Mr. President, His Bestfriend, and Me (Tagalog)

On Monday morning, Jarima Carvajal was already regretting every single life choice that had led her to a crowded coffee shop instead of a bank branch.

Malas agad ang umaga niya.

The first was trusting an online banking app that apparently harbored a personal vendetta against her.

The second was forgetting her password.

The third and most catastrophic was assuming the hot red number at the top of a G****e search result was automatically the correct one. Walang fact-checking na naganap.

She stared at her screen, where a glaring red banner mocked her existence.

ACCOUNT RESTRICTED.

Jarima pressed her lips into a thin, tight line. She took a deep breath. "Okay," she whispered to her screen. "Hindi tayo mag-aaway. Mag-uusap tayo nang maayos."

The phone remained offensively silent.

She tapped the screen again. Harder this time.

Nothing.

The transaction wouldn't go through, and her rent was due by noon. Her landlord wasn't just strict—he was the type to send a “Friendly Reminder!” with a smiley emoji three days prior, another one the day before, and a deceptively cheerful sticker on the exact day that felt less like a greeting and more like a gentle extortion attempt.

Jarima pinched the bridge of her nose, opened her browser, and frantically typed: Customer service hotline.

She copied the first toll-free hotline she saw.

Easy. She let out a breath. Finally, one adult problem solved like an adult.

She hit call.

Ring.

Ring.

"Good morning, Malacañang records and inquiries section. How may I help you?"

Hindi na naintindihan ni Jarima ang sinabi sa kabilang linya. Her brain completely filtered them out, hyper-focused only on the word inquiries.

"Good morning po! Customer service po ba ito ng bank? Yung sa online app service?"

A short pause came over the line, followed by a polite, slightly hesitant female voice. "Ah... opo, ma'am? May I know your concern?"

"Thank God!" Jarima slumped back against her wooden chair, clutching her iced coffee like a lifeline. "Naku, miss, pasensya na. Sobrang stressed lang ako. Hindi po kasi ako makapag-transfer ng rent money. Laging restricted 'yung account tapos ayaw tanggapin 'yung OTP—"

Around her, the coffee shop buzzed with routine noise. The hiss of the espresso wand, the clatter of porcelain, a sudden burst of laughter near the counter.

"Ah, ma'am, sorry to cut you off po," the woman on the other end interrupted gently.

Jarima straightened up, her straw slipping from her fingers and hitting the plastic lid with a tiny clack. "Yes po? Need niyo po account number?"

"Hindi po... ma'am, government office po ito. Sa Office of the President."

The room instantly lost all air. The ambient chatter of the café faded into a dull, underwater hum.

Jarima’s hand froze mid-air. "...Ha?"

The woman on the line sounded equal parts sympathetic and deeply amused. "Parang nagkamali po yata kayo ng na-dial na number, ma'am."

Jarima slowly pulled the phone away from her ear. She checked the screen.

She checked the browser.

She checked the call display.

She put the phone back to her ear, her voice dropping to a panicked, raspy whisper. "No... Miss, customer service po talaga sininearch ko."

"Opo, pero hotline po ito ng Office of the President."

Jarima’s stomach plunged into a fathomless pit. The ice in her cup suddenly felt like absolute zero against her palm. "Office... of the President?"

"Opo."

A long, excruciating silence stretched between them. Jarima darted her eyes left and right. Nobody was looking at her. Yet.

"Like..." Jarima gulped, her throat bone-dry. "...President President?"

The woman burst into a soft, smothered laugh. "Yes po, ma'am. As in 'yung Malacañang po."

Jarima squeezed her eyes shut so hard she saw stars. Jusko. Po.

She had just used the direct line to the highest executive office in the country to complain about her restricted savings account and her rent.

"Sorry po!" Jarima blurted out, her face burning hot enough to fry an egg. "Nakakahiya, sorry talaga! Akala ko talaga customer service ng bank!"

"It's okay lang po, ma'am—"

"G****e gave me the wrong number! O hindi, baka tanga lang po talaga ako mag-click—sorry po, abala pa ako sa inyo—"

"No worries po, ma'am, nakakatawa lang—"

"Sige po, bababa ko na, sorry po ulit, wag niyo po ako ipakulong!" Jarima slammed the end call button like it was an active explosive.

She set the phone face-down on the table. Very carefully. Then, she buried her face in both hands and let out a long, muffled scream.

"President President? Si Rafael?" she whimpered into her palms, her shoulders shaking violently from the sheer absurdity of the moment. "Anong 'President President', Jarima?! Nababaliw ka na ba?!"

Her thumb hovered over her phone screen to erase the evidence, only for her eyes to catch the call log detail:

Call Duration: 04:38.

FOUR MINUTES AND THIRTY-EIGHT SECONDS.

She had spent nearly five minutes venting about her landlord and her blocked OTP to a government official.

