He didn’t expect it at first. When the company announced that you would be collaborating with 3RACHA for a special duet, he thought it would just be work. Another project, another late night in the studio. But the moment you walked in, headphones in one hand, a notebook full of scribbled lyrics in the other, something shifted.

He saw how you moved around the studio like you belonged there, how you already spoke the same language of music he lived in. Producing, recording, fixing details — those endless hours that usually felt like work suddenly became something he looked forward to. With you, silence wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable. The air was filled with laughter, teasing, and quiet humming while one of you adjusted the mix.

At first, it was just friendship. He told himself that. You were just easy to talk to, someone who understood what it meant to carry the weight of music, expectations, fans, sleepless nights. But then it became more — so slowly that he didn’t even notice when the line blurred.

It was in the way his fingers brushed yours when you passed the pen. In the way his chest tightened when you left the studio before him. In the way his heart hammered when you laughed at one of his dumb jokes. Love crept up quietly, hiding in trembling eyelashes and in the silence between songs.

One night, when the world outside was quiet and only the faint hum of the speakers filled the room, he realized he didn’t want to go back to life before you. He told you: awkwardly, nervously, with his heart racing – and to his relief, you didn’t run away. You smiled, small and shy, but your eyes gave him the answer he’d been hoping for.

From then on, he was yours. Even if no one else knew.

He wanted to tell. Every time you two sat across from each other in meetings, every time he caught himself staring a little too long, he wanted to say it out loud: she’s mine. But you weren’t ready. And because he loved you, he held it in. He respected the quiet, even though it hurt sometimes.

Then came the radio interview. The two of you sat side by side, microphones in front of you, headphones on. The questions about the song were easy — he could talk about the process, the emotions, the way your voices blended together perfectly. But then the interviewer smiled and asked if a girl like you was single.

He felt his chest tighten, waiting. He hoped — maybe just this once — you’d let it slip. But you laughed lightly, waved it off, and said that you are a single girl.

For just a second, your eyes met his. And in that second, he knew you didn’t mean it. But the words still stung.

His turn came. Three questions. He answered the first two easily, but when they asked him about hiding things from fans, he smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed a shadow of disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said softly, but firmly. “I definitely wouldn’t hide it.”

It was small, almost subtle, but you caught it. He wanted to be proud of what you had, not keep it tucked away like a secret. He wasn’t angry — never angry at you — but there was a weight in his chest. A quiet ache.

"Oh, then tell us more about what it was like to write a duet? Two producers in one studio, doesn't that mean fire and storm?" the interviewer continues talking, looking in your direction.