The next day was a rare one. The skies were clear, the traffic light, and the studio had granted them a half-day. For once, time seemed to stretch rather than chase them.
Ashtine was on her way to the café across from the studio, flipping through her notes and silently rehearsing the lines for tomorrow's shoot. She wore a beige cardigan draped over her shoulders and round glasses she only ever brought out when she was feeling serious. Her hair was tied up loosely, a few strands slipping down the sides of her face.
The café bell rang just as she stepped inside. She blinked in the warm light, greeted by soft jazz music and the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon. As she walked toward the counter, she nearly bumped into someone—someone already waiting for her.
Andres.
He turned around at just the right moment, as if he'd been expecting her.
"You're here early," she said, surprised.
"So are you," he replied, then held something behind his back. "I got you something."
She blinked. "What?"
From behind his back, he pulled out a single flower—lavender, freshly picked, with a slightly bent stem and a soft scent that drifted faintly toward her. "I saw a woman selling these just outside the metro. Thought it looked like something you'd like."
Ashtine stared at it, lips parting. "Is this… part of the script?"
Andres's brow lifted, amused. "You tell me."
She took the flower from him slowly, like it might shatter in her hands. Her fingers brushed against his in the exchange, and neither pulled away quickly enough.
They sat near the window, tucked into a quiet corner of the café. Sunlight streamed through the glass, washing their table in a golden glow. Ashtine placed the flower carefully on the edge of the table, glancing at it now and then like it was a fragile secret between them.
They talked, but not just about lines or scripts. Andres asked her about her favorite scent, and she told him it was the smell of paperbacks. She asked him about his favorite childhood memory, and he told her about summers in Baguio, where he and his cousins used to race kites on breezy hills.
"I always thought you'd be a beach person," she said.
"I hate sand," he replied. "Gets everywhere."
She laughed—an unguarded sound that made his eyes soften.
When their drinks came, he pushed his plate of churros closer to her without asking. She dipped one into his coffee instead of her own, and he didn't even blink. It was easy. Too easy.
"Are we getting too comfortable?" she asked suddenly, fiddling with the flower's stem.
He looked up at her, serious now. "Would that be a bad thing?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Outside, clouds were beginning to gather, smudging the edges of the sky.
"I just don't want people to misunderstand," she said.
"People already misunderstand," he said, tone dry. "They think we're dating."
A pause. Her heartbeat stumbled.
"And we're not?" she asked before she could stop herself.
His gaze met hers, unreadable for a moment. "You tell me."
She didn't have an answer to that. Not yet.
Instead, she changed the subject, asking him what song he had stuck in his head lately. He sang the chorus softly, and she teased him for going off-key, even though he wasn't.
The flower stayed on the table between them the whole time—untouched, delicate, and somehow heavier than it should have been.
When they finally got up to leave, he walked her to the curb. The skies above threatened rain, but still hadn't broken. A moment lingered as she stood by the crosswalk, holding the lavender in one hand.
He adjusted her cardigan over her shoulder. "You'll lose it again."
She looked up at him. The words trembled at the edge of her throat.
"Thanks for the flower," she said quietly.
He smiled, just a little. "Don't read into it."
She watched him cross the street, watched him disappear around the corner. Only then did she glance down at the flower in her hand.
She read into it anyway.
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