Chapter 14 - We Fought Like It Mattered

(Warning: Explicit curses ahead and...🤭🤫)

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The rooftop had always belonged to them.

It was their refuge, their unspoken meeting place. It had witnessed their laughter, their glances that lingered too long, the beginning of something neither of them ever dared define. But now—now, it felt cold. Like it, too, knew something had changed.

Ashtine stood with her back to the entrance, arms hugging her waist like she could hold herself together. She hadn't planned what to say. Just knew she had to be here. Maybe he'd show up.

Andres did.

The door slammed open, and there he was, his silhouette framed by the glow of a fading sky. He looked at her for a moment too long before speaking.

"Didn't think you'd still want to meet here."

She didn't turn. "I didn't either."

A pause. Heavy and hesitant.

"I read the fans' edits," she said quietly.

Andres stepped forward slowly, keeping distance. "Yeah?"

"They think we're soulmates."

He gave a humorless chuckle. "They don't know shit."

That did it. She turned around sharply, her eyes blazing. "What the hell did you just say?"

"You heard me," he said, shrugging like it didn't matter. "They romanticize everything. Even when we were falling apart, they made it look beautiful."

"Maybe it was," she snapped. "Maybe the only dumbass who didn't see it was you."

His jaw tensed. "You didn't exactly try to fix it either."

She stepped closer. "Don't freaking start. You left. You looked away. You kept leaving even when you were standing right in front of me."

Andres's voice sharpened. "I left because I was tired of begging for scraps of your attention."

Her voice cracked. "You were never begging. I was the one overthinking every smile, wondering if the way you held me on set meant something—or if I was just another fucking prop to you."

He snapped. "You? You who disappeared after every wrap? You who couldn't even text me on my birthday?"

"You want to talk about that?" Her voice rose, raw and bitter. "I sat with my phone the entire goddamn day, Andres. I wanted to message you. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Because I didn't want to be just another name you ignored like it meant nothing."

He took a step forward. "You think I wouldn't have answered you?"

She laughed, bitter and disbelieving. "You didn't even try, Andres! The moment the cameras stopped rolling, so did you. You went silent. You fucking ghosted me and pretended it was fine."

"I didn't know how to reach you anymore," he yelled. "Every time I spoke, I felt like I was walking through fucking landmines. Nothing I said was right."

"I didn't want perfect," she hissed. "I wanted you. The real you. The one who used to give a damn."

"I still gave a damn," he said, voice low, trembling. "I just didn't know if you did."

"Don't you f- dare," she said, stepping closer until they were inches apart. "Don't turn this around like I wasn't trying. I was screaming for you—every fucking time I smiled through the hurt. Every time I waited for a message that never came. I was holding on."

Andres looked like he wanted to yell. Instead, he clenched his jaw and said quietly, "You know what it felt like? Like I was in love with a ghost. You were there, but you weren't with me. And I was fucking drowning."

Her eyes burned. "You think you were the only one drowning?"

They stared at each other, raw and brutal.

"I loved you," she whispered.

He blinked hard. "Yeah. Well. I loved you too."

Her shoulders sagged. "Then why does it feel like none of it mattered?"

"Because we broke it," he muttered. "And neither of us knew how to fix it."

"I will never be over you," he said, low and raw.

Their eyes met—hot, wild, chaotic. Neither moved.

Ashtine's lips parted, and she whispered, "Then prove it."

Without thinking, without breathing, she grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward—

And pressed her lips against his. Harshly.

Not a soft, innocent kiss. This was fire. Wild. French. Desperate. She poured everything she couldn't say into that one moment—the anger, the longing, the love, the fucking pain.

Andres froze for a heartbeat, completely thrown. But the moment her hands slid up his chest, he melted. His arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her in like he was afraid she'd vanish again. The kiss deepened, rough and messy, unfiltered. Their bodies pressed close, their pain burning up in the heat of each other.

Then just as suddenly, Ashtine pulled away.

She was breathing hard, face flushed, eyes wide. Andres was equally stunned.

"Shit," she mumbled.

And without another word, she turned and rushed down the stairs—leaving him standing there, lips still tingling, heart wrecked.

She kissed him.

And she left.

Again.

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Later that night...

Wide awake. Her eyes lingered on the clock.

4:00 a.m.

And still, she couldn't sleep.

Ashtine — who once loved naps, who could doze off in minutes — now lay restless. Sleep had become impossible.

That kiss kept replaying in her mind.

With a soft groan, she wiped her face with both palms. She had turned, twisted, flipped the pillow over, and changed sides — but no matter what she did, she couldn't shut her eyes.

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Andres lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. He turned to his side and checked his phone, confirming the misery of being wide awake since 11 p.m.

4:00 am.

The silence in his room was heavy. The kind that didn't soothe you — it pressed down on you. And Andres had never been more awake in his life.

He dragged a hand through his hair for the third time in ten minutes. Maybe fourth. He'd lost count.

She kissed him. Intense. Dangerous.

No—they had kissed. It wasn't one-sided. It wasn't planned. It just happened—and the moment it did, the entire world tilted. Something shifted in the air, in his chest, in them.

And now?

Now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Her closeness. The way her breath caught. The way her eyes fluttered closed just before their lips met. He hadn't imagined that. He was sure of it. There was something there.

He turned to his side, gripping the pillow like it could anchor him.

Andres wasn't the type to overthink. But tonight, his brain wouldn't shut off. His heartbeat hadn't returned to normal since the moment he walked her home. He hadn't even bothered changing clothes. He just collapsed into bed and replayed the moment on loop.

He blinked at the ceiling again.

This was bad. Very bad.

Or maybe — finally — this was good.

He didn't know yet.

All he knew was that it was 4 a.m., and she was on his mind like a song he didn't know the lyrics to — just the feeling it left behind.

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