Chapter 8: Locked in Aroma

Baguio City remained as vibrant as ever, a cool haven nestled in the mountains. The crisp air always seemed to carry the scent of pine trees, and though the weather was cold, the people of Baguio were warm and welcoming. Perhaps it was the famed Filipino hospitality—a vibe that made visitors feel at home even in unfamiliar places.

Early one morning, Diego laced up his running shoes for his routine jog in Burnham Park. Dressed in short shorts and a sleeveless shirt, he cut a striking figure among the early risers. Despite his busy schedule, Diego never missed his workouts. Fitness was his escape, his way of staying centered. After a few laps around the park, he slowed down near a vendor selling strawberry-flavored taho. Unable to resist, he bought a cup and savored the sweetness of strawberries blending with the warm, silky tofu. It was simple but satisfying—a taste of Baguio's charm.

Back at the apartment, Diego returned to find the bathroom occupied. The sound of singing echoed through the walls. It was Wes, belting out a tune with surprising skill. Diego smirked and decided to tease him. "Wes! I'm coming in!" he called out with mock seriousness.

Wes didn't miss a beat. "Go ahead," he replied nonchalantly. "You'll regret it."

Diego laughed at the challenge and, to Wes's disbelief, pushed the door open. There stood Wes, covered in soap bubbles from head to toe, his hair piled high with shampoo foam. For a split second, both froze. Then Wes screamed—a high-pitched, indignant yelp that could probably be heard from the street.

"Diego!" Wes shouted, trying to cover himself with his soapy hands. "Get out! You're such a jerk!"

Diego burst out laughing, retreating while holding up his hands. "Okay, okay! My bad! But hey, nice voice, by the way."

The awkwardness carried over to breakfast. The three housemates—Wes, Diego, and Rich—sat around the table in silence, broken only by the occasional clink of utensils. Rich, clearly amused, kept smirking to himself. Diego avoided Wes's gaze, trying not to laugh, while Wes looked like he was plotting revenge. Finally, Rich stood up, grabbing his camera bag.

"Well, I'm off," he announced, still grinning. "Got a shoot today. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone."

Wes and Diego exchanged glances and burst out laughing as soon as the door closed behind Rich. The tension melted away, replaced by camaraderie.

Later that day, Rich arrived at the set of a big film production two hours outside Baguio. The forested location was breathtaking, with towering pine trees and shafts of sunlight filtering through the canopy. Rich had been hired as part of the crew, responsible for managing the lighting. It was an exciting opportunity, one that could open doors for his career.

As he moved around, setting up equipment, his eyes caught a familiar figure in the corner of the staging area. A girl sat quietly, clutching what looked like a script. She seemed lost in thought, her hair falling softly over her face. Rich's heart skipped a beat. It was Olivia.

For a moment, he debated whether to approach her. Just as he gathered the courage to step forward, one of the production staff called him over to adjust a spotlight. By the time he looked back, Olivia was gone. Rich sighed, frustration bubbling within him. He couldn't stop wondering what she was doing there. Was she part of the cast? A writer? He'd have to find out later.

Meanwhile, back at "Corner of Aroma," Brad's quaint coffee shop, Wes was busy handling the morning rush. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as he moved efficiently behind the counter, crafting lattes and cappuccinos. Brad, the shop's owner, hadn't shown up yet.

As Wes wiped down the counter, his gaze wandered to the wall adorned with Brad's collection of paintings. Each piece was vibrant and full of life, reflecting a passion for art that Wes deeply admired. He found himself wondering about Brad's story. What had inspired him to pursue both art and coffee? And could Wes ever pursue his own dreams as boldly?

Brad finally arrived just as the shop was about to close for the night. He seemed flustered, barely greeting Wes before disappearing into the storage room. Wes raised an eyebrow but didn't press him.

At 11:00 PM, with the shop cleaned and ready for the next day, Wes realized Brad was still in the storage room. Curiosity got the better of him. He knocked on the door. "Brad? You okay in there?"

"Yeah," came Brad's muffled reply. "Just doing inventory. You can head home."

Wes hesitated. "Need help?"

There was a pause. Then, "Actually, yeah. Could you count the remaining sacks of beans?"

Wes stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, with shadows stretching across the walls. He joined Brad in counting the coffee sacks, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they moved in the tight space.

"Forty-four, forty-five," Wes said, marking the final count. "That's it."

Brad nodded. "Thanks. Let's lock up."

As they turned to leave, they heard a faint click. Brad tried the door. It wouldn't budge.

"You've got to be kidding me," Brad muttered, jiggling the handle. "We're locked in."

Wes blinked. "What? How? Don't you have the keys?"

"I left them on the counter," Brad admitted, running a hand through his hair. "This door locks automatically if you close it too hard."

"Great," Wes said, leaning against a stack of boxes. "So, what now? Wait for someone to find us?"

Brad sighed, sitting down on a crate. "I guess so. Unless you have a better idea."

The two sat in silence for a moment, the dim light casting soft shadows on their faces. Wes fidgeted with a stray coffee bean, rolling it between his fingers.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I've always wondered how you got into painting."

Brad looked up, surprised. "Why?"

"I just think it's cool," Wes replied. "Most people stick to one thing, but you've got this whole other side to you."

Brad chuckled softly. "It started as a hobby. Something to clear my mind after long days. Then I realized I could actually be good at it."

Wes smiled. "You're more than good. Your work's inspiring."

Brad glanced at Wes, their eyes meeting for a fleeting moment. "Thanks. That means a lot."

The conversation lulled, but the air between them felt lighter. Eventually, Wes leaned back, stretching his arms. "You think someone will come looking for us?"

Brad smirked. "If not, I hope you're okay spending the night here."

Wes laughed. "As long as there's coffee, I'll survive."

The sound of footsteps outside interrupted their banter. A staff member had returned to grab a forgotten jacket and unlocked the door, freeing them.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, Brad turned to Wes. "Thanks for helping tonight."

"Anytime," Wes replied with a grin. "Maybe next time, we won't get locked in."

Back at the apartment, Diego and Rich were already asleep. Wes climbed into bed, his thoughts drifting to the events of the day. Despite the chaos, there was something comforting about the connections he was forming—with Brad, Diego, and even Rich. They were all different, yet somehow, they fit.

Under the same roof, they shared laughter, dreams, and awkward moments. And in a city as vibrant as Baguio, surrounded by pine trees and mountain air, their stories were just beginning to intertwine.