Lisbon Escapades

Chapter3

The music thumped and laughter rippled around them like static, but Max and Cleo stood in a strange stillness—two people pretending the room wasn’t closing in.

Cleo had floated through the party like a breeze, but every time she passed Max—every shared glance, every forced laugh—it cracked something under the surface.

She was mid-conversation with Kaia, nodding at something half-heard about Ceyx and his tragic dating history, when Max brushed past her.

Too close.

Too deliberate.

She turned slightly, and he didn’t even bother to smile.

“You haven’t changed,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the music. “Still good at pretending.”

She raised her glass to her lips, unfazed. “And you’re still good at watching.”

Max’s jaw tensed, but he kept his tone even. “You looked right at me, and I swear—if I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought we were strangers.”

Cleo tilted her head, her voice soft but cutting. “I forgot how badly you want to believe it was real.”

His eyes flickered.

She didn’t stop.

“You looked at me like I was something sacred,” she said, lips curving, “but I was just your idea of me. That’s what you fell for. The fantasy.”

“I fell for you, Cleo,” he said, the weight in his voice grounding the words. “The parts you only showed me when no one else was watching.”

“Well,” she said, voice light again, “that’s your first mistake. Thinking I’m not always watching too.”

They stared at each other for a moment. All around them, the party glittered on—Kaia laughing nearby, Crine dancing with some model, Leandro sipping wine with one eye still drifting toward Naia.

But between them?

Silence.

Tension.

Memory.

Max took a step closer, his voice now just for her.

“I used to know when you were lying. Now I’m not sure you even know when you are.”

Cleo’s smile faded. Her heart raced.

But she lifted her glass again, clinked it lightly against his, and whispered, “Then stop looking for truth in a woman who already told you she doesn’t believe in it.”

She turned before he could answer, disappearing into the crowd.

But her chest was tight.

And his eyes stayed on her back long after she was gone.

The night air hit her like a slap—cool, crisp, and brimming with the scent of salt and city. Cleo exhaled hard as she stepped out onto the balcony, trading the pulsing music and heat of the afterparty for a moment of breath.

She gripped the edge of the stone railing, letting the wine glass dangle from her fingers, forgotten.

She didn’t look behind her when the door clicked open again.

Didn’t have to.

“You always run when the room gets too loud,” Max’s voice came low behind her.

She didn’t move. “Maybe I just don’t like the same noise you do.”

Max stepped up beside her, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to smell his cologne—the one she bought for him once, on a whim, back when she pretended to believe in shared mornings.

“I wasn’t going to say anything tonight,” he said, leaning forward against the railing beside her. “I told myself I’d just act normal. Be polite. Friendly. Like you wanted.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked flatly.

“Because you walked out of my bed that morning like none of it mattered.”

His voice dropped. “And now you’re here flirting with Leandro like I’m no one.”

She laughed once, bitter and sharp. “Leandro doesn't matter either. That’s the point.”

“Then what does?” he asked. “Do you matter, Cleo? Because if none of this touches you, why do you look like you’re about to break?”

That hit too close.

She turned, slowly, eyes blazing. “Don’t pretend you know me anymore. You thought you did. You thought love would fix me. You thought you could love the damage out of me like you were some damn hero.”

“I did love you,” Max said. “And I still might. But I can’t keep loving someone who only shows up when it’s fun.”

Cleo looked away. “Then don’t.”

Max stared at her profile, at the way her jaw clenched even as her shoulders remained relaxed, poised, cold. Like a dancer who knows how to perform through pain.

He reached out, gently, fingers brushing her elbow. “What are you so afraid of?”

She turned to face him fully now. “Of you,” she said honestly. “Of me with you. Of waking up five years from now beside someone who looks at me the same way you did that morning—like you’re hoping I’ve changed.”

Max’s voice softened. “I don’t want you to change. I just wanted you to trust me.”

Cleo stepped back.

“I trust you,” she said. “Just not with my life.”

Max laughed, quietly—sadly.

And for once, neither of them had anything clever left to say.

She turned to go.

But before she reached the door, he said one last thing.

“I didn’t come out here to fight, Cleo.”

She paused.

“I came out here hoping you’d say you made a mistake.”

She swallowed hard. “Then I guess we’re both disappointed.”

And with that, she walked back into the party, leaving Max alone on the balcony—surrounded by stars, silence, and the ghost of everything they never figured out how to be.

The gentle hum of late afternoon filled Sweet Love, Cleo’s beloved cake shop and restaurant, where the warm scent of vanilla sponge, melting chocolate, and espresso laced the air like perfume. The cozy chatter of regulars blended with the soft clinks of cutlery and the muted whirring of the coffee machine.

Cleo sat at her usual table near the window, legs crossed, her hair up in a loose twist, flipping through some invoices with little interest. Natasha was lazily sampling a macaron flight with exaggerated critique, while Kaia lounged in her chair like a cat in the sun, tapping through her phone with one hand and sipping mango iced tea with the other.

“I’m telling you,” Kaia said, not looking up, “Ceyx is either the most emotionally constipated man on Earth… or he’s just really, really bad at texting.”

“Oh, definitely both,” Natasha chimed in, reaching for another pink macaron. “But he’s hot enough to forgive. Twice.”

Cleo laughed, her voice warm but distant. “That’s your problem. You’re all forgiving when the face is symmetrical.”

Kaia rolled her eyes just as the bell above the door jingled.

