The rooftop moment never really ended. It just stretched—quietly—into the next day. Into every glance across the set, into every casual brush of the hand that lingered longer than it should have. It lived in the air between them like an echo: soft, patient, undeniable.
Ashtine hadn't told anyone. Neither had Andres. But it wasn't exactly a secret either. You could tell by the way they looked at each other now—less guarded, more vulnerable. A secret wrapped in plain sight.
Their director noticed it first. He didn't say a word about it, but the way he scheduled scenes—always pairing them, always giving them long, tension-filled moments together—said everything.
By the third day of shooting since that night, it was getting harder to act like they weren't… something.
—
It was a lunch break. Most of the cast had gone to a nearby café. Ashtine stayed behind, claiming she wanted to review her lines. Andres stayed too.
They found themselves in one of the quieter dressing rooms, sitting opposite each other at the long table scattered with makeup kits, scripts, and old coffee cups. He was flipping through his script, but his eyes kept flicking up.
"You know," he murmured, "you're bad at pretending nothing happened."
She raised a brow. "You're worse. You keep smiling at me when you think I'm not looking."
He leaned back, arms crossed. "Can you blame me?"
She tried to hide the smile that tugged at her lips. "It's fatal."
"What is?"
"This. Us."
He stood and slowly made his way to her side of the table. He didn't touch her. Just stood there, looking down at her. He was close. Too close that she had to lean against the table.
"Too late to turn back now."
Her breath caught.
"And what if we mess this up?" she asked quietly.
He crouched down beside her chair so they were eye-level.
"Then we mess it up," he said. "But I'd rather mess it up with you than play it safe without you."
A silence fell. One of those soft, heavy silences full of things unsaid.
Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.
It wasn't a kiss.
Not yet.
But it was close.
So close it burned.
"I think we've fallen already," she whispered.
He closed his eyes.
"I know," he replied.
Their noses touched. She tilted her head just slightly. Enough.
This time, he didn't stop himself.
The kiss wasn't dramatic. It wasn't sweeping or explosive.
It was slow. Careful. Real.
Like two people memorizing something sacred.
When they pulled apart, she stayed close. Breathing him in. Her fingers brushed the edge of his collar. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, like it was a habit from the start.
"I don't know what we're doing," she admitted.
"Neither do I," he replied. "But it feels right."
She nodded. "Yeah. It really does."
And when they left the room, side by side, nothing had been officially said. No labels. No announcements.
But the way they moved now—synchronized, comfortable, magnetic—said everything.
The crew noticed. The fans noticed. Even the smallest glance between them had the power to set social media on fire.
But none of it mattered.
Because when the lights dimmed, when the cameras paused, and they were just two people in a quiet moment again—she would smile at him like he was home.
And he'd look at her like she was already his.
Maybe they weren't ready to say it out loud.
But it was too late.
They had already fallen.
And they weren't turning back.