---
The problem with chemistry was that once people noticed it, they didn't stop pushing for more.
What had once been an undercurrent between them — quiet glances, shared silences, the kind of tension you only recognized once it left the room — was now the subject of scripts, scenes, and directors' notes.
It wasn't that Andres and Ashtine hadn't been good actors before. They were. But lately, their performances felt different. Not rehearsed. Not performed. Just... true.
That scared her more than anything else.
The moment the new script arrived, Ashtine had known this chapter would come. The episode's climax — a scene heavy with emotion, proximity, and, of course, a kiss. Not the innocent pecks they'd faked in earlier scenes, not one of those light, brush-of-the-lips kind of moments. This was different.
The script described it in plain terms:
> "The rain pours. They fight. She breaks. He reaches for her. They collide. Not gently. Not carefully. It's real. Finally real."
That line sat like a stone in her stomach for days.
Not because she didn't want to kiss him.
But because she did.
Too much.
---
They rehearsed the fight scene first.
No rain yet. Just dialogue. Blocking. Emotional beats.
Andres stood on the other end of the studio space, arms crossed, jaw set. "Why are you always running away?"
Ashtine turned sharply, her voice louder than she intended. "Why do you always act like you know what I'm thinking?"
"Because I do!"
He stepped forward.
She stepped back.
Each move felt like a mirror — one chasing, one avoiding.
"You don't," she said, quieter now. "You think you do, but you only see what you want to."
Andres stopped, his hands fisted at his sides. "I see you."
That wasn't in the script.
The director didn't cut.
Neither of them did.
Silence stretched.
When it finally broke, the room stayed quiet, like even the crew didn't want to disturb whatever they'd just witnessed.
---
The day of the kiss scene came with grey skies and real rain — poetic, if not entirely inconvenient. The production team didn't complain. Nature did half their job.
The scene would be filmed outdoors. A closed section of the studio lot had been dressed to look like an abandoned campus hallway. Old lockers. Cracked pavement. Leaves scattered by wind machines. A controlled mess.
Rain machines were rigged above them. Mist would follow. The atmosphere was set.
So was the pressure.
Ashtine stood just off-camera, in costume — soaked to the skin after only two test runs. Her hair clung to her neck. Her jacket was cold and heavy with water. She tried not to shiver.
Andres stood a few feet away, speaking quietly with the director. He nodded once, then turned toward her.
"You okay?" he asked.
She gave a weak smile. "Are you?"
"No."
They laughed, and it cracked something open between them.
He reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair off her cheek. His touch was light. Familiar now. Still electric.
"We can call it," he said. "If you don't want to—"
"I do," she interrupted.
He looked surprised.
She looked scared.
Then the director yelled, "Quiet on set!"
---
It started like all the others.
A cue. A mark. A shout of "Action!"
Rain poured.
The scene began.
"I'm done," Ashtine said, stepping away from him. "I'm done pretending."
Andres followed, his voice low. "I'm not pretending."
"You think this is real?" she shouted, spinning around. "You think any of this matters?"
"It matters to me!"
The words hit like lightning.
She paused.
Her hands trembled at her sides — from the cold, from the scene, from him.
"You don't get to decide what's real," she said.
"No," he murmured. "But I know when something is."
He stepped forward.
She didn't move.
Rain pounded. Wind pushed hair into her eyes.
He reached for her face.
She flinched—but didn't step back.
Andres cupped her jaw, thumbs grazing her cheeks.
Their foreheads nearly touched.
The air between them snapped.
Then he kissed her.
Not gently. Not like a first kiss.
Like something that had been waiting.
Like a confession with no words left.
Her hands clutched his soaked jacket. His arm pulled her closer by instinct. Water streamed between them, through their hair, over their skin.
The kiss deepened.
Too long.
Too real.
Not acting anymore.
They forgot the cameras.
They forgot the crew.
They forgot everything but the way they fit.
And then—
"Cut!"
The word sliced through the air like a whip.
They broke apart.
Barely.
Still too close.
Still breathing each other in.
No one spoke.
Even the director seemed stunned.
The camera operator slowly lowered his rig. Crew members exchanged glances.
Ashtine blinked, slowly, like waking from a dream.
Andres didn't speak.
Not yet.
His hands dropped to his sides.
He stepped back.
Just one step.
Enough to remind her they were still standing in a scene.
Still being watched.
Still pretending.
Except… they hadn't pretended. Not for one second of that kiss.
She knew it.
So did he.
---
They didn't talk after the shoot.
She left in a towel-wrapped hoodie and wet socks.
He left minutes later, hood pulled low.
That night, no texts.
No DMs.
Not even a like on each other's stories.
---
The next day, they saw each other again. Not on set. In the waiting room outside the studio's editing suite.
A staff meeting had been called. Final clips from the episode would be reviewed. Publicity teams would select screenshots for teasers.
Ashtine sat on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through her phone.
Andres walked in and paused.
She looked up.
Neither smiled.
She made room.
He sat beside her.
The silence was a heartbeat long, then two, then five.
Finally—
"About the scene—" she began.
"It wasn't just the scene," he said quietly.
She looked at him.
And his eyes held the same thing they always did: that honesty that frightened her.
"I know," she said.
A door opened.
They were called in.
---
The episode aired two weeks later.
Social media exploded.
Clips of the kiss trended in minutes. Fan edits flooded the internet before the episode even finished airing. Accounts dissected every moment — the eye contact, the way she gripped his jacket, the hesitation before their lips met.
People weren't just watching anymore.
They were believing.
In the ship.
In the spark.
In them.
Behind the scenes, the PR team leaned in. New photoshoots were booked. Joint interviews were planned. People started whispering words like official pairing. Like long-term deal.
Ashtine didn't answer any questions.
Neither did Andres.
They smiled on camera.
Laughed when asked about "how natural it looked."
"Just good acting," he said once in an interview.
She nodded.
"Yeah. Just acting."
But later that night, when she sat in bed and rewatched the scene, she didn't see acting.
She saw truth.
His hands on her face.
His voice, barely audible over the rain, whispering, "It matters to me."
And she felt it again.
The shiver.
The heat.
The ache.
Not of fiction.
Of something real.
---
He texted her the next day.
> You okay?
She waited five minutes before replying.
> I don't know.
> You?
His response came instantly.
> Same.
---
They didn't kiss again.
Not on screen.
Not off screen.
But the space between them had changed.
It pulsed. Lingered. Waited.
They spoke less during rehearsals.
But they watched each other more.
And when they passed in hallways, neither reached out — but neither looked away.
It was happening.
And neither of them could stop it.
---