The dressing room was quieter than usual, lit only by the golden glow of vanity bulbs that reflected their slightly flushed faces in the mirror. The script lay flat between them, ignored for a good few minutes now. They were supposed to be rehearsing, but neither could focus—especially not Ashtine.
Her fingers twitched slightly over the edge of the script. She wasn't reading the lines anymore. Her mind kept replaying that night on the rooftop. The words they'd hurled, the truth they finally admitted, the rawness—and then, that kiss. That ridiculous, fiery, all-consuming kiss that hadn't let her sleep since.
Her hand absentmindedly grazed her lips, brushing over them like she could still feel his mouth on hers. And then—she did it. She pressed two fingers lightly against her bottom lip.
"Are you checking if it's still there?"
Andres's voice broke through the silence like a match striking against stone.
Ashtine flinched, hand snapping back like she'd been caught sneaking candy in class. "What?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes squinting at her. "Your lips. You were touching them like they were cursed."
She turned away, the heat crawling up her neck and exploding across her cheeks. "I wasn't!"
"You totally were." He leaned back in the chair across from her and crossed his arms. "Should I be worried?"
She huffed, grabbing the script and shoving it in front of her face like it was a shield. "Worried? About what?"
"I don't know. That you've been hexed or something. I mean, you've been zoning out for five minutes. That's a new record, even for you."
Ashtine peeked over the top of the script, eyes narrowing. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"I live for moments like this." He smirked. "You're blushing so hard, it's like your whole face is on fire. And for the record—I didn't know kissing me would break your brain."
She slammed the script shut and threw it on the table. "It didn't!"
"Then why did you just smack yourself in the mouth with your fingers like you were testing for some nerve damage?"
Ashtine grabbed a cushion from the nearby sofa and launched it straight at his head. He ducked just in time, laughing like a child who just witnessed someone trip gracefully in public.
"Don't test me," she warned, pointing a finger.
"Can't help it," he said. "You're cute when you're flustered."
Silence fell for a second. Not because they ran out of words—but because that one sentence hung there, raw and unfiltered.
Andres blinked, realizing what he just said. "I mean—uh, like... cute in a weird 'please don't stab me with your highlighter' kind of way."
Ashtine's face only grew redder, but this time there was a twitch at the corners of her lips. "You're the worst improviser I've ever met."
He smiled, softer now. "But I'm still your scene partner."
Her eyes met his, and this time she didn't look away.
"Yeah," she said. "You are."
Their moment stretched—comfortably this time. No yelling, no pain. Just tension and heat under quiet understanding. A little awkward. A little sweet.
The door creaked open suddenly, and a crew member popped their head in. "You two ready for rehearsal?"
Both of them jumped a little.
"Yeah!" they said in unison, too quickly.
The crew member raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but left without commenting.
Ashtine glanced at Andres. "We should probably get back to acting."
He grinned. "We're really bad at pretending lately."
She sighed, but a smile tugged at her lips. "Let's just try not to kiss or kill each other this time."
"No promises," he said, grabbing his script.
And yet, something between them had softened.
A memory turned into a blush. A tease turned into warmth.
And somewhere between laughter and lines, they both realized—
They weren't acting anymore. Not really.
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