---
The night shoot dragged longer than planned.
A location change, last-minute lighting issues, and the director's relentless desire for "one more take" had kept the cast and crew out hours past the schedule. The campus courtyard — usually a bright, casual spot for daytime scenes — had been dressed into something else entirely. Fog machines curled artificial mist along the base of the old brick walls. String lights were hung between trees, flickering gently against the breeze. There was a stillness to the night that didn't belong to sets or scripts.
It was almost midnight when the director finally called a break.
Ashtine pulled off her shoes the moment she was off-camera. Her feet ached. Her spine ached. Her breath came out fogged as she stepped away from the lights and into the shadowed edge of the courtyard. The grass beneath her bare feet was damp with dew, but she didn't care. Her arms wrapped around herself, not because of the cold, but because she needed to feel something.
She wasn't used to working this late. Her head felt fuzzy. The lines she'd just recited were already slipping from her memory, the emotion of the scene still clinging to her ribcage like it hadn't fully left.
That had been happening more and more.
The blurred edges between acting and being. Between character and self. Between feeling something because it was written, and feeling it because… because it was him.
Because of Andres.
---
She didn't realize he had followed her until he spoke.
"You didn't eat anything."
His voice was quiet, low. Unpolished.
She turned.
He stood a few feet behind her, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, the soft fabric of his joggers damp at the hem from walking through the grass. He looked tired. Not in the disheveled way she sometimes saw him between scenes, but in the sincere way a person looks when they haven't slept and don't know how to rest.
Ashtine shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."
"Your stomach was growling during take seven."
"You heard that?"
"I heard everything."
That made her smile — a tired, unguarded one. "Then you heard me flub my line in take five."
"I didn't say I was perfect."
He moved closer, then paused, as if unsure whether to close the distance between them. She didn't move either. Just kept watching him through the light mist curling over the grass.
"I always forget how cold it gets at night out here," she said.
"Yeah," he murmured. "They don't show that in dramas."
Ashtine rubbed her hands over her arms. She was still in her costume — a light cardigan over a blouse, thinner than what the weather required. The crew had offered her a coat earlier, but she'd waved it off. Now she regretted that.
Andres noticed.
Without speaking, he peeled his hoodie off in one swift movement and handed it to her.
She stared at it.
It was black and worn, sleeves slightly stretched, the kind of hoodie that didn't look like much but held heat like a second skin.
She hesitated. "I'll give it back."
"I know."
"I mean it. I don't just keep things I borrow."
He huffed a soft laugh. "I didn't think you would. I'm not worried."
She took it then.
The inside was still warm from his body.
She slipped it on.
It was too big. The sleeves fell over her hands. The hem reached her thighs. She tucked her fingers into the pocket, feeling the frayed lining and something sharp — a paperclip? a guitar pick? — that he'd forgotten about.
He was watching her again.
Not obviously. Not intently.
But watching all the same.
Like always.
---
They sat together on a concrete bench under one of the trees. The lights from the set were a dull glow behind them, just enough to see each other's silhouettes. Their breath curled in the air between them, and the fog machines let out soft hisses every few minutes like exhaling ghosts.
Ashtine pulled the hoodie closer around her body.
"I know I said it earlier," she said, "but this really is the worst coffee I've ever had."
He chuckled. "You're still thinking about that?"
"I have taste memory. It haunts me."
"Well," he said, leaning back, "I'll make it up to you next time. I'll find you a decent cup."
"Next time?"
He shrugged. "If you want."
She didn't answer, not with words. But she didn't look away either.
Her fingers tugged at the sleeve hem without thinking.
He noticed.
"You always do that," he said.
She blinked. "Do what?"
"Pull your sleeves when you're trying not to say something."
Her lips parted, just slightly. "You're observant."
"I have to be. You don't say much."
"Neither do you."
"I say enough."
He turned to her then, full body angled, knees almost brushing hers.
There was no one else in the courtyard now. The crew had moved to reset equipment. They had maybe five minutes, maybe ten, before someone called them back. But the world felt on pause.
She looked down at her lap. "You know… we can't let this go too far."
"I know."
"People talk."
"They already are."
She met his eyes.
There was no teasing in his voice.
No grin.
Only truth.
He reached forward and gently, slowly, folded her sleeves back so her hands were free. His touch was feather-light, barely grazing her skin. But it was enough to make her breath catch.
"You're freezing," he said.
"You gave me your hoodie."
He smiled. "Yeah. But you're still cold."
Ashtine stared at his hands for a moment. Then, almost without thinking, she placed hers over his.
His fingers stilled beneath hers.
The contact wasn't electric. It wasn't loud. It was quietly inevitable — the kind of closeness that doesn't scream, only whispers, and in that whisper says everything you didn't know you were waiting to hear.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"Of what?"
"This. Us. What it could become."
Andres didn't look away. "I'm scared too."
"But you keep coming closer."
"So do you."
She breathed out slowly. "I don't know how to be half in."
"Then don't be."
They didn't kiss.
They didn't even lean in.
But something passed between them — thick as smoke, gentle as breath. The kind of moment that threads itself into memory and stays there long after it ends.
---
They were called back a few minutes later.
Neither of them moved right away.
Ashtine stood first, adjusting the hoodie's sleeves. She turned toward the light and walked back to set without speaking. He followed, a step behind, and she knew — even without looking — that his eyes hadn't left her.
The next scene went smoothly.
Maybe too smoothly.
Their chemistry was sharper now. Less restrained. Every line of dialogue had a double meaning. Every glance cut a little deeper.
The director called "cut" with a note of surprise in his voice.
Whatever they were doing, it was working.
---
Back in the dressing room, after the shoot had wrapped and the crew began packing up for the night, Ashtine sat on the edge of her chair, staring at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked different.
Not changed.
But aware.
She hadn't given the hoodie back.
And she wouldn't. Not tonight.
She wanted to keep it for just a little longer.
To let it hold the warmth he gave her.
To remember what it felt like to sit beside him and not hide the ache in her chest.
She folded it carefully and tucked it into her bag.
And for once, she didn't feel guilty about it.
---
At home, hours later, she lay in bed with the hoodie pressed against her chest.
She wasn't thinking about scenes or scripts or press releases.
Only about how he looked at her when the world was quiet.
How she looked back.
And how neither of them said the word for what this was becoming.
Because maybe, just maybe, they didn't have to.
Not yet.
Not when a hoodie and a look said it all.
---