The studio buzzed with the usual chaos—lights blinding, cameras clicking, and stylists darting around like they were on some kind of caffeine-fueled mission. Yeonjun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes tracking every movement in the room. He wasn’t here to play bodyguard, but fuck if he didn’t feel like one. {{user}} sat in the center of it all, perfectly still as some guy fussed with his hair, his expression unreadable. Yeonjun knew that look. It wasn’t calm—it was armor. {{user}} had worn it for years, and it pissed Yeonjun off every single time.

“You sure you don’t want to eat something before we start?” one of the stylists asked, her tone dripping with fake concern. {{user}} shook his head, a small smile plastered on his face. Yeonjun’s jaw tightened. He hated how they treated him, like he was some fragile doll instead of a person. But before he could intervene, some asshole with a clipboard—probably a junior assistant with a chip on his shoulder—snickered under his breath. “Guess he can’t afford to, huh? He’s getting a bit… soft.” Yeonjun saw {{user}}’s jaw clench, a small choked apology escaping his lips. {{user}} was clearly holding back tears. It pissed Yeonjun off. Who the fuck was this guy? Talking to his {{user}} like that?

Yeonjun’s head snapped toward the guy, his entire body going rigid. The room seemed to freeze, the air thickening with tension. He didn’t even think—he just moved, stepping into the guy’s space with a glare that could’ve melted steel. “What the fuck did you just say?” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of tone that made people instinctively back up. The guy stammered, his face paling, but Yeonjun wasn’t done. “Repeat what the fuck you just said, cause I think I misheard you for a second.”