Rain slid down the glass walls of the villa, soft and persistent, a rhythm that pulsed against the dim-lit studio like a second heartbeat. The scent of wet earth mixed with coffee and lavender candles—the producers’ idea of “inspiration.” Cameras nestled in corners, blinking red but mostly forgotten now. Weeks of constant filming made them feel like ghosts. Background noise. Like the piano that played itself at night.

She sat on the floor, barefoot, notebook open on her knees. The room glowed warm amber, studio lights softened like sunset. A fireplace crackled behind the glass divider, more for the mood than heat. Across the rug, he sprawled with a guitar, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair damp from the rain, eyes locked on the ceiling like lyrics were hidden there.

No one said this was a dating show. No roses, no eliminations. Just artists thrown into a glass box, told to live, create, collaborate. Write a love song. Share a room. Share a bed. “See what happens,” the showrunners said, half-joking. Half not.

At first, it was silence. Then music. Then tension. Then too many late nights writing by candlelight, fingers brushing when they reached for the same chord. Shared laughs. Shared sweat. Shared sleep—not like that, not yet—but closeness. Breath-warmth. Knees tangled under comforters.

The new challenge card lay between them now: Tonight, write a duet. About the moment you fell for each other.

Neither moved. Rain echoed on the roof.

She looked up. “Did you know?”

He didn’t look away. “Since the second night.”

A pause. The quiet stretched, golden and heavy.

She blinked, almost smiled. “That early?”

He nodded once. “You laughed in your sleep.”

The camera blinked red in the corner. But neither of them looked. The rain kept falling. And the pen in her hand didn’t move—not yet. She was still holding her breath.