- Migs' POV -
The stale, recycled air inside my cramped trailer suddenly crackled with a desperate, almost frantic energy. The insistent, impatient knocking on the flimsy door – "Five minutes to set, Mr. Montemayor!" – felt like a distant, unwelcome intrusion as I pulled Jake closer, his eager mouth slanted across mine.
His kiss held a raw, immediate hunger, a primal need for physical connection that mirrored my own. His hands, calloused from the countless hours spent wielding a prop sword in our historical period drama, clutched my hips with a possessive intensity, pulling his lean body flush against mine. There was a wild, almost reckless abandon to these stolen moments, a shedding of the meticulously polished public personas we both wore for the ever-watchful cameras.
Here, amidst the discarded scripts, half-empty water bottles, and the detritus of a temporary life lived on location, it was just pure, unadulterated physicality, a fleeting escape from the relentless demands of our carefully constructed images.
Jake's breath hitched against my neck, his smaller frame pressed tightly against me, a silent offering in the frantic urgency of our embrace. It was a dangerous, exhilarating game we were playing, a secret indulgence that thrived on the constant risk of discovery, the thrill of transgression a potent aphrodisiac, a welcome, if temporary, jolt in the often-monotonous and emotionally sterile routine of filmmaking.
For those few frantic, stolen minutes, the heavy weight of public expectation, the carefully constructed façade of Miguel Montemayor, the beloved actor, faded into the background noise of the bustling set outside. There was only the urgent press of bodies, the ragged, shared breaths, the unspoken understanding that this was a temporary escape, a mutually beneficial secret with no promises and no strings attached.
Later, the frantic energy inevitably dissipated, leaving behind a slightly disheveled, almost anticlimactic calm. We smoothed down our wrinkled costumes, the easy, professional camaraderie between us carefully, almost seamlessly, resurrected beneath the practiced, camera-ready smiles required for the ever-present gaze of the crew. It was a familiar, almost ritualistic dance we both understood implicitly, a silent agreement to compartmentalize, to keep this intense, purely physical connection locked away for stolen moments between takes and hushed whispers in the dimly lit corners of the soundstage.
A few days later, Ben, my ever-efficient manager, mentioned it with characteristic casualness during a routine schedule review.
"Oh, and I ran into Isabella at that ridiculously over-the-top charity auction last night. She seemed quite… smitten with some ridiculously handsome Taiwanese model she's seeing now. Said things were 'fun' with you, but…"
He'd trailed off with a dismissive shrug, the implication clear and entirely unsurprising.
Honestly, the news barely registered. Isabella had been a pleasant enough distraction, someone to fill the inevitable empty spaces between demanding projects and obligatory public appearances. Her moving on was simply… information, another data point in the ever-shifting landscape of available connections.
Then, amidst the usual, relentless stream of work-related thoughts and logistical concerns, Ari's name unexpectedly surfaced.
It had been a noticeable while since we'd properly connected, beyond that quick, almost obligatory and ultimately self-serving late-night visit to his hotel room after his Manila opening. And the continued silence following my text message about his return to Manila was starting to feel… unusual, a subtle disruption in the established pattern.
Ari had always been a reliable constant in my periphery, a readily available responder to my random thoughts and occasional late-night whims, a comforting presence I could always count on for… something, even if I rarely defined exactly what that "something" was.
I idly pulled up his contact information on my phone, the familiar name on the screen now carrying a faint, almost imperceptible question mark. I reread my last, carelessly tossed-off message: "Hey, man. Still enjoying the Cebu sunshine? Any Manila plans soon?" Just a casual ping, a digital feeler thrown out into the void to see if he'd still readily bite.
The days blurred into weeks, a predictable montage of endless takes and retakes under the harsh studio lights, repetitive interviews where I recited carefully crafted soundbites, and staged photo shoots designed to further solidify my carefully constructed image.
These professional obligations were punctuated only by the stolen, intense, and ultimately uncomplicated encounters with Jake in the temporary privacy of my trailer, a purely physical connection that served a specific, selfish purpose – a temporary, easily compartmentalized escape from the relentless pressures of my very public life.
Then, scrolling through the endless stream of curated images on Photogram one evening during a rare, late-night lull on set, a particular photo unexpectedly caught my eye.
Ari.
He was at some vibrant, bustling art fair in Cebu, surrounded by a group of unfamiliar faces, and he looked… genuinely, undeniably happy. He was laughing freely, his head thrown back, his arm slung casually around the shoulders of some guy whose easy, relaxed smile and confident posture sparked a flicker of something unfamiliar and vaguely unsettling within me.
There was a lightness in Ari's expressive eyes, a genuine, unforced joy that didn't seem performative, didn't seem to be waiting for my acknowledgment or approval.
A strange, almost imperceptible little twinge went through me, a fleeting, unfamiliar sensation. Annoyance, definitely. A prickle of something uncomfortably akin to… possessiveness? He was usually the one waiting for my texts, readily available for my calls. Why the sudden, uncharacteristic radio silence?
Why hadn't he mentioned this art fair, this apparent burst of social activity? And why, most disconcertingly, did he look like he was doing perfectly fine, maybe even… thriving?
It was a jarring image, a subtle but significant disruption of the comfortable, albeit lopsided, narrative I'd always held about our dynamic. He was supposed to be… there, in his familiar orbit around my life.
The unfamiliar feeling was fleeting, a momentary blip in my self-absorbed consciousness that I quickly and efficiently rationalized away.
Ari was just being Ari, probably caught up in his intense art world, enjoying his familiar Cebu life. He'd get back to me eventually. He always did. And when he did, I'd probably suggest grabbing some late-night isaw or something equally low-key and familiar.
Easy, comfortable.
A small, almost unconscious smile touched my lips. He valued our history, our unique connection, even if it was mostly on my terms. He'd be back in Manila soon enough for some casual, undemanding company. Things would go back to the way they always were.
He always came back. Didn't he?
The unanswered ping on my phone screen suddenly felt a little less insignificant.