They didn't go back downstairs.
Instead, they stayed under the city's moonlight, the skyline casting surreal shadows behind them. The rooftop was still, like it was holding its breath too, listening in.
Ashtine sat with her knees pulled to her chest, fingers clutching the sleeves of her cardigan. Andres sat next to her, elbows on his bent knees, close—but not touching. That distance between them buzzed louder now. Like it didn't want to exist but didn't dare cross just yet.
He glanced sideways. Her face was tilted up toward the night sky, lips parted slightly in thought. "Are you always this quiet when you're scared?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, softly: "I'm not scared. Just… I don't know how to say it without ruining everything."
He turned to her fully. "Then say only half."
She blinked. "What?"
"Say half of what you want to say. I'll wait for the rest when you're ready."
That made her smile, small and sincere. "That's unfair. You always say the right things."
He leaned back on his hands. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just really bad at hiding how I feel."
The air grew warmer between them. She looked at him, really looked—like she was trying to memorize the shape of his expression, the exact softness in his eyes.
"Andres."
He straightened slightly.
"If I tell you something," she began, "you won't… treat me differently, right?"
He shook his head. "Never."
She looked away, exhaled.
"I think I've liked you for longer than I want to admit. Maybe since that day we fought over who'd get the bigger trailer. You were so irritating," she laughed, then softened. "But you were also the only one who didn't look at me like I was too fragile to handle things."
He was quiet.
"Maybe that was when it started," she whispered. "But I didn't know how to name it then. I still don't, completely."
He moved a little closer. "You don't have to name it."
She turned to him. Her voice barely audible. "I like being around you too much. Even when I don't understand it."
There it was.
Not a full confession.
But not a denial either.
A half-confession.
Andres reached forward and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear like he always does before. "Then let me meet you halfway."
She stared at him.
He leaned in—but stopped just before their lips touched. He didn't move closer. Didn't close the gap.
She didn't either.
It wasn't time.
Instead, she leaned her forehead against his chest.
And he wrapped his arms around her slowly, like holding something precious he was afraid to crush.
No fireworks. No dramatic kiss.
Just two people holding each other.
Knowing.
Feeling.
This was the kind of almost that felt louder than a yes.
Minutes passed, and she whispered against his shirt, "I'm afraid."
"So am I."
"But I still want to try."
"Me too."
The night held their words. Sealed them in.
They didn't kiss that night.
But they didn't have to.
Because this—this quiet, aching closeness—was louder than anything they could say.