"Reignited Flames Under Manila Skies"

Via stepped off the plane at Ninoy Aquino International Airport, the humid Manila air slapping her face like an old, unwelcome friend. It had been over a year since she'd fled to Spain, leaving Arkin Ross in the wreckage of their first night together—a night that started with promises and ended with her bolting from his bed, terrified of the vulnerability he'd cracked open in her. Now, back in the Philippines for a rare break from her architect gig at her aunt's firm in Barcelona, she told herself it was just to visit family. But the truth twisted in her gut: she'd seen the trailers for Arkin's latest movie, his arm slung around that actress, their chemistry on screen too damn convincing. Jealousy had gnawed at her until she booked the flight.

Arkin Olivier "Arkin" Ross, the Filipino heartthrob who'd pivoted from acting to singing and now directing, was wrapping up press for that very film. His schedule was a blur of interviews and fan meets, but when Via texted him she'd landed, his response was immediate: *Come to the set after the screening. Dressing room. We need to talk.* No emojis, no bullshit. Just him.

She navigated the chaotic traffic to the studio lot in Quezon City, her heart pounding harder than the bass from a nearby jeepney. The security guard waved her through with a nod—Arkin's fame opened doors, even for ex-lovers. The dressing room was tucked behind the soundstage, a cramped space smelling of coffee and hairspray. Arkin was there, still in his button-down from the panel, sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos snaking up his forearms. His dark hair was tousled, eyes locking on her the second she pushed the door open.

"Via," he said, voice low, crossing the room in two strides. Avianne Rye "Via" Diaz stood frozen, her architect's poise cracking under the weight of his gaze. She'd built a life in Spain, teaching at the university, designing sleek modern homes that hid her own emotional mess. But here he was, the man she'd left because his rising star felt like it would eclipse her.

"You saw the movie," he guessed, not a question. He stepped closer, close enough she could smell his cologne mixed with sweat from the day's grind.

She crossed her arms, chin lifting. "Yeah. And her. The way you two—"

"It's fucking acting, Via." His hand caught her wrist, thumb pressing into her pulse. "But you running off to Spain? That was real. Leaving me after we finally... fuck, after that night."

Her breath hitched. That first night: his lips on her neck, bodies tangled in his old apartment, the raw intensity of him inside her for the first time. She'd panicked, bolted at dawn, convinced she couldn't handle the spotlight that came with loving Larkin Olivier Ross. Now, jealousy burned hotter than regret. "You're calling her your on-screen soulmate in interviews. What am I supposed to think?"

Arkin's jaw tightened, but his eyes softened, pulling her against him. "You're the only one, babe. Always have been." The word slipped out like it had never left—babe, love, the pet names from before the fame swallowed them whole. His mouth crashed onto hers, not gentle, but hungry, tongues clashing as he backed her against the vanity mirror. Bottles rattled, a makeup brush clattering to the floor.

Via's hands fisted in his shirt, yanking it open, buttons popping. "Prove it," she gasped, nipping his lip. "Show me it's real."

He growled, lifting her onto the counter, her skirt hiking up her thighs. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her to the edge as he dropped to his knees. No time for teasing; he shoved her panties aside, mouth finding her pussy with a fervor that made her arch. His tongue flicked her clit, relentless, sucking hard enough to draw a moan from deep in her throat. "Fuck, Arkin," she hissed, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. He lapped at her like he was starving, two fingers sliding inside her wetness, curling just right to hit that spot that made her thighs quake.

Outside, muffled voices from the crew echoed, but the door was locked. The risk amped everything—the slap of his tongue, the way he hummed against her folds, vibrations shooting straight to her core. Via's head fell back against the mirror, her breaths coming in sharp pants. Memories flickered: that rainy kiss in Barcelona when he'd shown up at her door, surprising her after their second split; the way he'd whispered mangled Spanish phrases he'd learned just for her, making her laugh before he fucked her slow on the balcony of their rented flat in Gràcia.

He stood abruptly, shedding his shirt, pants hitting the floor. His dick sprang free, hard and thick, veins pulsing. Via wrapped her legs around him, guiding him to her entrance. "Now," she demanded, and he thrust in deep, filling her completely. They both groaned, the stretch burning sweet. Arkin's hips snapped forward, pace brutal, the vanity shaking under them. Her nails raked his back, leaving red trails. "You're mine," he grunted, pounding harder, each stroke hitting deep, her pussy clenching around him.

She came first, walls fluttering, a cry muffled against his shoulder as waves crashed over her. He followed, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside her with a shuddering curse. They stayed locked like that, panting, sweat-slicked, until reality crept back—the distant hum of the lot, the faint scent of her arousal hanging in the air.

But it wasn't enough. Not after a year apart, not after the angst of his fame pulling them under like toxic waves. Arkin kissed her forehead, soft now. "My place. Tonight."