Cleo looked up casually… and froze for a breath.

Max.

Tall, sun-kissed, clean-shaven, in a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves and holding a small paper bag. The same one-sided smile that once ruined her for months curved on his lips. He stepped into Sweet Love like he belonged there—which, in another life, he had.

Kaia perked up instantly. “Max! Finally. Did you get it from my mom?”

He held up the bag. “Straight from her pantry. The saffron she wanted to send. Told me to remind you to actually cook with it and not just hoard it because it’s ‘cute.’ Her words.”

Kaia grinned and took it. “God, tell her I love her and I will.”

Max glanced around the shop, casual but precise, then let his eyes land—just a second too long—on Cleo.

“Nice place,” he said smoothly, though they all knew he’d been there before. Many, many times.

Natasha smiled. “Right? She built it from the ground up. Even the flour obeys her.”

“I remember,” Max said, then turned toward the pastry case.

Cleo didn’t flinch. She simply reached for her cappuccino, took a sip, and looked past him.

He turned, met her gaze briefly, then walked closer to the table, leaning just slightly into her space. Close enough for only her to hear.

“Still smells like cinnamon in here,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “Do they know what used to happen in the pantry?”

Cleo’s jaw tensed. But her expression didn’t falter.

“I remodeled it,” she said evenly. “No more room for sneaking around.”

Max smiled faintly. “Shame. That old wooden table had some… fond memories.”

Kaia, oblivious to the undercurrent, popped a cookie into her mouth and mumbled, “I miss this. Us hanging out. Max, you should come by more.”

Natasha agreed. “Yeah. Group hangouts are too rare now. Let’s do a weekend road trip or something.”

Cleo was already standing. “Actually, I should check on the oven.”

“You always use that line when I’m around,” Max whispered with a teasing glint, stepping aside just as she passed. “Still running, Cleo?”

She paused just long enough to glance back at him, eyes sharp like sugar glass.

“No,” she said. “Just busy. There’s a difference.”

Max watched her walk toward the kitchen, the swing of her hips as confidently calculated as ever. His grin didn’t fade.

Sweet Love was finally closed. The chairs were up, the lights were dimmed, and the air smelled of baked sugar and warm wood. Outside, the street was quiet, the Manila night humming faintly with crickets and the distant echo of traffic.

Cleo stood behind the counter wiping down the marble surface, sleeves rolled, apron still on. She liked this time of night—the quiet after the storm. When the ovens had cooled and the world wasn’t looking. She could finally breathe.

She didn’t expect to hear the door click again.

She turned sharply—brows furrowed, mouth already forming a scolding “We’re closed”—but stopped short.

It was Max.

Again.

He stepped inside like he’d never left, holding two coffee cups from the shop down the street. “I figured you’d still be here,” he said.

Cleo blinked. “How?”

He smirked, holding one of the cups out to her. “Because you don’t leave. This place is you.”

She hesitated, then took the coffee silently, setting it down beside the register without drinking.

“You stayed late just to bring me coffee?”

Max leaned on the counter, looking too comfortable. “Maybe. Or maybe I just didn’t get to say what I wanted to earlier.”

Cleo exhaled, long and slow. “You always have something to say, don’t you?”

He studied her. “Only when I’m around you. Otherwise, I’m pretty quiet.”

She gave him a dry look. “Say what you came to say, Max.”

His smile faded slightly. “I miss this.”

Cleo scoffed, returning to wiping the counter. “What, flour and silence?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Us. That part of us no one else saw.”

She paused for a beat, then kept cleaning. “That part of us wasn’t real. It was fun. Risky. But not real.”

“Really?” he asked. “Because I still remember every second. That time we kissed by the fridge when the delivery guy almost walked in. Or when you burned your hand and made me swear not to tell anyone because it’d ruin your ‘undefeated baker’ image.”

Her jaw clenched. “Stop.”

“I won’t,” he said, voice firmer now. “Because we keep pretending like it didn’t happen. Like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. To me.”

Cleo leaned against the counter now, eyes locking onto his.

“I told you in Lisbon—I’m not built for love, Max.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re just scared of it.”

They stood like that—him on one side of the counter, her on the other. Inches, memories, and something unfinished between them.

Cleo let out a bitter laugh. “You want the truth? Fine. I do remember. Every stolen second. Every secret kiss behind the pastry racks. I remember the way you looked at me like I wasn’t some broken thing.”

She looked down at her hands, then back at him. “But then I remember what it feels like to be left behind. Again. To be the one who cares more. I’d rather risk burning myself in an oven than let anyone hold me like that again.”

Max was silent for a moment. Then he stepped around the counter.

Not fast.

Just enough to erase the last bit of distance between them.

“I never wanted to leave you behind,” he said. “You ran. I just didn’t chase hard enough.”

She didn’t move when he reached out. Just stood there, heart racing, skin remembering.

His hand brushed hers.

“I’m not asking for all of you,” he said. “Just five more minutes of honesty.”

Cleo looked at him—truly looked—and for a moment, her guard wavered. The air between them grew too thick to breathe.

But then she pulled her hand back.

“Five minutes won’t fix what we never had the courage to make real.”

"It was real to me, Cleo. "

"Not to me. " She turned away, walking toward the back of the shop.

Max didn’t follow this time.

He just watched her disappear through the kitchen doors… again.

And this time, he knew: she was no longer just running from love.

She was running from herself.