Chapter 18 Home

Chapter 18 Home
I didn’t drive him straight home. Instead, I turned toward one of Manila’s liveliest food spots. Neon signs glowed above rows of bustling stalls, smoke curled from skewers sizzling on open grills, and the air was thick with the irresistible smell of grilled meat, garlic rice, and sweet sauces.

He deserved this after everything he’d done today.

He was so exhausted that he fell asleep in the car the entire ride. Even though I wanted to tell him we were making a detour, I couldn’t bring myself to wake him. I let him sleep.

After his shift, I had insisted on driving him home. At first he refused, but I was too persistent. Eventually, he gave in. He never gave me his address, so I made the decision to bring him here instead.

I parked the car in one of the available spaces and hesitated. Ethan was slumped comfortably in the passenger seat, breathing softly. For a moment, I almost reached out to wake him, but the sight of him stopped me. He looked completely drained. His head was tilted to the side, lips slightly parted, arms heavy on his lap.

Even in sleep, the weight of the day still clung to him.

He had pushed himself so hard tonight. Throughout our entire shift, I had only seen him rest once—and even then, it wasn’t for long. He went right back to work.

My eyes lingered where they shouldn’t have. The curve of his nose, the softness of his lips, the quiet rise and fall of his chest. His hair had fallen into messy strands, making him look even more… human. More real. More like someone I wanted to protect.

His skin was almost unfairly flawless—smooth and clear, the kind that made him look like a rich kid who never had to struggle. If you saw him walking down the street, you’d assume he came from money. The way he dressed, the neatness of his appearance… no one would ever guess he was juggling three jobs while studying.

I caught myself staring, tracing every detail of his face in the quiet. A part of me wanted to lean closer, brush the hair away from his eyes, and whisper things I’d never had the courage to say. But I didn’t. Instead, I just let him rest. If the only way I could take care of him tonight was by letting him sleep undisturbed, then I would hold onto that small moment. Quiet, steady, and full of feelings I still couldn’t name.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

I still couldn’t understand why some parents choose to have so many children when they can’t even give them a decent life. It wouldn’t matter if they wanted a big family—as long as they were ready and capable. But too often, they make decisions without thinking, and it’s their children who end up suffering.

In our culture, we’re not supposed to question our elders. They’d call us disrespectful. But what’s the alternative? They make reckless choices, and their kids pay the price.

I was pulled back to reality when Ethan stirred.

“Where are we?” His voice was low and heavy with exhaustion.

“You need to eat,” I said simply, trying to sound casual even though all I wanted was for him to rest. “My treat.”

He hadn’t eaten a single thing during his entire shift. With the short-staffing, he’d been too busy taking care of customers.

He didn’t argue. He simply opened the door and stepped out. I grabbed my wallet and phone from the compartment and followed.

The place was packed. Families sat together at tables, couples shared quiet moments, and groups of friends laughed over their food.

We found a white plastic table and sat across from each other. I could see how heavy his eyelids were. A server approached and placed a menu folder on the table. I wanted to ask what he wanted, but when I looked at him, his eyes were already closed again. I decided to order for both of us.

The food arrived quickly—hot bowls of noodles, sticks of barbecue, steaming siomai, and two cold soft drinks.

I tapped his shoulder gently. It took a few tries before he finally woke up.

“Let’s eat?” I said with a smile.

He stared at the spread on the table. I wasn’t sure if this was the kind of food he liked. If he didn’t, we could always order something else.

“You don’t like it? Sorry, I didn’t know what you wanted. We can order something different if you’d rather—”

“I was thinking about you,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Have you even eaten any of the street food you’re buying?”

The fact that he was worried about me made something warm bloom in my chest.

“I’m fine with it,” I replied, picking up a siomai and popping the whole thing into my mouth to prove my point. “My friends and I eat this kind of food all the time.”

Truthfully, most of my friends used to avoid street food. They thought it was dirty. Even my parents tried to stop me. But everything changed when we met Sydney. She was the one who dragged us to try it. At first we resisted—especially Kian, who was the pickiest of all.

