It had been days since the coffee shop. Days since fingers laced together in the softest, boldest kind of silence. Since that half-smile on her lips that haunted him every time he blinked. Since he realized that the line between what was pretend and what was real had completely vanished.
He hadn't stopped thinking about it. About her. About the way she leaned closer when she laughed, like her heart trusted him even before her words could catch up. About how her eyes softened when they locked onto his.
Andres had never been scared of saying his lines. But saying his truth?
That was different.
—
It was almost midnight when she messaged him.
Ash: "Are you still awake?"
He replied instantly.
Andres: "For you? Always."
She didn't reply with a heart emoji or a teasing comeback. Just a simple:
Ash: "Come to the rooftop."
Five minutes later, he was there.
She stood in the middle of the empty rooftop.
Thei city skyline behind her glowed blue in the moonlight. She was wrapped in that same oversized cardigan he remembered from their first late-night shoot. Her arms were crossed. Her hair a little messy. No makeup. No cameras. Just her.
Real.
Vulnerable.
And when she looked at him, her expression wasn't guarded.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
He walked closer. "Me neither."
She looked away. "It's getting harder to pretend like this is just for the script."
He stopped. The space between them felt heavy. Tense.
"I know," he said.
Silence.
She stepped forward. Just once.
"What if…" she began, barely louder than the wind, "what if I like you?"
He stared at her.
His chest felt like it might split open.
"Then I'd say it's about time you admitted it," he whispered.
She laughed, shaky and disbelieving.
"I'm serious," she said.
"So am I."
Another step.
Now they were barely inches apart.
He could see the curve of her lashes. The way her lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn't.
"You scare me," she murmured.
"I know," he replied. "You scare me too."
They stood like that for what felt like hours. The hum of distant traffic below. The soft flutter of wind. Two people stuck between fear and gravity.
"Do you want to take the risk?" he asked finally.
She looked up at him.
"I already did."
And then she reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of his jacket.
He didn't pull her in. He didn't have to.
She leaned into him.
Forehead to forehead.
Heart to heart.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
Just the kind of closeness that said, this is happening. This is real.
He whispered, "I like you too."
She smiled—so softly it broke him.
Andres had kissed people on camera. Held hands. Hugged. But nothing ever felt like this—this charged, electric hush.
Because this wasn't about what they were told to do.
This was a choice.
A moment.
The beginning of something fragile and fierce.
And somewhere between her breath and his heartbeat, he realized—he didn't just like her.
He was already falling.
So when she finally said, "What happens next?"
He didn't say anything.
He just held her hand tighter.
And smiled.
Because they were already writing the next scene themselves.
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