Rain wasn't supposed to happen that day.
The forecast said it would stay dry—clear skies, mild wind, maybe a golden sunset by late afternoon. That's what the production team had planned for. That's what the scripts expected. But sometime after 3 p.m., clouds gathered without warning, thick and heavy, and the first droplets began falling just as the final scene of the day was about to start.
The crew scrambled. Lights were pulled back under cover. Umbrellas popped open. Assistants covered camera equipment with plastic. And in the middle of it all, Andres and Ashtine stood under a temporary awning, watching the rain turn the set into a blur.
They were both silent, soaked around the edges. She hugged her arms around herself, hair damp and sticking to her neck. He shrugged off his hoodie and handed it to her.
"You'll get cold."
She took it without a word. Slipped it on. It hung oversized on her frame, sleeves past her fingertips, still warm from him. She exhaled.
"Thanks."
He leaned against the wall beside her, water dripping from his hair. The soft patter of rain on the plastic roof made the silence between them heavier, softer. Their scene had been postponed—just a walk down a fake street, a few lines exchanged, nothing intense. But the delay had brought them here. Alone.
"Do you like the rain?" he asked.
She turned to look at him. "I didn't used to. But it's growing on me."
He smiled. "Same."
She watched a drop slide down the side of his face. Her fingers twitched.
"Do you remember that night?" she asked suddenly.
"What night?"
She hesitated, then said, "The night we wrapped Episode Twenty. Everyone left early. We stayed behind. You sang something under your breath."
He blinked. "That old love song?"
She nodded. "You didn't know I was listening."
"I did."
That made her heart beat faster.
The rain picked up. A flash of lightning stretched across the sky, followed by a low rumble. Thunder made the world feel smaller, more intimate. And still, neither of them moved away.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," he said quietly.
She tilted her head. "What?"
"When we filmed that scene by the beach. You cried for real."
"I was supposed to."
"No, I mean—you weren't supposed to cry that hard. That wasn't in the script."
She looked down at her shoes. Then, up at him. "You said something between takes. Off camera."
"I remember."
"You told me, 'You don't have to pretend to be strong here.'"
He nodded slowly. "I meant it."
Silence again. But this time, it pulsed with something different. Braver.
She took a breath, then said, "I think we've been pretending a little too well."
The look in his eyes changed. Softened. Deepened.
"And I think we're not pretending at all anymore," he said.
The rain drummed louder.
Their shoulders touched. Not on purpose. But neither pulled away.
He looked at her—really looked—and saw the way her lips parted, like she was about to say something but stopped herself. Saw the hesitation, the question, the hope.
He leaned in. Slowly. Giving her time.
She didn't stop him.
Their lips met like the beginning of something inevitable. No fireworks, no dramatic swell of music. Just warmth. Real, and quiet, and so impossibly gentle that for a second the world truly did fade away.
The rain became background noise.
When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his. Her eyes were closed. His hand was still on her cheek.
"That wasn't scripted," she whispered.
"No," he said. "It really wasn't."
They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in borrowed warmth, under a sky that wept without apology.
And somewhere behind them, the cameras kept rolling.
Even if no one would ever admit it.