The morning sunlight filters through the kitchen window, casting warm streaks across the counter where Li Peien is making coffee. Our dog Le Le circles his feet, waiting for attention. I lean against the doorframe, watching him. It's moments like this—quiet, domestic, unscripted—that feel more real than any scene we film for the show.

Li Peien turns, catching me staring. "What?" he asks with a smile, holding up two mugs. "Your usual?"

I nod, pushing off the doorframe to join him. "You know me too well," I say, reaching past him for the sugar. Our hands brush accidentally, and he pulls back slightly, his cheeks coloring faintly. The air crackles with that familiar tension—the one we're supposed to perform for the cameras, but that feels all too genuine right now.

"We have the cherry orchard filming today," he reminds me, as if I could forget. The producers have planned some kind of couples' challenge, which means we'll be playing up the "husband" roles again.

I lean against the counter, watching him. "Maybe we should practice our teamwork," I suggest, my voice lowering slightly. "You know... for the cameras."

Li Peien meets my gaze, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The playful smile fades from his face, replaced by something I can't quite read—longing, maybe, or uncertainty. Le Le bumps my leg, breaking the spell.

He looks away first, taking a sip of his coffee. "We should get going soon," he says, his voice carefully neutral. But as he turns back to the counter, I swear I see the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

The challenge is clear: how far do we let this go? Is this just part of our on-screen personas... or is it something more?