Ashtine wasn't the type to remember dreams. Her mind usually emptied itself like a chalkboard wiped clean by morning—no images, no feelings, just silence. But that morning, she woke up to the sun creeping in through her blinds, a half-remembered sentence buzzing behind her eyelids, and a familiar voice echoing in her chest.
Andres.
In the dream, he hadn't said much. He had only looked at her. That look he did sometimes when they weren't filming—when the cameras were off but he hadn't stopped acting like she was the only person in the room. The look that started as curiosity and slowly grew into something else.
Something dangerous.
Something that stayed.
She sat up in bed, pulling the comforter around her and pressing her fingers to her temple, as if she could summon the dream back just by wanting it hard enough. There was a flower. A field, maybe. And he was there. Hands in his pockets. Waiting.
He smiled like he already knew her answer.
She shook her head. "Get a grip," she muttered to herself.
But the rest of the morning passed in a haze. Her cereal tasted like nothing. Her phone buzzed once, twice, and when she glanced down to see a text from Andres—"You up? Call time's been moved to 11."—her pulse skipped in a way it hadn't in weeks.
—
When she arrived on set, he was already there, leaning back in a director's chair, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, sipping from a coffee that was definitely not on his meal plan.
"Late night?" she asked, dropping her tote near the makeup mirror.
He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."
She paused mid-step. "Same."
Their eyes met for a second too long.
"You ever have one of those dreams that just won't shut up?" he asked casually, like it wasn't the exact question that had been stuck in her throat since dawn.
She swallowed. "Maybe."
He grinned, tapping his phone. "My cousin said she dreamt we got married last night. Said she was mad I didn't invite her."
She tried to laugh, but her lips betrayed her, curling up like her heart knew something she didn't.
—
The scene that day was supposed to be soft. Their characters had just gone through a small crisis and were finding calm in each other again. It was simple—Andres had to place a blanket over her shoulders, sit beside her, and talk quietly under the moonlight glow of a fake night sky.
But when the cameras rolled, and he placed the blanket around her, his fingers brushed her collarbone. She inhaled sharply—not from shock, but recognition.
This felt familiar.
Like something she had already lived.
Like something from a dream.
He sat beside her. The script called for him to ask, "What are you thinking?"
But what he actually said was, "Were you dreaming of me?"
She stared at him, blinking.
The director didn't cut.
She tilted her head slightly, her voice barely audible. "What if I was?"
He smiled. "Then I hope I was kind."
The camera caught everything.
After the take, no one spoke. The director gave a soft nod and walked off. The crew moved slower than usual. Something had shifted.
—
That night, Andres posted an Instagram story. It was just a close-up of a sky full of stars. No caption. No tag.
Ashtine posted a photo too—her hand, holding a flower she picked up on her walk home. Beneath the petals, you could barely make out her reflection in the glass.
Fan pages immediately started speculating again. "What do you mean they're just co-stars? What do you mean this isn't real?"
But in the silence between them, as they lay in their separate homes staring at separate ceilings, they were both thinking the same thing:
Why are you in my dreams?
And why does it feel more real than anything else?
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