---
They weren't supposed to kiss.
It wasn't in the script.
Not on this scene. Not like this.
But when the camera rolled and the lights dimmed low and the rain machine started humming just outside the studio walls — something shifted.
Something gave.
---
"Places!" the assistant director called, headset clutched to her jaw. "Scene forty-three, take one."
Ashtine was already in position, sitting on the edge of the bed that had been styled to look like Evelyn's apartment — warm lighting, a messy blanket, and a single flower in a vase on the nightstand.
The flower was a rose.
Red. Familiar.
Too familiar.
She tried not to think about last night. Tried not to hear the memory of Andres's quiet voice in her hallway or the way their hands had fit together without hesitation. But her chest was still buzzing with something dangerous. Something warm. Something very, very alive.
She heard footsteps.
Then his voice — softer than usual, like it had been slowed down by the weight of what they weren't saying.
"You called?"
She looked up.
Andres — Ren — stood in the doorway. He looked… different. Not because of the wardrobe. Not because of the lighting.
Because he wasn't pretending anymore.
"I didn't think you'd come," she said, trying to stay in character.
He stepped in slowly, shutting the door behind him.
The script called for a conversation about regrets. About mistakes. A pause. A hand on the shoulder. Then a cut to black.
No kiss.
No closeness.
Just emotional tension. The usual tease.
But when he walked across the set and sat next to her, the air thickened.
It wasn't scripted the way his eyes fell to her mouth.
It wasn't scripted how her fingers curled into her lap just to keep from reaching for him.
The director didn't call cut.
Andres whispered the line.
> "I never stopped wanting this."
Ashtine's breath hitched.
That wasn't in the script.
She blinked — barely — but her heart skipped two beats instead of one.
"What?"
He looked at her like they were alone. Like everyone else in the room didn't exist.
"I never stopped wanting you."
The room was silent.
Not even a crew member dared to breathe.
Ashtine leaned back slightly — just a fraction — but it wasn't fear.
It was surprise.
And something else.
The camera rolled.
She whispered, "Then why did you leave?"
Another unscripted line.
His voice cracked. Just enough.
"Because wanting you scared me more than losing you."
Silence.
Her hand moved — instinctively — touching his wrist.
Andres turned to her fully now.
And then — it happened.
He leaned in.
So did she.
And in the small space between denial and surrender, they kissed.
Not the usual movie kiss — not something posed or overly framed.
This was soft.
Unscripted.
Real.
Her hand found the side of his jaw.
His fingers curled into the back of her shirt.
And when they pulled away, she was breathing too fast.
His forehead rested against hers.
Neither said a word.
The director stood slowly from his chair.
"…Cut."
It came out like a confession.
Someone exhaled off-camera. A quiet, nervous laugh.
The room burst into hushed whispers and glances — crew whispering to each other, someone scribbling in a notebook, the makeup artist pressing a hand over her mouth.
Ashtine was still staring at Andres.
She was not acting.
Neither was he.
The director walked over. "That was… wow. Okay. That was not in the original plan but…" he trailed off, then looked at both of them.
"I take it you two are on the same page?"
Andres didn't look away from her. "We're figuring it out."
Ashtine laughed softly under her breath.
Not a forced laugh.
One that said: Yeah. We are.
---
Later, in the dressing room, she sat on the counter while Andres stood by the wall, arms crossed, head tilted back like he was reliving every second.
"You said that line on purpose," she said.
He nodded. "I've been holding it in."
"And the kiss?"
He looked at her. "Wasn't supposed to happen."
"But you did it anyway."
"You kissed me back."
"I panicked."
"No," he said, walking toward her. "You chose."
She smiled.
He leaned against the counter beside her, close enough for their knees to touch.
"I don't want to blur it anymore," she said quietly.
"Me neither."
"Then what are we doing?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Something new."
"Something dangerous."
"Something real."
She turned her head to look at him.
He was already watching her.
"You think the fans are gonna lose it?" she asked.
"They already are," he said. "But for once… let's not give them a script."
---
Later that evening, the official account of the show posted a still from the kiss scene. No caption. Just the moment — pure and raw.
The comments exploded.
> "WAIT. THIS WASN'T IN THE TRAILER??"
"Is this even acting anymore??"
"The eyes, the breath before the kiss — girl what IS this chemistry?"
"Ashdres realer than my own relationship, I fear."
Neither of them reposted the image.
But Ashtine posted something else.
A photo of a red rose on a page of a torn script.
Caption:
> "Sometimes the best scenes… write themselves."
Andres liked it within thirty seconds.
Then reposted it with:
> "No regrets."
---
Backstage, while everyone pretended not to watch, they stood a little closer than usual.
And this time?
They didn't pretend at all.
---