I still remember our first time. It was fishballs. Kian actually teared up after the first bite. We laughed at him, but from that day on, we all learned to enjoy street food.

Ethan seemed convinced. He picked up his fork, hesitated for a second, then started eating. His shoulders slowly relaxed as he chewed, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as if he were finally allowing himself to enjoy something he’d been denying himself for too long.

I couldn’t stop watching him. There was something strangely intimate about seeing him like this—unguarded, no need to smile for customers, no need to hide his tiredness. Just Ethan, real and exhausted, sitting across from me under the flickering glow of a neon sign.

“Stop staring. The food’s on the plate, not on my face,” he said without looking up.

I smirked. “Well, both look delicious. You can’t blame me.” I chuckled and went back to eating.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, I leaned forward.

“So… how did you end up working at the restaurant?”

He paused, then looked at me. “I have to. I’ve got a family to support, bills to pay, and tuition fees for school.” He closed his eyes after saying it, as if the weight of those words exhausted him even more.

Why do parents do this? Instead of enjoying his youth, he’s forced to work—not for himself, but for his family.

I wanted to ask about his parents, especially his father, who should be the one providing. But I kept quiet. I didn’t want to pry into his personal life.

We didn’t talk much after that. We just ate in silence. Eventually, he called the server and ordered more food to take home. The woman returned quickly with two plastic bags.

“How much is everything?” I asked, since the table was now empty and it was getting late.

“Five hundred fifty, sir.”

I pulled out a thousand-peso bill from my wallet, but before I could hand it over, Ethan already had his money extended to the server.

“I said it’s my treat,” I told him, reaching past to give the server my bill instead. “Keep the change.”

Ethan shot me a glare.

We walked back to the car in silence. I opened the passenger door for him and waited until he was inside before going around to the driver’s seat.

Once we were on the road, I handed him the money I had taken earlier. “When I say it’s my treat, it’s my treat.”

My hands stayed steady on the wheel, eyes on the road. The silence in the car was heavy but not awkward. Ethan stared out the window, saying nothing.

“Do I turn right here?” I asked after a while.

He glanced at me briefly and nodded. “Yeah.”

I made the turn. A few minutes later, I asked again, “Straight ahead?”

“Mhm,” he replied softly.

I slowed down and pulled over in front of his house. The headlights lit up the modest facade. It was simple—humble, even. Faded cream walls with signs of age, a small gate with chipped paint, and a narrow pathway leading to the door. A pair of old slippers sat neatly by the entrance. Thin curtains swayed gently in the night breeze. There were a couple of potted plants on the steps—nothing fancy, but cared for.

It wasn’t luxurious, but it felt warm. Lived-in. Comfortable.

I stared a second longer than I should have. Somehow, it suited him. Simple on the outside, but with a quiet depth I was only beginning to see.

“Is this your house?” I asked, looking around.

“Yeah. We’re not rich, so don’t expect much.”

I turned to him. “The house is good. I like it.”

He unbuckled his seatbelt and slung his backpack over his shoulder, holding the two plastic bags of takeout. “Compared to your house, ours is nothing.” He opened the door, then paused and looked back at me. “Thanks. Drive safe on the way home.”

“No good night kiss, Ethan?” I teased, laughing to make it sound like a joke.

“Idiot. Just go home already,” he muttered, stepping out and shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.

I stayed parked outside their house for about ten minutes. For some reason, I didn’t want to drive anymore. My body ached, and I was beyond sleepy. I opened my phone and typed a message.

Lucas Buenavista
I’m still outside your house. I ran out of gas. I can’t go home.

(Truth was, my tank was still full. I just didn’t want to leave.)

A minute later, I saw Ethan walking toward the car. He knocked on my window. I pretended to check the gas gauge before rolling it down.

“No gas?” he asked as soon as the window opened.

“Yeah,” I said, pretending to check again.

“There’s no gas station nearby. How are you supposed to get home?”

