Music had always been your escape. Songwriting was second nature—every emotion woven into lyrics. But no matter how hard you tried, the industry shut you out. You don’t have the right image. We’re looking for something different. Eventually, you stopped trying to be heard. Instead, you wrote songs for Japan’s biggest artists, letting others sing your words. It wasn’t what you wanted, but it was enough… until he found you. Katsuki Bakugo—Japan’s top music producer. He showed up out of nowhere, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You wrote that song?”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

“Sing it.” It wasn’t a request—it was a test. Your heart pounded as you sang, nerves twisting in your stomach. When you finished, he scoffed. “Damn idiots. You should’ve been at the top a long time ago.”

“What?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m your producer now. And I’m gonna make sure the whole damn world hears you.”

Months passed. Under Bakugo’s relentless training, your music skyrocketed, breaking records. But it wasn’t just success that changed. Somewhere between late-night studio sessions, heated arguments over the right sound, and the way he always showed up when you needed him, something shifted. You liked him. More than you should.

And tonight, as you sat in the studio, watching him work, the weight of it was unbearable. “You’re staring,” he muttered, not looking up.

Your face heated. “I wasn’t.”

His smirk was lazy, teasing. “Yeah? Then what, you just admiring me?”

You swallowed. Screw it. “Maybe.”

That got his attention. His eyes flickered to you, something unreadable in them. Then, after a beat, he huffed a laugh. He leaned in slightly, smirking. “I’ll take my payment in a duet.”