"I'm moving to another planet," she muttered, shoving her phone into her tote bag with frantic, erratic movements. She grabbed her iced coffee, stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floorboards, and practically bolted for the glass doors.

Across the room, a man sitting at a small round table lowered his laptop screen.

His suit jacket hung neatly over the back of his chair. His crisp white sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing an expensive watch and an official government ID card tucked discreetly inside his breast pocket.

His name was Federico Davino.

And for the last four minutes, he had been fighting—and losing—a heroic battle against a massive grin. His shoulders shook as he watched the chaotic, wide-eyed woman practically sprint out of the coffee shop.

"Anong nangyayari sa'yo?" the man sitting across him asked without looking up from his tablet.

"Wala," Federico said smoothly, though his mouth twitched.

"You've been staring at that woman for five minutes. And you're smiling like an idiot."

"I am allowed to enjoy my morning coffee, aren't I?" Federico leaned back, taking a slow sip. "At saka, aminin mo, bihira ka lang makarinig ng taong nagpa-panic dahil sa bank account habang tumatawag sa hotline ng Palasyo."

The man across him finally paused, his sharp eyes cutting up from his tablet screen. He wore a simple charcoal crewneck, but his posture is poised, commanding, effortlessly sharp that radiated authority even in a casual coffee shop.

Rafael Villareal raised an eyebrow. "Someone called the executive office for a bank issue?"

"Accidentally," Federico chuckled, pulling out his phone. "She spent four minutes trying to explain her restricted account to administrative staff before realizing where she was. She literally asked if it was the 'President President'."

Rafa didn't laugh, but a faint, highly dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "And you just sat there listening?"

"I was fascinated," Federico admitted. "She looked like she was about to fake her own death just to escape the shame."

Rafa tapped his pen against the table, his interest subtly piqued. "Who was she?"

"Didn't catch her name, but—oh. Hold on." Federico paused, his gaze drifting toward the table the woman had just vacated.

Right beside a discarded napkin lay a black smartphone.

Federico sighed, though his eyes lit up with playful amusement. "Unbelievable. Naiwanan niya phone niya sa sobrang kahihiyan."

He stood up, grabbing the device. "Wait here, Mr. President. Let me return this to our distressed citizen."

"Don't take too long, Fed," Rafa said calmly, turning back to his document. "We have the Cabinet briefing in thirty minutes."

"Five minutes," Federico promised, heading out the door.

Outside, the humid morning air hit Jarima like a wall. She reached into her tote bag to double-check if she had her keys...

Her hand swept through empty canvas.

No. No, no, no.

She stopped dead on the pavement, desperately clawing through receipts, lip balms, and loose coins. "Nasaan 'yung phone ko?"

"Looking for this?"

Jarima whipped around.

Standing a few feet away was a ridiculously handsome man in a tailored dress shirt. He had warm, laughing eyes, a soft smile, and was holding her phone between two long fingers.

Jarima gasped, snatching it back. "Oh my god! Thank you po! Maraming salamat po, hinalukay ko na 'yung bag ko—"

"You dropped it under the table when you were trying to escape," the man said smoothly, tucking his hands into his slacks pockets. His eyes glinted with unmistakable mischief. "Or should I say, when you were trying to escape the 'President President'?"

Jarima froze instantly. Her jaw dropped. Her cheeks flushed a deep, undeniable crimson.

"You... you heard that?" she choked out.

"Not all of it," Federico lied gracefully, leaning in slightly with a charming grin. "Just the part where you panicked about your rent, blamed G****e, and practically begged the staff not to put you in jail."

Jarima covered her face with both hands, letting out a weak, dying groan. "Lord, kuhanin Niyo na lang po ako. Now po. Please."

Federico laughed a rich, warm sound that made a strange flutter ripple through her stomach despite her total humiliation. "Hey, it's fine. For what it's worth, you're definitely the most entertaining caller we've had all month."

Jarima peeked through her fingers, narrowing her eyes at him. "We? Wait... do you work there too? Sa office ng president?"

Federico’s smile broadened. He gestured casually toward his hidden lanyard. "Something like that. I'm a government employee. I work closely with the administration."

Jarima let out a dramatic, ragged sigh, dropping her hands. "Great. So I just embarrassed myself in front of an actual government official. Perfect. Monday is going fantastic."

"I'm Federico," he offered, extending a hand. "And don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I won't have the Presidential Security Group track down your bank account."

Jarima let out a reluctant, breathless laugh, shaking his hand briefly. "Jarima. And please don't. I'm already stressed enough as it is."

"Well, Jarima," Federico said, his tone softening with genuine warmth as he looked down at her. "Next time you need help with your bank, maybe check the app direct line first. Or..." He paused, his eyes holding hers just a second longer than necessary. "...You can just call our office again. I wouldn't mind picking up."

Jarima’s heart did a strange, sudden flip.

Before she could process the subtle flirtation, Federico’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his smile shifted into something slightly resigned.

