d gone too far—but she didn’t walk away.

She just sipped her coffee again. This time slower.

And in the space between them, something finally… settled.

Not declared.

Not defined.

But undeniably real.

At the end of the fair, they started breaking down the booth.

Avery bent to pick up a spilled mag—a paperback dictionary prefaced A–C.

Jaxon reached past her to grab it—hand brushing hers.

Her eyelids caught his movement for a flicker. Then, instead of pulling back, she let her fingers linger near his.

They paused. The world blurred.

He swallowed. She inhaled.

Neither moved. Just held.

A moment.

That mattered.

The moment lasted less than a breath. But somehow, it felt like a whole chapter had just turned.

Her fingers—cool, dry—brushed against his like an invitation and a question in one.

And for the first time, Jaxon didn’t have a line ready.

Didn’t make a joke.

Didn’t look away.

They stayed like that—hands not holding, exactly. But touching.

Avery's hand on the frayed spine of the paperback, his on the edge of the cover.

Static between them.

And the world beyond the booth—the zip ties snapping, tents flapping, juniors yelling about missing umbrellas—faded.

Avery was the first to move. Barely.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, almost apologetic. But not regretful.

“Sorry,” she whispered, even though she didn’t pull away.

“For what?” he asked, voice low.

Her thumb brushed the corner of the book. “I don’t know. For making things weird.”

“You didn’t.” He smiled, slow. “Or if you did… it’s the good kind of weird.”

A pause. Her breath caught—he felt it more than heard it.

She gave a faint, real smile. The kind that wasn’t for politeness. The kind that curved just slightly higher on one side. That cracked something open in his ribs.

Then she said, “We should finish packing up.”

Jaxon nodded, though his hand stayed there for a beat longer, almost daring her to say don't.

But she stepped back—gentle, no rush. The air between them cooled again, but not emptily.

Not like before.

He reached for the dictionary and tucked it into the box marked miscellaneous, heart thudding.

Later, walking home under streetlights and damp earth smell, Jaxon thought,

They were no longer just classmates.

They were more.

Maybe they’d never call it love.

Yet. But the spark was there.

Soft but stubborn.

The rain had stopped completely by the time Jaxon turned the corner into his street.

His sneakers squeaked faintly with every step, jeans damp around the ankles, but he didn’t care. Not tonight.

He walked slowly—half because of the slippery pavement, half because he didn’t want the day to end just yet.

Each streetlamp he passed lit up a different part of his thoughts.

Avery laughing softly into her coffee.

Avery, eyes closed, listening to the rain like it was music.

Avery, letting her hand stay near his like it belonged there.

He never believed in signs before. But maybe this—whatever this was—didn’t need a sign. It just needed time.

He reached for the sketchbook in his pocket again, fingers brushing the edge where her face was drawn in soft pencil lines and smudges. She didn’t know about it. Yet.

Maybe one day.

Not today.

For now, the knowing was enough.

He looked up at the stars barely visible through Manila’s foggy skyline, exhaled, and said it again—just for himself,

“Something’s starting, yeah?”

A dog barked faintly in the distance. A tricycle engine sputtered. The city, as usual, refused to answer.

But the silence?

It felt like agreement.

Soft. Stubborn. Unspoken.

And sometimes, that was all the beginning needed.