Eleven

Martin got the call three days after the whirlwind breakfast with his mom.

It was a last-minute slot at a rising indie bar in Baguio—a three-night acoustic set with a small but legit talent scout expected to be in the crowd. Not a record deal, but something close. Something real. Something he couldn't pass up.

"I'll just be gone a few days," he told Kierra as he packed his worn-out duffel. "I'll text. I'll call. There's instant ramen and cereal. Please don't burn the apartment down. Or you can go to the supermarket and buy some food."

Kierra, sitting cross-legged on the couch, arms folded in oversized flannel sleeves, raised a brow. "I can survive without you, Chase."

"Sure," he smirked. "Just don't redecorate. I have a system."

"Your system is piles of laundry and guitar picks everywhere."

Martin laughed, leaning over to muss her hair before slinging the bag over his shoulder. "I'll miss you."

Her smile softened. "Same."

***

Day One.

The silence in the apartment was deafening.

Kierra walked past the cluttered dining table, the stack of dishes in the sink, and the dust on the shelves. She wasn't exactly trained to be a housekeeper. She was raised with maids, chefs, and drivers—but something about the mess started to itch at her.

Maybe it was boredom. Or pride.

Or maybe… she just wanted to do something for him.

So, sleeves rolled, ponytail up, she declared war on the apartment.

***

Day Two.

The apartment looked different.

The table was cleared. The dishes were washed. The curtains were laundered and sun-dried. She even found an old vacuum and fought it like a dragon.

Most of all, she reached the back of Martin's cluttered "music room," which was really more of a storage den filled with notebooks, cables, broken headphones, and a box.

Tucked in the corner under an old, out-of-tune keyboard. Labeled in faded Sharpie: "Do not open. Seriously."

Naturally, she opened it.

Inside were a few notebooks, faded lyric sheets… and a photo. Bent at the edges, like it had been held too many times. Two men—Martin, much younger, and someone older. Taller. Lean build, guitar strapped on his back, one arm around a teenage Martin.

He had the same tired eyes.

Kierra stared at it, her brows furrowing. Martin never talked about his dad. Ever.

But there he was, smiling. Like they hadn't fallen apart.

She tucked the photo into her notebook.

She didn't know why, but… it felt important.

***

Day Three.

The fever hit her like karma.

She barely made it to the bed before her knees gave in. Her head pounded, her throat dry. Cleaning a whole apartment—like, who was she trying to impress? She was used to giving orders, not scrubbing tiles. The irony wasn't lost on her.

By the time Martin returned that night, the first thing he noticed wasn't the clean floor or the organized shelves.

It was the silence. Then the empty living room.

"Kierra?"

No answer.

He dropped his bag and moved toward the bedroom—and there she was, curled under his blanket, cheeks flushed, forehead damp with sweat.

He rushed to her side, eyes wide. "Hey, hey, what happened? "

She stirred weakly. "I may have… vacuumed your depression…"

He blinked. "What? "

"Your apartment," she groaned. "I cleaned it. I tried. I really did. But I think I broke myself."

Martin couldn't help the laugh that escaped, half-relieved, half-exasperated. "You got a fever trying to clean everything here?"

She peeked at him with glassy eyes. "Don't make me regret it."

He reached for a cool towel, dabbing her forehead gently. "You should've just waited. I was coming back."

"I know," she whispered. "But I wanted to do something… good. For you."

Martin stared at her for a second—sick, flushed, tired… but still her. Stubborn, proud, too rich for this world. But despite that, she chose to stay in his world for now.

He swallowed hard. "You did."

She gave him a weak smile.

"And for the record," he added, tucking the blanket around her shoulders, "I liked the mess. It felt like mine."

"Yeah, well," she muttered, "this is ours now."

Martin paused, heart quietly flipping at that word.

'Ours.'

***

The apartment was too clean.

Martin stood in the music room, scratching the back of his head, eyes scanning the now-sorted shelves, coiled cables, and vacuumed carpet. A guitar pick gleamed from a newly wiped desk surface, like it had been waiting years to be seen.

He smiled despite himself. Kierra Davidson, heiress turned accidental homemaker.

Then his eyes fell on the corner where the old keyboard used to sit. The box was still there. Still sealed—well, resealed. But he knew that tape. He hadn't touched that box in months. Maybe years.

He crouched and popped the lid open.

Notebooks. Scribbled lyrics. Old setlists from underground gigs. Then his chest tightened.

The photo that he kept there was gone.

Martin sat back on his heels, staring at the space where it should've been, his mind suddenly loud.

He didn't panic. Didn't even flinch.

He just… knew. Kierra probably had found it.

He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, where Kierra lay sick and bundled under his worn-out blanket. The fever had drained her all afternoon, and when she wasn't mumbling in her sleep, she was curling deeper into the bed, like hiding from something invisible.

He didn't have the heart to ask her.

And honestly, he didn't need to. He knew her well enough by now.

Curiosity and kindness—those were her tells. She probably didn't mean to snoop. Just cleaning, organizing… maybe the photo fell, and she picked it up, and something about it made her keep it.

Maybe, like him, she saw things in that photo she didn't know how to name.

He stood, slowly pushing the box back into place.

He wasn't angry. In fact… it scared him how natural it felt.

The way she cared. The way she moved through his space, leaving little traces of herself—folded laundry, clean dishes, fevered sighs from the bedroom.

It wasn't just that she was here. It was how right it all felt. And how easily he had started to treat her like… like a wife.

That word landed in his chest like a stone in a still lake.

He wasn't ready for it. Not emotionally. Not practically. And yet, here he was, planning to cook soup for her and wondering if he should pick up more medicine or extra blankets from the store.

He wandered into the bedroom and stood by the bed. Her brows were furrowed in sleep, lips slightly parted. She looked smaller like this. Not the composed heiress or the woman who stared down boardrooms—but just Kierra. His Kierra.

Martin sat on the edge of the bed, brushing hair gently from her damp forehead.

"I know you saw it," he whispered softly, voice barely above a breath. "And I guess… maybe someday, I'll tell you the rest."

She didn't stir, but her breathing shifted slightly—slower, steadier.

"And if you're still here by then… maybe that'll be the sign I needed."

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Outside, the city buzzed on like nothing had changed.

But inside that small apartment, between a broken musician and a fallen heiress, something was quietly beginning. Not love—not yet. 

But something just as dangerous— trust.