He hadn't left.
It was nearly morning now, and neither of them had dared to say the word goodbye. Not once. The world outside the window was changing—shadows softening into the gentle blues and golds of dawn—but inside, it still felt like the night hadn't ended.
Andres sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he'd been trying to make sense of everything in silence. Ashtine came out of the kitchen with two mugs of something hot. The air between them was quieter now, not in discomfort, but in the way things settle when there's no more pretending left to do.
She set his mug down next to him without speaking, then sat cross-legged on the other end of the couch. Her legs brushed his briefly. He didn't pull away.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked softly.
"I did," he replied. "But I kept waking up. Like my body didn't believe it was real."
Ashtine sipped her tea, nodding slowly. "It still doesn't feel real."
He glanced at her. "But it is."
She looked back at him.
It was. No audience. No set. No cues.
Just them.
Andres ran a hand through his hair. "Do you think we broke something?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Whatever line we weren't supposed to cross."
Ashtine leaned her head back on the couch and exhaled, letting the quiet stretch. Then: "If it broke that easily, maybe it wasn't real to begin with."
He smiled faintly. "You're dangerous when you say stuff like that."
"I'm just tired of being careful."
He reached for her hand—fingers brushing, then lacing, like it was muscle memory. Like they'd always done this. She didn't stop him.
She asked, "What do we do now?"
He met her gaze. "We stop acting."
A long silence followed.
Not the kind that begged for filling. The kind that meant something.
She nodded once. "Okay."
That single word? It didn't sound scared. It sounded certain.
He shifted slightly, body angled toward her now. "You sure?"
"I wouldn't be saying it if I wasn't."
And that was the final answer.
She put her mug down and curled into the side of the couch, letting herself lean into him. His arm went around her shoulders without a word.
Outside, the light brightened.
Inside, something settled.
For the first time since they met, there was no tension. No buzz of maybes or what-ifs. Just a stillness that only came when two people finally admitted what the rest of the world had already guessed.
And when her phone buzzed from across the room with new notifications—probably from edits, fan accounts, or yet another theory about what had just aired—neither of them moved to check it.
Because the cameras weren't here.
The moment wasn't being captured.
This wasn't for the audience.
It was theirs.
And it was only just beginning.
—