There was something about the way they moved around each other now—measured, magnetic, like gravity worked a little differently in the space between them. Even when they weren't speaking, it was there. A quiet energy, a tension that didn't need language.
The next shoot called for an interior scene—an apartment set dressed in muted tones and warm lighting. The director called it a "breather episode," a moment of quiet between the emotional storms. All Ashdres had to do was cook together. Talk a little. Sit on the couch and watch a pretend movie.
But everyone on set knew something was brewing.
Ashtine stepped onto the set in soft jeans and a loose button-down, her hair tied up with a few strands falling out. Andres, in a black crewneck and joggers, stood barefoot near the kitchen counter, reading over his lines for the fifth time. He looked up when she entered and didn't look away.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
Her voice was softer than usual.
They ran through a few blocking notes, but when the cameras started rolling, something shifted. The lines blurred. The tension thickened.
—
The scene began with her reaching for a pan in the cupboard above his head.
He stepped back. Just a little. But not enough.
She reached past him, arm brushing his shoulder. Her fingers barely touched the handle before he caught it for her, handed it over without a word. Their eyes met.
"Thanks," she said, not breaking eye contact.
"You're welcome," he replied, voice low.
The air crackled.
She turned to the stove, pretending to focus on the eggs in the pan. He stepped beside her, close enough to make her forget the next line. The director didn't yell cut.
She stirred slowly. "You ever think about quitting this?"
"Acting?"
She nodded.
"Sometimes," he said. "But then I remember I'd miss scenes like this."
"Scenes with me?"
"Only with you."
Her hand froze on the spoon. She looked at him.
He wasn't acting.
Neither was she.
—
Later in the scene, they sat on the couch. The script had them leaning against each other, comfortably, naturally. Andres hesitated only for a second before shifting closer. She curled her legs beneath her, shoulder brushing his chest.
There was no line in the script about the way he looked at her. But the camera caught it anyway.
"You smell like cinnamon," he said suddenly.
She laughed under her breath. "That's the cookies from earlier."
"I like it."
She glanced at him. "You always say things like that when I'm not ready."
"I say them when they're true."
There was a silence. The kind that asked for honesty.
"I'm not ready," she said.
"I'll wait."
The camera rolled. The crew didn't dare interrupt.
She looked down, her fingers brushing the seam of the couch cushion.
"I think you're dangerous," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because you don't pretend anymore. And it's getting harder to pretend around you."
He didn't respond.
Instead, his hand reached over slowly. Deliberately. He placed it over hers, fingers warm, grounding.
And that was the take they kept.
—
When the scene wrapped, no one said much. The director called it perfect. The crew nodded, quiet and oddly reverent, like they'd witnessed something too sacred to joke about.
Ashtine walked off set first. Andres followed a beat later. Neither said a word in the hallway, but their hands brushed once.
She didn't pull away.
That night, fan accounts exploded.
@ashdrescentral: "This was too intimate to be fake. Their chemistry is getting out of hand."
@dramaobsessed: "They're not acting anymore. This is real and we're all witnesses."
And one particular fan edit said it best:
"They used to keep a safe distance. Now they're always just one breath away."
—
Close. Too close.
And not even the script could pull them apart now.