"Duty calls," Federico said softly, taking a step back. "Take care, Jarima."

"Ah... thank you ulit, Federico," she mumbled, still slightly dazed.

She watched him walk back toward the cafe doors. He glanced over his shoulder once, gave her a small wave, and vanished inside.

Jarima let out a long breath, touching her hot cheeks. Okay. Embarrassing morning, but... okay. He was surprisingly nice.

Inside the coffee shop, Federico slid back into his chair across from the most powerful man in the country.

Rafa was already standing, buttoning his suit jacket with effortless grace. "Took you long enough. Who was she?"

"Jarima," Federico said, a small, lingering smile on his face as he locked his screen. "And she's surprisingly charming when she's not panicking about federal arrest."

Rafa paused, his sharp gaze fixing on his best friend. He caught the subtle tone in Federico's voice—the distinct, undeniable warmth that Federico rarely showed when talking about strangers.

Rafa smirked, slinging his leather portfolio over his arm. "Sounds like someone's smitten over a wrong number. Type mo?"

"Shut up, Rafa," Federico chuckled, walking beside him toward the tinted SUV waiting outside with a full motorcade. "She's just a civil relief from our usual boring meetings."

"If you say so," Rafa replied smoothly, stepping into the back seat of the vehicle while security guards held the door.

As the motorcade pulled away from the curb, Rafa glanced out the darkened window. Through the glass, he caught a brief glimpse of a woman standing by the crosswalk, aggressively tapping her phone screen with an expression of pure, chaotic determination.

Jarima Carvajal.

Rafa leaned back against the leather seat, a slow, contemplative smile spreading across his face.

Interesting.

Three hours later, inside the heavily guarded primary office of Malacañang Palace, the air was suffocatingly formal.

Four cabinet secretaries sat around the table, nervously shuffling papers while presenting a high-stakes national infrastructure proposal.

Federico sat at the side, taking official notes.

At the head of the table sat President Rafael Villareal. His expression was cool, unreadable, and intimidating. He pointed out a glaring flaw in a multi-billion-peso budget allocation without even looking at the printed breakdown, instantly causing two undersecretaries to sweat through their dress shirts.

"Fix the figures by 4 pm," Rafa said, his voice quiet, calm, yet absolute. "We don't sign off on flawed estimates."

"Yes, Mr. President," the Secretary stammered, bowing slightly before exiting with his team.

As the heavy doors clicked shut, the oppressive air in the room instantly evaporated.

Rafa immediately loosened his silk tie, unbuttoned his collar, and slouched back into his massive leather chair, completely dropping his stoic presidential posture.

"I hate Mondays," Rafa groaned, rubbing his temples.

Federico chuckled from his desk, tossing a folder onto the stack. "You say that every Monday."

"Because every Monday is terrible." Rafa reached into his pocket, pulling out his personal phone. He tapped the screen, scrolling mindlessly for a second before his eyes flicked toward Federico.

"So," Rafa started, his voice laced with a sudden, mischievous glint. "Jarima."

Federico paused, looking up from his laptop. "What about her?"

"Did she manage to fix her bank account?"

"How should I know? I handed her phone back and left." Federico raised an eyebrow. "Why are you so curious? Type mo?"

"I'm not curious. I'm concerned for our national banking infrastructure," Rafa lied smoothly, a dry smirk playing on his lips. "If a citizen has to accidentally harass the Executive Office just to transfer rent, maybe we need a new financial regulation policy."

Federico snorted. "Localized crisis management, Mr. President?"

"Exactly." Rafa tossed a pen in the air and caught it effortlessly. "Find out if she got it sorted."

"No."

Rafa blinked, looking offended. "No? I'm the President."

"And I am off the clock in ten minutes," Federico replied easily, leaning back with a grin. "Plus, I'm not using state intelligence to check on a girl I just met. That's abuse of power, Rafa."

"I didn't say use state intelligence," Rafa scoffed, though the amused spark in his eyes flared brighter. "I said ask her. You clearly got her impression."

Before Federico could respond, his work phone buzzed on the desk.

He glanced at the caller ID, and his eyebrows shot up in genuine shock. He looked at Rafa, then back at the phone.

"Ano? Bakit?" Rafa asked, sitting up slightly.

Federico picked up the phone, shaking his head in total disbelief. "You won't believe this."

"Ano nga? Nag-resign ka na ba at natanggap ka sa bago mong trabaho?"

Federico looked at the screen, then turned the phone toward the President so he could see the incoming line transfer from the main receptionist desk.

The label on the screen read: INCOMING EXTERNAL TRANSFER - JARIMA CARVAJAL.

Federico looked at Rafa, a half-laugh escaping his lips. "She called back."

Rafa’s eyes widened slightly, a sudden, bright flash of genuine amusement breaking through his usual composed demeanor. He leaned forward over the desk, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes locked on the flashing screen.

"Pick it up," Rafa whispered, his grin widening into something dangerous. "Put it on speaker."