I looked at him. “Can I sleep here?”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Do I have a choice? Better than sleeping in your car.”

I studied his face, searching for any sign he was joking. There was none.

“You sure? I can really sleep here?”

“Yeah, you’re so annoying. Hurry up—the mosquitoes are bad out here.” He started walking toward the house.

I quickly grabbed my important things, stuffed them into my bag, and followed him inside.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open. The warm smell of home greeted me—cooked rice, detergent, and something faintly sweet, like bread cooling on the counter. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt lived-in and comfortable in a way only a family home could.

The first thing I noticed was the gentle clutter: schoolbags dropped by the small sofa, a basketball leaning against the wall, and a tiny plastic toy car abandoned on the floor.

“Sorry, our house is small,” Ethan said as he picked up a few things scattered on the ground.

“Don’t apologize. I’m the one bothering you,” I replied, walking carefully toward the sofa.

“You—” I started, but my words were cut off by a soft voice.

“Kuya Ethan?”

A young girl appeared from the narrow hallway, her hair in a messy ponytail, wearing oversized pajamas. Her eyes widened when she saw me. She looked so much like Ethan—fair-skinned, like a feminine version of her older brother.

“Who’s that?” she asked him.

“A friend. He’s sleeping here tonight.”

I smiled when I heard him call me his friend. Friend, huh? I wanted to tease him and tell his sister I was more than that.

Before I could say anything, another figure stepped out—a boy, around sixteen, wearing pajamas and a white sando that showed his fair skin. He had the same sharp features as Ethan. If the girl was Ethan’s female version, this boy looked like his twin. If they were the same height, the three of them would look like identical triplets.

The boy stared at me, then turned to Ethan. “Friend or—”

“Try it,” Ethan warned, raising an eyebrow.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Uh, I’m just a friend of your brother’s. I’m Lucas.”

“I’m Elijah.”

“I’m Elise.”

They spoke at the same time. I nodded and ruffled their hair gently before fixing it again. They exchanged glances.

It must be nice to have younger siblings. I’d asked my mom for one so many times. She always said they’d try, but here I was—still an only child.

Then came the sound of quick, unsteady footsteps. A little boy, maybe three years old, came running in with a toy car in his hand. His hair was sticking up in every direction, his cheeks flushed. His eyes lit up the moment he saw Ethan.

“Papa!” He ran straight to Ethan and hugged his legs.

Ethan crouched down and lifted him up. “You’re still awake, baby?” He glanced at Elijah. “Why is Evan still up?”

“He wouldn’t sleep, Kuya. He was waiting for you,” Elijah answered, scratching the back of his neck.

“Look! Car!” the little boy shouted, shoving the toy in Ethan’s face. Then he noticed me and blinked curiously. “Papa… who’s that?”

Ethan adjusted the boy in his arms. “That’s Kuya Lucas. He’s sleeping here tonight.”

The boy stared at me for a long moment, then wiggled free and toddled over, holding up his toy car like an offering. “Car,” he said seriously.

I crouched to his level, smiling. “Wow, that’s a cool car. Is it fast?”

His face broke into a big grin. “Vroom! Vroom!” he shouted, running the toy across the floor.

Ethan’s siblings laughed softly behind us. Ethan just shook his head, but I caught the small, proud smile on his lips as he watched his son.

Something twisted in my chest. The house wasn’t big or fancy, but it was full of life—warmth, noise, and love. Seeing Ethan here, holding his son, surrounded by his family, made everything feel more real than anything I’d known about him before.

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to process the fact that Ethan already had a child. There was nothing wrong with it. With how hardworking he was, I knew he could give the boy everything he needed.

“You okay with this? It can get noisy,” Ethan said, watching me.

I glanced at the little boy giggling on the floor, pushing his car in circles.

“I’m fine,” I said honestly, a small smile forming on my lips. “Actually… it feels nice.”

And I wasn’t sure if I was talking about the house, the family, or simply the fact that I was getting to see this side of Ethan at all.