---
The apartment was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of the hallway light leaking through the partially closed door. Ashtine lay on her side, blanket tangled around her legs, phone resting beside her pillow like a weight she hadn't decided to lift.
It was past midnight.
Too late for coffee. Too early for breakfast.
The hours between one and two were always the most honest — that strange stretch of time when your thoughts didn't ask for permission, when silence pulled secrets from places you'd tried to tuck them away.
And her screen stayed lit, stubbornly waiting.
She hadn't texted him first before.
Not once.
Even during their early days on set — even when his glances lingered too long or when his teasing softened into something gentler — she always waited. Waited for him to start the conversation. Waited for someone else to point out what they refused to name.
But tonight was different.
Because for the first time, she wanted to be the one who reached across the space between them.
She tapped her screen.
> Are you up?
Simple. Stupid, maybe. But her thumb hovered over the send button like she was writing a confession.
Then —
Send.
She watched the message float to the top of the chat window, blue and quiet.
He saw it almost instantly.
> You always text this late?
Her lips curled.
> Only when I'm not sure if someone else is still awake.
> I was thinking about the coffee.
And the scene yesterday.
And… other things.
There was a pause.
Then his name appeared again, typing.
> What kind of other things?
She stared at the blinking dots.
Then typed:
> Us.
No emoji. No period. Just a raw, open word that felt far heavier than two letters should be.
The response came slower this time.
> Me too.
---
She turned on her side, curling closer to the phone like it had become some kind of lifeline.
He sent another message.
> I almost texted you earlier.
> Why didn't you?
> I didn't want to push.
> What if I wanted to be pushed?
She didn't mean to type that.
But she didn't delete it either.
The typing bubble disappeared, then reappeared.
> Then I would've.
She swallowed. Her mouth was dry, and the weight of the silence in the room now felt more like anticipation than emptiness.
> Can I tell you something stupid? she asked.
> Always.
Her fingers hovered again.
Then she typed slowly:
> I remember your laugh.
> From the first day we met.
You were trying to charm the lighting tech and she wasn't buying it.
But when she walked away, you laughed to yourself.
And I remember thinking it was too loud.
Too real.
She sent it before she could regret it.
Andres's reply didn't come for almost a full minute.
> I remember you walking in.
You looked like you didn't want to be seen.
But everyone looked anyway.
She blinked.
That day had been a blur. Nerves, the press of strangers, the sound of folding chairs and camera clicks and hurried instructions. She didn't remember feeling like she had stood out.
But he had noticed.
Even then.
> Did you ever think, she typed, that we'd be here now?
> Not like this, he replied.
Not this close.
Not this far gone.
> Far gone?
> I think about you more than I should.
That counts, right?
She exhaled slowly, pressing the phone closer to her chest. Her heart was doing that thing again — the uneven, restless thing — like it was trying to respond faster than her fingers could keep up.
> I don't think there's a rule for how much is too much.
> Then I think I'm still safe.
For now.
> Why does it feel like we're tiptoeing?
> Because we are.
> Why?
> Because if I say the wrong thing, I might lose this.
You.
And I've never wanted to be careful and reckless at the same time so badly before.
She didn't respond for a long moment.
Then, quietly:
> What if I don't want you to be careful tonight?
Another silence.
Then his reply came:
> Say that again.
> I don't want you to be careful.
> I'm coming over.
She sat up sharply.
> Andres—
> I'm outside.
I was walking anyway. I didn't expect you to text.
She scrambled toward the window, peeling back the curtain.
And there he was.
Standing by the building's front gate, hoodie pulled tight, hands in pockets, looking up toward her floor with that same unreadable softness in his eyes.
She didn't hesitate.
---
The door unlocked with a soft click, and she pulled it open before he even knocked.
For a second, they just stared at each other.
No script. No crew. No cameras.
Just two people standing in the quiet blur of something too big to name.
He raised a brow. "Hi."
She stepped back to let him in. "You didn't bring coffee this time."
He smiled. "I thought you might have tea."
"I do," she said. "But I probably won't make it."
He stepped inside. The air between them shifted — warmer now. He smelled like the night and a little bit like the hoodie she still had tucked into her closet.
"Why'd you really come?" she asked, softly.
"You told me not to be careful."
"And you listen that well?"
He shrugged. "When it's you."
She looked at him for a long time. "I don't know what this is yet."
"Neither do I."
"But it's not nothing."
"No," he said. "It's not."
They stood there, in that suspended kind of stillness — the kind where the world doesn't move unless you decide to let it.
Then she reached out and took his hand.
Not dramatically. Not even nervously.
Just… firmly.
Like she had already decided.
"You can stay," she said. "If you want."
"I do."
He laced his fingers through hers.
And neither of them said anything else.
Because sometimes, beginnings don't start with a declaration.
They start with one message.
One touch.
One person who finally texts first.
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