His condo overlooked the Pasig River, a sleek high-rise that screamed success—floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, a guitar propped in the corner from his musician days. Via had been there once, before the separation, before the public scrutiny turned their love into tabloid fodder. Arkin drove them there in silence, hand on her thigh the whole way, a promise of more.

The elevator ride was torture; he pinned her against the wall, kissing her neck, fingers teasing under her skirt until she was grinding against his palm. By the time they stumbled through the door, clothes were half-off—her blouse unbuttoned, his belt dangling.

Arkin kicked the door shut, scooping her up and carrying her to the bedroom. The king-sized bed waited, sheets crisp and white. He laid her down gently this time, stripping her bare with deliberate slowness. Her skin prickled under his gaze, nipples hardening as he traced her curves—full breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. "God, Via, I've missed this," he murmured, voice rough. "Missed you."

She pulled him down, their naked bodies aligning, skin on skin. His mouth claimed her breast, sucking the peak while his hand cupped the other, thumb circling. Via arched, a whimper escaping as heat pooled low in her belly. She reached for him, stroking his dick, feeling it twitch in her grip—hot, velvety hard. He groaned into her skin, hips bucking.

They rolled, her on top, straddling him. She sank down slowly, inch by inch, savoring the way he stretched her. "Fuck, you're so tight," Arkin rasped, hands gripping her thighs, guiding her rhythm. Via rode him steady at first, grinding her clit against his base, building friction that made her gasp. His eyes never left hers, dark and intense, whispering "love" between thrusts.

The pace shifted when he flipped them, hooking her legs over his shoulders. He drove in deeper, angling to hit her g-spot with every plunge. Sweat beaded on his chest, dripping onto her as she clawed at the sheets. "Harder," she begged, and he obliged, fucking her with a ferocity that blurred the line between pain and pleasure. His thumb found her clit, rubbing circles that sent sparks exploding behind her eyelids.

Memories surfaced unbidden: the Christmas dinner in Barcelona, him gifting her that guitar after composing a song for their wedding; the passionate nights in their Gràcia flat, making up for lost time after he'd won her back from the couch where she'd reluctantly let him crash. It all fueled the fire now, their bodies moving in sync, chasing release.

Via's orgasm built slow, coiling tight before shattering. She squirted around him, wetness soaking the sheets, her cries echoing off the windows. Arkin thrust through it, chasing his own peak, pulling out at the last second to come on her stomach, ropes of heat marking her as his.

They collapsed, tangled and spent, but the night was young. After catching their breath, Arkin fetched a warm cloth, cleaning her with gentle strokes that turned teasing. His fingers lingered between her legs, dipping inside to feel her still-pulsing warmth. "More?" he asked, smirking.

Via nodded, pulling him into a kiss. This time, they explored slower—his mouth trailing down her body, tongue dipping into her navel before settling between her thighs again. He ate her out lazily, savoring every lick, every suck, until she was writhing, begging for his cock. When he entered her missionary style, it was intimate, faces inches apart, breaths mingling. He rocked into her, deep and unhurried, whispering how much he loved her, how the actress meant nothing compared to this—to them.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting each thrust, her hands exploring his back, the muscles flexing under her touch. The build was torturous, pleasure simmering until it boiled over. Via came with a sob, clenching around him, and he followed, filling her with a low moan, their releases mingling in a creamy mess.

Hours blurred—breaks for water, stolen kisses in the kitchen where he bent her over the counter for a quick, frantic fuck from behind, her hands braced on the cool marble, his dick sliding in easy from their earlier rounds. In the shower later, water cascading over them, he pressed her against the tiles, lifting one leg to thrust up into her, the steam amplifying every slick sound, every gasp.

By dawn, they lay exhausted in bed, bodies marked with bites and fingerprints. Arkin's arm draped over her waist, possessive even in sleep. Via traced the line of his jaw, the jealousy from the movie trailer a distant memory. They'd been through hell—the rift from his growing fame, the toxic fans dissecting their every move, the on-screen partnerships that felt like betrayals. The separation had torn them apart, forcing Arkin to choose between his career and her, but he'd chosen love, showing up in Barcelona, fighting for her until they said their vows.

Now, married and back in the Philippines temporarily—her work pulling her between Spain and here, him gearing up to direct his passion project—they were rekindling what the spotlight had nearly destroyed. No more angst, just this: bodies entwined, making up for every lost moment.

As the sun rose over the river, Arkin stirred, pulling her closer. "Ready for round... whatever this is?" he murmured, already hardening against her thigh.

Via laughed, low and wicked, rolling on top. "Anywhere, anytime. Let's make it count."

And they did, the morning light painting their skin as they lost themselves again, proving love like theirs could outshine any fame. In the end, it wasn't the spotlight that defined them—it was the heat they generated in the dark, unbreakable and all-consuming.