---
It was a quiet night on set.
The usual chaos had melted into something slower, gentler — a late call time meant fewer crew members milling about, and the studio lights had been dimmed low to mimic golden hour for a dream sequence. Outside, the sky stretched dark and still, the kind of night that pressed up against the windows and made everything inside feel more intimate.
Andres sat on the edge of the prop couch, script rolled in his hand like a cigarette he wasn't smoking, staring at the makeshift stage across the room.
Ashtine stood in the center of it.
She was barefoot.
Hair pulled back loosely. A simple dress that draped just below her knees. No heavy makeup, just the faint shimmer of powder beneath her cheekbones and the curve of pink gloss on her bottom lip.
He tried not to stare.
Tried — and failed.
She was reading her lines to herself, lips moving without sound, one hand resting on her collarbone like it might steady her heart. Andres couldn't tell whether she was nervous or just concentrating. He wasn't sure which would affect him more.
The director, Mr. Sandoval, adjusted the mic levels in the back. "This one's a rehearsal," he called. "Let's go loose. Don't think too hard. I just want to feel it."
Andres finally stood.
His chest felt heavier than usual. Like the air he was breathing wasn't quite full enough.
As he stepped onto the set, Ashtine glanced over her shoulder and offered a smile. Not polite. Not empty. A real one — crooked and warm, like a promise between two people who didn't know how to say it out loud.
He smiled back.
The scene was short on paper.
Their characters — Evelyn and Ren — had just come back from a long, tense argument. They were supposed to find each other in the quiet of the kitchen, saying nothing at first, just existing in the same room again. The dialogue only started after thirty seconds of silence, followed by a single line from him:
> "You stayed."
The rest would unravel from there.
Simple.
Except it wasn't.
---
The cameras weren't rolling yet, but the tension was already there, thick and wordless.
He stepped behind her, letting his presence announce itself before his voice did.
She didn't turn immediately.
Just stood there at the fake kitchen counter, tracing invisible lines on the marble surface.
Then — a soft inhale.
And she turned.
He met her eyes.
His throat went dry.
Mr. Sandoval, seated near the monitor, tilted his head slightly. "Try it once without direction," he said. "No blocking. No marks. Just… be."
They nodded.
And then it began.
---
"You stayed," Andres said, his voice lower than he expected.
She looked at him, startled — or maybe just playing startled. But it didn't matter.
It felt real.
"I didn't know where else to go," she replied, voice barely above a whisper.
He took a step closer. His lines blurred behind the thudding in his chest.
"You could've gone anywhere."
"I didn't want anywhere."
He hesitated.
The script was supposed to say: Then why come back to me?
But instead, he asked, softer, "Then why here?"
She swallowed. Her eyes shimmered.
"Because you were the only place that didn't feel wrong."
The room fell still.
Andres didn't remember breathing.
He didn't remember his mark or whether they were rehearsing or whether the crew was even watching anymore.
He just knew that the space between them was shrinking, and neither of them were pulling back.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
He swore she was about to kiss him.
And maybe — maybe he would've let her.
But that's when the director clapped.
"That," Mr. Sandoval said, standing abruptly, "was the best thing I've seen all week."
The moment shattered.
Andres blinked, taking a step back, like waking from a dream.
Ashtine looked away, cheeks flushed.
"Keep it," the director said. "Keep all of that. We're filming it tonight."
She nodded, already turning to grab her water bottle, but her hand trembled slightly.
Andres saw it.
And he knew — that hadn't just been acting.
---
They were given a twenty-minute break before filming.
Andres found her sitting outside the studio doors, feet tucked under her, sipping water in silence. The air was cooler out here, moonlight dusting the concrete.
He sat beside her.
Neither spoke at first.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable — just stretched. Like a tightrope between them.
He finally broke it.
"You meant it."
She didn't deny it.
"Did you?" she asked, not looking at him.
"Yeah."
She glanced at him then.
Something cracked open in the space between their gazes. Not love — not yet. But a mutual, gentle undoing.
He leaned forward.
Not close enough to touch — just enough to be felt.
"We're blurring it," she whispered.
"I know."
"Should we stop?"
He took a slow breath. "I don't want to."
She smiled.
Just slightly.
"Me neither."
---
When the cameras rolled again, they hit every beat with aching precision.
Every glance. Every pause. Every breath between lines.
But the difference was this time — they meant it.
And everyone in the room could feel it.
After the final take, the director didn't yell cut immediately. He just let the silence linger.
Then he stepped forward.
"You two," he said, voice low, "have something very rare. Don't waste it trying to pretend otherwise."
And with that, he walked away.
Leaving them in the quiet.
Leaving them.
---
That night, neither of them slept.
They didn't text. Didn't call.
But somehow, it was the loudest silence they'd ever shared.
---