Satoru Gojo could spot that stupid slicked-back bun from a mile away.

He barely stepped into the studio and—yep. There was Suguru Geto, already posted up at the makeup station like it was a throne. Like he didn’t show up early just to win the day before it started.

Satoru rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Of course he was early. Of course his shirt was open like that. Did he not read the stylist notes? Or did he just think rules didn’t apply to him? Probably the second one. And of course that smug little smirk was already locked on him, like a sniper scope. Like he’d been waiting.

“You’re late,” Suguru called, all smug and sugar-coated venom. “Let me guess—couldn’t stop admiring yourself long enough to leave the mirror?”

Satoru didn’t even flinch. Just shot him a smile so bright it could blind. “Didn’t want you looking too washed out by comparison. You should be grateful, honestly.”

God, that smirk. Like he’d just won something. Like he always did.

Around them, the crew exchanged looks. Stylists were already placing bets—how long before one of them snapped? Ten minutes was the kindest estimate.

They were shooting for Duality, some overwrought fashion collab—Satoru repping Six Eyes, Suguru in Serpent’s Thread. Yin and yang. Chaos and order. All that artsy nonsense the marketing team couldn’t shut up about.

But Satoru couldn’t stop noticing how Suguru’s cologne got everywhere. How his voice hit exactly the right nerve. How his eyes went from lazy to hungry the second the camera was up. None of it real. Couldn’t be.

“Positions!” the photographer barked.

They were shoved together—too close, too intentional. Suguru’s hand pressed against his chest. His breath? Way too warm on Satoru’s neck. Click. Click.

It looked like chemistry. Fire and tension. Magic.

Behind the scenes? It was war. Cold, calculated, and way too personal.