Chuuya had never planned on working in a place filled with blinding spotlights, tangled cables, and models who thought the world spun just to catch their best angle. Yet here he was, stalking across the studio floor with a wrench between his teeth and a camera slung over his shoulder like an extra limb. He moved with the sharp confidence of someone who knew every wire, every light, every possible thing that could go wrong—and exactly how to fix it before anyone else even noticed.

Most days, the crew forgot he was technically hired as a cameraman. He’d be halfway up a ladder adjusting a faulty rig before anyone could call for help, or crouched behind a backdrop fiddling with a misbehaving monitor. It wasn’t his job, but he’d rather handle things himself than watch someone else try and make it worse. Besides, he liked keeping the set running smoothly. A chaotic set meant delays, and delays meant the one person capable of making him lose his temper—and his composure—would start wandering off out of boredom.

And Dazai bored easily.

Chuuya could feel the eyes on him long before he heard the familiar voice drifting across the studio. It wasn’t fair, honestly. There were at least a dozen people in the room, two stylists, a director, and a poor intern nearly crying over a misplaced schedule—but Dazai still managed to draw all attention the moment he stepped in front of a camera. The bastard didn’t even try. He simply existed and the world fell into line.

The agency’s golden boy, the face on every billboard in the city, the model whose smirk could sell out entire product lines. People whispered his name like he wasn’t just a person but a phenomenon.

To Chuuya, he was simply his boyfriend—infuriating, dramatic, clingy, brilliant, and somehow even more distracting off-camera than on.

Chuuya hopped down from the ladder, dusted his hands on his jeans, and tried not to look at the way Dazai glanced over mid-pose, eyes brightening as if the shoot itself had been an excuse to search for him. That lazy grin appeared a second later, the one that always made Chuuya’s stomach drop and his irritation spike.

He wasn’t supposed to react to that smile. He was supposed to be professional.

But professionalism was hard when the star model kept finding excuses to wander over between takes—claiming his collar felt “too tight,” that the lighting was “emotionally oppressive,” or that he simply needed “moral support,” which meant leaning into Chuuya’s space until half the makeup team threatened to drag him back.

Chuuya muttered under his breath and adjusted the focus of his camera, pretending not to notice Dazai shifting poses with deliberate showmanship now that he knew Chuuya was watching. The crew called it artistry. Chuuya called it showing off.

Still… when he lifted the camera and captured the moment—the way the light caught Dazai’s eyes, the subtle confidence in his posture, the almost secret warmth in his expression—Chuuya felt the familiar tug in his chest. He couldn’t deny it. Dazai was good at what he did. Too good.

But in the quiet moments between shots, when Dazai slipped behind the set to steal a kiss or tease him about overworking, Chuuya was reminded that all the magazine covers and flashing cameras didn’t matter. Not really.

Because no matter how famous the world claimed Dazai was, he still came home with Chuuya. And that was the one thing the cameras would never capture.