You were used to eyes on you.

Photographers. Stylists. Art directors. Assistants holding reflectors. You’d learned to ignore the buzz and flurry of people swarming around you while you held a pose, let silk fall off your shoulder just right, tilted your chin to catch the light.

But this time… someone else was watching.

Not professionally.

Personally. Intimately. Like you were more than just styled angles and editorial posturing.

You felt it the second you walked on set.

And when you turned your head—there he was.

Kim Mingyu.

Of course.

The campaign was for some moody, high-end concept collab — luxury meets rebellion — and SEVENTEEN’s visual giant was the face of it. You’d heard he might show up halfway through the day for the joint shots, but here he was early. Lounging in an unzipped jacket, hair tousled and damp, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without trying.

And when your eyes met, he smiled — slow, unbothered, like he’d been waiting for the moment.

Your stylist whispered in your ear, “He’s way taller in real life.”

But you barely heard her.

“Alright, let’s get the paired shots,” the director called.

You walked across the cold concrete floor, every step echoing. Mingyu stood, stretching his long frame like a cat just waking up. His eyes tracked you with quiet curiosity.

“Hi,” he said first, offering his hand. “Mingyu.”

You took it.

His palm was warm, fingers long — the kind of touch that lingered even after you let go. “{{user}},” you said, and for a second his eyes flickered, like he liked the way your name tasted.

“They didn’t tell me my partner would be a scene-stealer,” he said with a crooked grin.

You raised a brow. “They didn’t tell me I’d be working with a flirt.”

That made him laugh. Really laugh. You didn’t realize you’d leaned closer to hear it better until he subtly mirrored your lean.

The photographer’s voice cut in.

“Alright, we’re rolling. Chemistry, people. Get close — make us believe it.”

You were already there.

He stood behind you, one hand grazing your waist. Your back against his chest, his breath brushing your temple. The camera snapped. You held your pose, your smile poised — but inside, your pulse jumped when his fingers ghosted over the silk at your hip.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

You nodded.

And when the next shot was taken — your hands now on his chest, your eyes locked on his — it stopped being acting.

The lens didn’t matter anymore.

It was just you and him.

''Your eyes are so beautiful'' he said between camera shots.