They were a mix of immigrants, first generation, and those whose heritage went further back. Lily’s family had lived in Arizona for multiple generations. And the rest of the cast and crew hailed from many other Latin American countries: Colombia, Panama, Brazil, Ecuador, and more.

On a bulletin board outside the showrunner’s office, Marquita had posted a sign that said QUÉ BONITAS BANDERAS and invited everyone to tack up their respective flags to show the range of nationalities in the production, but also that the strength of the Latinx comunidad was in its diversity. Marquita had also made a point to include a rainbow pride flag and the pink, white, and light blue trans flag. Nino had gone still as a statue when he’d seen it, then hugged Marquita tight.

Ashton had been on many sets that were majority Latinx, but there was something different about this one. Maybe because it was for a mainstream streaming service, but there was a fierce pride in what they were doing here, a shared determination to make Carmen in Charge the very best it could be. And now, it showed in the way they let loose.

The thing about doing karaoke with actors was that they didn’t just sit around singing. They performed. Lily and Nino knew all the dance moves to *NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye.” Peter treated them to a rendition of “My Way” that would’ve made Sinatra proud. And when Jasmine’s song choice finally came up, she took the mic and said, “Yes, I am that basic karaoke bitch,” as the first strains of “Everlasting Love” rang out.

And then she turned and held out the other mic. “Sing with me, Ashton.”

He couldn’t refuse.

By tacit agreement, they alternated lyrics and harmonized on the chorus, like in the Rex Smith version of the song. It could have been sexy. It could have been emotional. But they did sexy and emotional every day for work. Instead, they made it as silly as fucking possible.

Ashton couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more fun.

When they took their seats again, it was to a round of applause and hollers. Then a Marc Anthony ballad came on and Nino took the mic.

Ashton flopped down on the purple vinyl couch. It had been years since he’d done karaoke, and he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it. Still, thanks to kitten-induced congestion, he was worn out. He stretched his arms across the back of the sofa and fought to catch his breath.

“Well, that was fun.” Jasmine took the seat next to him and cozied up to his side. “I knew you’d be a good singer.”

“Nah, I just play one on TV,” he said, and she giggled.

Damn, he loved making her laugh. The joyful sound, the way her cheeks scrunched up, the way her warm body shook against him. He wanted to put his arm around her, to hold her close. To look deeply in her eyes and then—

But they weren’t alone. And he wasn’t supposed to want that, although he was starting to forget why. Instead, he just played with the ends of her hair, styled into a mass of defined curls by the hair team at Carmen. When she tilted her head closer, he let the backs of his fingers lightly brush her bare shoulders and pretended her shirt wasn’t setting him on fire.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn. Lily Benitez crawled across the long sofa to Jasmine’s side. “Oh my god, you guys,” she said, slurring her words a little. “You two are so cute together. Is there, like, something going on?”

Ashton snatched his hand away from Jasmine’s shoulder like it was a hot stove. His throat locked and his heart rate rocketed.

Coño. This was how rumors started. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known better than to—

Jasmine just gave Lily an unconcerned smile. “Nah. Why do you ask?”

At that, Lily shrugged and slumped against Jasmine’s shoulder. “Just curious. It happens on a lot of sets, you know.”

Jasmine laughed. “Oh, I know.”

“Cool.” And then Lily flipped her hair and went back to nursing a cup of water at the other end of the room.

While Ashton struggled to get his pulse under control, Jasmine looked up at him from under her lashes. Her eyes were dark and unreadable, reflecting the light from the screen flashing lyrics for “You Sang to Me.”

Then she poked him in the side and muttered, “Don’t get bent out of shape.”

“You handled that well,” Ashton told her, impressed by how easily she managed awkward interactions. He would have stammered and rambled, then run away.

Her gaze held his for a long moment before she looked away. “Nothing to tell.”

Her tone was cool, but there were many things unsaid in those words, and they were at odds with the heat in her eyes. Ashton felt like he did when they were on set together, when Carmen and Victor spoke without speaking, conveying so much connection in a single look or touch. Right then, he felt it. Like he knew her deeply, as if all their time on set pretending to be other people had also brought them closer together.

The powerful impulse to know her even more deeply rose up inside him.

But as much as he wanted to kiss her right now, as himself, they were in a room full of their coworkers. And this was a line he’d sworn he wouldn’t cross ever again.

A shout went up as the others recognized the opening bars of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

“That’s my song,” he whispered to Jasmine alone.

Her teeth bared in a fierce smile and her eyes gleamed. She handed him the extra mic and said, “Kill it.”

He did. Allergies be damned. He gave the song his all, copying Ricky Martin’s mannerisms and revving his voice. The others danced and sang along, urging on his theatrics. Through it all, he kept finding Jasmine’s eyes shining at him from across the room.

It was all for her. He wanted Jasmine to see him, the real him. Ángel Luis, the boy who’d grown up dreaming of being a big movie star. And Ashton, the man who ran around with his son playing superheroes.

He wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn’t. Instead, he let her see a glimpse of who he felt himself to be inside . . . through the words and moves of the great Ricky Martin.

When it was over, the crowd, as they say, went wild. Jasmine found him and slipped a hand around his waist when no one was looking.

“You’re amazing.” Genuine admiration glowed on her face, lighting him up from within. Then she winked and grabbed the mic from him as “Jenny from the Block” flashed across the screen in garish pink. “But let me show you how it’s done.”

Jasmine raised the mic to her mouth. “Gotta remember your roots,” she said, then proceeded to serenade the room with a powerful rendition of JLo’s early hit about growing up in the Bronx.

Ashton couldn’t take his eyes off her. She shone like the brightest star in the sky, commanding the heart and imagination. Everything else paled in comparison to her radiance.

He should leave. Watch some TV, go to sleep, wake up tomorrow with new resolve to keep his distance. His life was complicated enough without developing feelings for his costar.

Instead, Ashton drank more. He sang more. He chatted with the others and shared a basket of french fries—his weakness—with Nino. And somehow, he never lost track of Jasmine. She appeared at his side periodically, checking in on him, handing him wine, water, tissues. Touching his waist, his back, his arm. Driving him wild with her smiles and small touches.