The Studio Session

"Your sound needs work."

Daniyal looked at the woman behind the mixing board. Beautiful, critical, utterly unimpressed by his growing fame.

"I've got a million streams."

"And zero depth." Layla didn't blink. "You want to be memorable? Let me help."

The sessions were intense—twelve-hour days, creative arguments, breakthroughs that left them both exhausted and exhilarated.

"Why do you care so much?" Daniyal asked one midnight.

"Because Pakistani music deserves better than algorithms." She adjusted his headphones. "And because you're talented enough to actually matter."

"High praise from you."

"Don't get used to it."

He got used to other things—her laugh, her focus, the way she lit up when a track came together.

"I'm falling for you," he said during a playback session.

"That's the music talking."

"It's me talking." He turned her chair to face him. "The music just gave me words."

They made love surrounded by equipment—synthesizers and microphones as witnesses.

"This is unprofessional," Layla whispered.

"This is inevitable." He kissed her deeply. "We've been making music together for weeks. This is the next verse."

He touched her like composing—finding melodies in her responses, building to crescendos.

"Meri jaan," Daniyal breathed. "You're my best collaboration."

"That's sappy."

"It's true." He moved deeper. "Let me keep collaborating. Forever."

"The label will have concerns," Layla said afterward.

"The label wants hits. We make hits." He pulled her close. "What we do after hours is our business."

"And if they find out?"

"They'll realize the best music comes from love." He kissed her forehead. "Say yes, Layla. To me. To us."

Their first joint album won three awards.

The wedding was attended by every major artist they'd ever worked with.

Best track they ever produced—their life together.