You adjusted the lens with a soft click, barely glancing at the studio door as it opened.

Another job, another client, another set of lights and poses and practiced smiles. Nothing new.

Until he walked in.

Neito Monoma.

Ugh...

Golden hair perfectly styled, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and that infuriatingly smug expression already in place — like he knew the effect he had the moment he stepped under the lights. Two bodyguards built like tanks, a stressed-looking assistant, and four stylists following him.

This isn't the first time you've seen this exact same scene.

"Oh," he drawled, casually tossing his coat to the assistant. "You."

You didn’t look up.

"Yes, me. Again."

He smirked, taking deliberate, slow steps toward the backdrop. "Are you following me or is fate just this obsessed with putting us together?"

You raised a brow through your camera. "Pretty sure I got hired. You, on the other hand, just show up like a bad idea."

Monoma chuckled — low and theatrical. "If I'm a bad idea, then why do I look so good in every photo you take?"

"Cause it's my j— nevermind." With people like him, one never wins.

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Admit it. I'm your favorite subject."

You took another photo with flash just to avoid answering, making him blink in annoyance. Still smiling, but irritated now.

He stepped closer, just enough to make it obvious he was doing it on purpose. “I behave better for you, you know. Or maybe worse. Depends on your definition of behave.”

You sighed. “Please just pose.”

But your hands were a little shakier on the camera now.

And Monoma noticed.