The studio smelled like floor polish, stale air, and coffee that had been brewed one too many hours ago. Typical rehearsal day. There was an extra echo in the room that morning, though—as if something unsaid hung around the high ceilings, waiting to land.
Ashtine walked in first, her hoodie tugged over her head and a script tucked tightly under one arm. She looked calm, unreadable. You'd never guess she had spent the morning replaying the memory of Andres's breath against her neck. Or that she had woken up warm and curled into him like it had always been that way.
Andres arrived four minutes later. He always did. Never early. Never late. Just… timed like gravity itself.
They didn't hug.
They didn't smile too much.
But her eyes caught his.
And his lingered for one heartbeat longer than it should have.
No one noticed. Or so they thought.
"Scene 8, take one," the assistant director called.
They were supposed to play awkward exes in this part of the movie. Two characters who hadn't seen each other in three years, pretending they'd moved on.
Irony was loud in the room.
Ashtine sat across from him on the prop bench. He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees, looking at her like he hadn't already memorized the curve of her cheek in the morning light. Like he wasn't remembering how soft her voice sounded before coffee.
"You good?" he mouthed quickly.
She gave a subtle nod.
The scene began.
His character was supposed to say, "You haven't changed."
But as she tilted her head and smiled—just a little, just enough—Andres completely forgot his line.
"Cut," the director said, not unkindly.
Andres blinked, then looked sheepishly down at his script.
"Sorry. My bad."
Ashtine smiled wider. Teasing. Dangerous.
They reset. The take began again.
This time, he delivered the line. She replied. Dialogue moved like air between them.
Then came the laugh.
Her laugh.
It wasn't in the script.
Andres had ad-libbed a small joke, barely under his breath. Just to make her smile. But she had laughed—quiet and real, the kind that curled at the edges. The kind that sounded like sunlight slipping through a window.
He looked stunned.
Because that laugh? That was for him.
"Cut," the director said again. "Ashtine, that wasn't in the take, but keep it. Let's try one more for coverage."
She just gave a small shrug, still fighting the smile.
Everyone else moved around, prepping for the next angle. But Andres stayed frozen a second longer, staring at the space her laughter had left behind. He couldn't stop hearing it. It wasn't just her laugh.
It was the fact that it had been his to earn.
—
Lunch break was in fifteen minutes.
They sat side by side on the steps of the empty stage, sipping water and flipping through notes. The cast was spread out across the soundstage, everyone in their own world.
"You did that on purpose," she said, not looking up.
He grinned. "What?"
"You said something to make me laugh."
He leaned back on his elbows. "You've been tense all morning."
She glanced at him. "And you've been pretending not to look at me."
"Because when I do," he said, "you look back."
That shut her up.
The quiet fell again, but this time it buzzed with electricity.
"You really like my laugh?" she asked finally.
He didn't hesitate.
"It's my favorite sound."
She swallowed.
The next moment felt like a step too close. Like if he reached forward right now and tucked her hair behind her ear, they'd cross a line they couldn't uncross.
But he didn't.
And she didn't ask him to.
—
The next scene was a more physical one. Not romantic—yet. But their characters had to stand close. Close enough for whispers.
Blocking was casual.
Except nothing between them was casual anymore.
The choreographer was trying to give them directions. "So you'll stand here, then pivot to face her like this, and your hands—Andres, pay attention."
He jolted slightly. "Sorry. Yep. Hands?"
She was biting the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh.
He caught it. "You're enjoying this."
She didn't deny it.
They practiced again.
This time, they landed too close.
His breath tickled her forehead. Her hand grazed his arm. Neither of them moved.
"You're doing it again," she whispered.
"What?"
"Looking at me like that."
"You're the one talking under your breath."
"Because you forgot your lines again."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"Okay. Maybe a little."
"Why?" she asked, quieter now.
He looked at her like the answer was obvious.
"Because your laugh keeps echoing in my head."
The director yelled something from across the room. They both blinked back to attention.
—
By the time rehearsal ended, the cast was tired. Wrung out. Everyone was packing up, chattering about ride shares and delivery food.
Andres walked over to her dressing room, hovering in the doorway.
"Hey."
She looked up. "Hey."
He scratched the back of his neck. "We're still keeping this to ourselves, right?"
Ashtine nodded. "Yeah. It's better this way."
"But I can still say I missed you?" he asked.
She blinked. Her mouth parted slightly.
"You missed me?"
He shrugged, stepping inside. "Just a little. It's weird, going from falling asleep next to you to pretending like I don't want to do that again."
Her heart thudded.
"And your laugh," he said, voice lower now, "was my favorite thing about today."
She reached for her bag slowly. "You say that like you've been keeping track."
He smiled.
"I have."
And he walked away before she could say anything else.
Because sometimes, the right moment is the one that leaves you wanting more.
And sometimes, silence speaks volumes.