By the time dessert arrived, a delicate plate of calamansi tart with toasted meringue, Sofia had stopped glancing at the door every few minutes. The tension that had trailed her since they walked in had softened into something quieter, something she could almost pretend was ease. The tart’s bright citrus scent drifted between them, mixing with the faint perfume of pine from the open windows. She sank her fork into the meringue, letting the sweetness distract her from the steady awareness of the man across the table.
Tristan didn’t press her with grand declarations or overbearing questions. He asked simple things: her favorite writers, what Nueva Ecija was like in the rainy season, how she ended up in journalism when so many had expected her to choose something safer. His voice stayed even
