Two weeks ago, I received an email: the first shoot would take place in a bungalow—a "get to know each other" session. To preserve excitement and mystery, the producer insisted we not meet beforehand.
Fine by me… though I hadn't exactly braced for what came next.
When I arrived, someone I assumed was part of the production team ushered me into a room for makeup and wardrobe prep. We were told to look presentable—but the makeup and styling went far beyond that. It was more theatrical than natural. My skin, caked with foundation, looked artificially smooth, pale to the point of porcelain. I hardly recognized myself in the mirror.
Forty-five minutes later: lashes curled, cheeks sculpted, mouth glossed—Showtime.
"Chloe, you're up."
Okay. One, two. One, two. I counted my steps like I was marching into battle—anything to anchor myself against the rising tide of nerves. Still, my thoughts spiraled: What will the others look like?Are they as jittery as I am? Young, radiant, effortlessly magnetic? Will I be the odd one out?
I'm thirty-one. That number echoed louder than it should've. What if I'm too old for this? What if they all look like they stepped out of K-dramas?
Deep breath. I reached for the doorknob and twisted it open.
"Hi…"
That was all I managed. One syllable.
I'd rehearsed greetings with Jessica—smiles, tone, posture. But now, I wasn't even sure my face was cooperating. Did I look warm or weirdly constipated?
Ugh. So much for practice.
I slid awkwardly onto a couch beside the friendliest-looking girl. Three were already seated—two guys and one woman. I made four.
She smiled warmly. "Hi, I'm Jessica. What's your name?"
My brows lifted in surprise. "Oh! You're Jessica? My best friend's name is Jessica too. She's the one who signed me up for this."
I paused. She was still looking at me—expectant, polite.
"Oh—sorry. My name's Chloe. C-H-L-O-E."
Why did I spell it? Who spells Chloe aloud? God, I'm malfunctioning.
But she was gracious. She sensed the tremor under my voice and gave me a kind smile. "That's a cute name. It suits you."
Gesturing toward the guys, she added, "That's Zack, and this is Aaron."
Zack looked like he'd been sculpted from protein powder and locker-room lighting—lean, bronzed, taut. Aaron, in contrast, had the complexion of someone who'd wrestled with a bag of flour and lost.
Seriously? These are the options? Why am I here? Of course, that stayed in my head. Social grace hadn't completely left the building.
More participants trickled in.
First: Zi Qian. Modest, tidy. The kind who graduates first-class honors and still emails "Thank you, sir" to his lecturers ten years later.
Then came Zhi Qing. Her name practically whispered she was Zi Qian's sister. She radiated polished charm—sweet, cute, the kind of girl who wore sunscreen in photos and never had spinach stuck between her teeth. Ah, a fan favorite in the making. The girl-next-door voters adore.
And then… Zi Yang.
Handsome. Capital-H Handsome.
A jawline engineered for slow-motion montages. Hair tousled, lips smirking. The kind of man whose own reflection probably winked at him.
But oddly—no flutter. No butterflies. Just… stillness.
What's wrong with me? Early menopause? Has celibacy turned me emotionally extinct?
I was deep in this existential spiral when—
She walked in.
Tall. Slender. Graceful.
"Hi, my name is Michelle," she said, and the air around her seemed to shift—charged, but somehow still soft.
Her smile was unhurried, languid. The kind that doesn't need practice. The kind that finds you.
Her outfit was simple—just a white T-shirt and skinny jeans—but on her, it looked dangerous. The cotton clung softly to her skin. Hinted at curves without declaring them. Her jeans hugged her hips like a whispered compliment.
She didn't need sequins. She was the sparkle.
Then—she sat beside me.
Right beside me.
The space between us shrank. Dissolved. Her thigh brushed against mine.
It was casual. Accidental. But it felt electric. Like heat with intent.
Her scent—fresh, feminine, edged with citrus—curled into my lungs. Clean, crisp, intoxicating. My breath slowed, then stuttered. I didn't move. I didn't want to.
And then… My body responded.
Not with panic. With pleasure.
A low hum bloomed beneath my ribs. Not violent. Not loud. Just steady. Warm. Thrumming.
The kind of awareness that starts with skin and seeps inward—settling quietly behind bone and memory. Waking places I thought were dormant.
Her presence wasn't loud. But it pressed against me like velvet heat. And suddenly, I wanted proximity to mean something.
I wanted to lean just a little closer. Just enough to feel the rhythm of her breath. To know if she felt it too. To find out if this tension between us was beautifully one-sided… or quietly reciprocal.
Something had awakened. Soft. Sharp. Undeniable.
And I couldn't decide if I wanted to run… or stay very, very still.