Andres had seen Ashtine smile hundreds of times. There was the polite smile for fans, the tired smile for long days on set, the amused one when someone said something ridiculous. He knew them all. Memorized them like lines from a script.
But lately, there was one he couldn't name. Couldn't quite explain.
It wasn't loud. It didn't ask for attention. It came and went like a secret breeze. Soft. Real. And it was only for him.
She smiled at him differently.
It started the morning after that scene.
They hadn't spoken much. Not directly. But something unspoken followed them both—like a thread taut between their fingers. A look that lasted a second too long. A shared silence that didn't need filling.
Ashtine walked into the studio early. Her script was folded in her hand, hair pulled into a bun, sweatshirt slung over one shoulder. She looked like she hadn't slept much, but there was a calmness in her posture.
Andres was already there, sitting on the edge of the stage platform, coffee in one hand, fingers drumming absently on the wood. When he saw her, he stood.
"Morning," he said.
She glanced up—and there it was. That smile.
Not forced. Not part of a performance. Just soft. Warm.
"Morning," she replied, her voice quiet.
No teasing. No pretending. Just that smile.
—
During rehearsal, they didn't have scenes together. But he watched her. From a distance. He wasn't the only one. People always watched Ashtine—she was effortless, magnetic. But she didn't notice them.
Until she looked at him.
Then she smiled.
And he swore he felt it all the way down to his chest.
Ciara, the assistant director, leaned over to Andres between takes. "You two are really selling this chemistry. It's insane."
He only shrugged.
"You sure you're not dating?" she added with a raised brow.
He didn't answer.
Instead, his eyes found Ashtine again. She was laughing with the makeup crew, head tilted back. When she noticed him looking, her smile changed.
There it was again.
Not for them. Just for him.
He smiled back.
—
That afternoon, they were filming a rooftop scene. Another moment of quiet vulnerability between their characters. Lines about childhood fears and dreams that never came true. It was intimate, but not romantic. Still, the proximity made something stir again.
Ashtine sat with her knees drawn up, looking out at the fake skyline set. Andres joined her. Cameras rolled.
She delivered her line: "Sometimes, I think I only show the happy parts of myself so people don't ask about the rest."
His next line was simple. But he didn't say it right away.
Instead, he looked at her. Not her character. Her.
"I get that," he said softly.
It wasn't in the script.
She turned her head. And smiled.
The director didn't call cut.
He didn't need to.
—
Later that night, they were both still at the studio. Wrap had come and gone, but Andres lingered, going over notes. Ashtine appeared at the doorway of the rehearsal room.
"Still here?" she asked.
He looked up. "Didn't feel like going home yet."
She stepped in. "Me neither."
They sat on the floor, backs against the mirrored wall. No lights except for the soft blue glow of an overhead.
She leaned her head back. "We've changed, haven't we?"
He looked over. "Since when?"
"Since that one night."
"The garden scene?"
"No." She turned to him. "The dressing room."
He remembered. Her in his hoodie. Her silence. His presence.
"Yeah," he said. "Everything shifted."
She nodded slowly. "It's not scary anymore."
"What isn't?"
"Feeling something real."
He looked at her—really looked.
"You smile at me differently," he said, almost a whisper.
Her cheeks warmed, but she didn't look away.
"And you look at me like I'm not just part of your scene partner," she replied.
"You're not."
"Neither are you."
The moment stretched again. Like all the space between them had thinned to nothing.
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
He didn't move.
She was quiet for a moment, then murmured, "I wish we didn't have to hide this."
"We don't. Not really."
"What if people start noticing?"
"They already do."
She laughed, soft and sleepy. "Yeah. Maybe that's okay."
He glanced down at her.
"That smile," he said, "save it for me."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Because when she looked up at him again, it was already there.
Just for him.
That smile.
The one that told him—he wasn't imagining any of this.
He had her. Maybe not completely. Not yet. But enough to make the rest of the world fade away.
Because now, she smiled at him differently.
And she always would.
---