---
If someone had asked Ashtine how it started, she wouldn't have been able to say.
Not exactly.
There was no single moment where the shift happened — no lightning bolt, no music swelling in the background like it did in the movies. It was slower than that. Quieter. It unfolded in sideways glances, in sarcastic jabs, in the sound of Andres rolling his eyes every time she corrected his line delivery during rehearsals.
And it happened again today.
They were sitting on opposite ends of the script room — a small, glass-paneled space just off the main studio, where the actors gathered to block dialogue and mark up scripts before filming. The rest of the cast had already cleared out for lunch, but the two of them had stayed behind. Not because they were told to. But because, somehow, neither of them had moved.
"I'm just saying," Ashtine said, flipping a page with deliberate flair, "you keep cutting that line short. There's a pause before the second sentence for a reason."
Andres didn't look up from his phone. "And I'm just saying I've watched the director ignore that pause four times already. Maybe I'm giving him what he wants."
She narrowed her eyes, mildly amused. "Or maybe you're just stubborn."
He finally glanced at her. "Or maybe you're kind of annoying."
Ashtine raised her eyebrows. "Wow. We're in our insult era now?"
"I'm just matching the energy."
She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table between them, her tone casual. "You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"You act like you're not secretly a perfectionist, but you care too much about this show to admit it."
He scoffed. "I do not."
"You do. You just mask it with fake laziness. You highlight your lines in three different colors."
"That's for organization. Don't attack me."
She laughed softly — the sound surprising even herself. It wasn't sharp or defensive. Just light. Natural. The kind of laugh that came out when you forgot you were supposed to be guarded.
Andres noticed it too. His expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered a second longer than usual.
"You laugh like that in character," he said suddenly.
Her smile faded into something more thoughtful. "You notice that?"
"I notice a lot."
She didn't answer right away. Just lowered her eyes back to her script. Her pulse was louder now — noticeable beneath her ribs. And she hated that he could still fluster her even when he was being a smartass.
Maybe especially then.
"You're kind of annoying," she muttered.
"But pretty," he added, not missing a beat.
She looked up again.
And there it was.
That moment — that pause — not long enough to be obvious, but just long enough to leave her breath caught in her throat.
She couldn't tell if it was part of the banter or something else.
Something unsaid.
The silence was broken when a production assistant poked her head in to call them back to set.
Ashtine stood first, gathering her things without a word. Andres followed a moment later, his shoulder brushing hers as they passed through the narrow doorway. Neither of them mentioned it.
---
On set, the energy was different.
The upcoming scene was a mix of awkwardness and romantic tension — a simple interaction in the campus garden. Their characters were still circling each other like satellites, pretending not to orbit the same emotional center. It was meant to be the slow-build kind of moment, one that said more in body language than in words.
Ashtine leaned against a wooden bench, script still in hand, while the makeup team dabbed a final layer of powder onto her cheeks. Across from her, Andres paced quietly, running his lines under his breath. It was always like this before a take — this humming stillness between them, waiting to ignite.
"Rolling in three," the director called out.
She slipped the script under the bench and took her mark.
He did the same.
Their characters were supposed to have a brief exchange — nothing romantic on the surface. Just commentary about a school project and a shared moment over forgotten notes.
But again, something shifted.
She handed him a paper. Their fingers brushed.
He looked at her — too long.
And when she looked back, her heart gave a strange, quiet lurch.
It wasn't the acting.
It wasn't even the chemistry.
It was recognition.
She recognized something in his expression that mirrored her own — the slow realization that this thing between them had gone unsupervised too long. That somewhere between shared scenes and sarcastic comebacks, something real had started growing.
And she didn't know how to pull it out by the roots.
---
"Cut. Good. Let's reset," the director said.
The crew moved quickly. Cameras adjusted, lights dimmed.
Ashtine moved to the corner of the set, sipping water from a paper cup. Andres joined her, leaning on the wall beside her without saying anything for a minute.
Then—
"You're not really annoying," he said.
She glanced at him. "What am I then?"
His gaze met hers.
"Complicated."
"And that's a compliment?"
"Coming from me?" He shrugged. "Definitely."
Her smile returned, slower this time. "You're not really lazy."
He gave a small laugh. "That's high praise."
She tilted her head, watching him like she was trying to figure out a puzzle with missing pieces. "You're not exactly what I expected when I read your name on the call sheet."
"What'd you expect?"
"Someone more… self-absorbed. The type who takes a selfie every ten minutes."
Andres laughed. "That's offensive. I only take six selfies a day."
"Liar."
"Guilty."
They fell quiet again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The silence between them was starting to feel less like avoidance and more like understanding.
The assistant director waved at them from behind the camera. "Back on in five."
Ashtine nodded and started toward the set.
But just before she stepped away, Andres spoke again.
"You're kind of annoying," he said, "but pretty."
She turned back, one eyebrow raised. "You already said that."
"I meant it again."
This time, she didn't blink.
This time, she smiled.
---