Some things weren't meant to be loud. Some connections didn't need declarations or captions to make sense. It was in the silent moments, the quiet gestures, the pauses between one breath and the next—where something deeper settled. Ashtine didn't need words. Andres didn't need confirmations. Not when their eyes were already doing the talking.
That weekend, the cast was given a rare day off. No rehearsals, no camera checks, no long hours beneath studio lights. The world outside the drama set resumed, and with it came the usual buzz of social media. Fans posted clips, edits, theories. The tag #Ashdres trended again, as it had quietly begun to do more frequently since their pairing on-screen had started to blur off-screen.
Ashtine wasn't one to post often. Her stories were minimal—usually aesthetics, plants, quotes, or obscure songs. But around noon, she uploaded a single story: a slow pan across a windowsill drenched in sunlight, a steaming cup of tea in frame. The song playing faintly in the background was soft and familiar—an acoustic ballad Andres once sang off-key on set just to annoy her.
It wasn't a love song. Not technically.
But the lyrics lingered.
A few minutes later, Andres posted a story too. Not a mirror selfie or anything flashy. Just a blurred photo of his messy desk, a half-written script, and a note scribbled with: "You always drink chamomile." That was it. No context. Just a line that seemed oddly timed.
Within fifteen minutes, fans picked up on the connection. Screenshots side by side. Theories launched. Tweets spilled. And yet neither of them flinched. Not a denial, not a wink.
Later that evening, their phones buzzed in sync.
Ciara, their co-star and one of the few who had a front-row seat to their developing closeness, messaged the group chat: "Y'all doing a soft launch or just trolling us?"
Ashtine replied with a sticker of a rabbit sipping tea. Andres reacted with a shrug emoji.
But in the quiet of her room, Ashtine scrolled through her own story again, pausing at the sunlight, the tea, the music.
He remembered the chamomile.
She wasn't sure why that made her stomach turn warm.
—
The next day, on set, they were scheduled for a library scene. The tone was light, flirtatious—almost slice-of-life. The director asked them to improv a small exchange, to bring more realism to the banter. Andres sat across from her at the prop-laden table, books spread around, pretending to scribble notes. Ashtine reached over to grab a book and their hands brushed. Light. Accidental. Except it didn't feel accidental.
He leaned in just a bit. "You forgot your tea today."
It was unscripted.
The camera kept rolling.
Ashtine didn't break character. But her lips lifted into the smallest smile.
"Maybe someone drank it all," she whispered back.
The director yelled cut—but not before watching the monitor in stunned silence.
—
After wrap, they sat together on the back steps of the studio, sipping lukewarm drinks from a vending machine. She was tired, her head leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.
He held out his phone. "Wanna see the chaos we caused?"
She peeked. The edits had started again. Fans had paired their Instagram stories with the exact moment from today's scene. The parallel was uncanny. Andres scrolled through more—fan theories, speculations, aesthetic collages. It was almost too much.
"You okay with all this?" he asked quietly.
She considered it. Then nodded. "They only see what we let them."
A beat passed.
"You're letting them see a lot lately," he said, not unkindly.
She turned her head toward him. "So are you."
Neither of them spoke after that. But somehow, in the hush between them, they'd both said enough.
And maybe, just maybe, that was how something real began.
With silent messages. And shared stories. And the decision not to deny it.