---
It had been sitting at the back of her closet for weeks.
Folded once. Stuffed beneath a stack of unused scripts and soft, oversized shirts that never quite got worn. Tucked away like a secret she hadn't meant to keep.
And yet — every time Ashtine opened her closet door, it was the first thing her eyes landed on.
His hoodie.
It wasn't anything special at first glance — dark gray, loose-fitting, with slightly frayed sleeves and a faint fading on the cuffs. The kind of hoodie that held shape and memory, that had been worn so often it had begun to feel like a second skin.
He'd lent it to her on set one night, back when the evenings still got cold and their closeness hadn't turned complicated yet. She'd been shivering between takes, sitting too close to the wind machine, hugging her knees on the concrete. Andres had taken one look, shrugged off the hoodie, and dropped it over her shoulders without a word.
"Thanks," she'd whispered then, pulling it close.
"Keep it till you're warm again," he'd replied.
She never gave it back.
She told herself it was forgetfulness. That it wasn't that deep.
But now, holding it between her fingers, alone in her bedroom — she knew better.
It still smelled faintly like him.
And that was the problem.
---
She laid the hoodie on her lap and stared at it for a long time. The sun was beginning to slip beneath the windowsill, casting golden fingers across her bedsheets. Shadows danced on the wall. Her room was quiet — too quiet — except for the soft hum of a fan rotating nearby and the low echo of her heartbeat in her ears.
She touched the collar, thumb tracing the edge. Her chest ached.
It wasn't just his scent that lingered — it was what came with it. The memory of how heavy his presence felt. How full the air became when he walked into a room. The way he looked at her like he was memorizing her in real-time. The sound of his laugh when she caught him off-guard. The gentle way he said her name like it wasn't just a name, but a secret he never wanted to give away.
She remembered all of it now.
Too well.
She pressed the hoodie to her chest and closed her eyes.
---
She hadn't seen him since that hallway conversation. Their schedules had staggered just enough to keep them apart — not long, just three days. But it felt longer. The kind of distance that didn't measure in time, but in how much she wanted to say and didn't.
She'd drafted a text twice already.
> I still have your hoodie.
Should I bring your hoodie to set tomorrow?
Neither felt right.
Neither was the thing she really wanted to say.
Because it wasn't about returning something.
It was about what it meant to give it back.
It would be a kind of closing. A quiet, unstated pulling away.
And she wasn't ready for that.
---
That night, she fell asleep with it beside her on the pillow.
Not touching. Not clinging.
Just… near.
---
The next day, she brought it anyway. Folded neatly inside her bag, like an intention she might act on — or might not.
The shoot location had been moved outdoors again. Warm, sticky air pressed against her skin as she arrived on set, a water bottle in one hand and the weight of the hoodie tucked beneath her other arm like a secret.
When she spotted Andres by the props van, her stomach twisted.
He looked the same.
Hair slightly messy. Head down, reviewing the script. His lips moved slightly as he read, like he was mouthing each line to feel how it would sound when he said it aloud. She knew that habit. She'd watched it before. She'd once told herself it was just professional curiosity.
Now, she knew it was something else.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a second, he didn't move — didn't smile, didn't wave.
And then, like instinct, he did both.
She walked toward him slowly, her heart pounding louder with every step.
He set the script down as she approached.
"You brought it," he said softly, his eyes dropping to the fabric pressed against her chest.
She nodded. "It was in my closet."
"I kind of forgot about it."
She smiled — small, awkward. "I didn't."
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
She held the hoodie out, arms stiff. "You can have it back."
He didn't reach for it.
Instead, his eyes stayed on her — searching.
A moment passed.
Then he said, "Did it help?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Keeping it. Did it help?"
The question hit her harder than she expected.
She looked down at the hoodie. At her own fingers gripping it too tightly.
"Yes," she admitted. "It helped."
He stepped closer.
Only slightly.
But it was enough to make the space between them feel thinner.
"I thought about asking for it back once," he murmured. "But then I thought... maybe you needed it more than I did."
She swallowed hard. "Maybe I did."
"I used to wear it when I felt stuck," he said. "Like when I couldn't figure out a scene. Or when I didn't want to be recognized in public. I don't know — it made me feel... not invisible, but... safe."
She looked up at him then.
Eyes wide.
Voice barely audible.
"That's what it felt like for me, too."
Andres smiled gently, but it didn't reach all the way.
She handed the hoodie over.
He took it — slowly, carefully, like it might slip through his fingers if he wasn't soft with it.
Then — something shifted in his expression. His fingers tightened around the fabric. He exhaled, and the smile faltered.
And he handed it back.
"I want you to keep it," he said.
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"It's yours now."
She blinked. "But—"
"No, I mean it," he said, gently pushing it back toward her. "You kept it during the moments that mattered. You kept it warm. You gave it meaning. It's not mine anymore."
Her hands closed around the hoodie again, slower this time.
The lump in her throat returned.
"But why?" she asked, voice smaller now.
He didn't look away. "Because I need you to know I'm not going anywhere. Whether you wear that or not. Whether we say the things we haven't said yet or not. Whether we kiss again or not. I'm here. And that—" he nodded toward the hoodie "—can be your proof."
Silence wrapped around them like a second hoodie.
She looked down at the gray fabric, now heavier with meaning than ever before.
And she couldn't stop the smile that curved slowly across her lips.
She hugged it to her chest again — not hiding this time.
This time, she let him see it.
---
Later that day, after the shoot, she sat on the edge of the makeup trailer, scrolling through photos on her phone. There were a few behind-the-scenes shots the staff photographer had sent them — candid moments. Laughing between takes. Script books open on their laps. Andres leaning against a wall, eyes closed in the sunlight.
She paused on one picture.
It was her.
Wearing the hoodie.
Smiling at something off-camera — probably him.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she did something she'd never done before.
She posted it.
No caption. Just the photo.
Minutes later, he liked it.
No comments.
No heart emojis.
Just silence.
But it felt louder than anything else.
---
That night, she wore the hoodie again.
Not because it was cold.
Not because she needed comfort.
But because it reminded her of everything they hadn't said — and everything they would.
Eventually.
---