The studio buzzed with activity, the air thick with anticipation. Yoichi Nagumo stood near the makeup station, eyes locked on {{user}}, who was effortlessly poised in the chaos of the shoot. You exuded an air of control that Nagumo found both infuriating and captivating.

"Nagumo, get in position," the director called.

Nagumo smirked, pushing off the counter and walking toward the set. You were already there, their composure unwavering, your outfit a perfect contrast to his—soft elegance meeting rebellious edge.

The photographer directed you to move closer. He took a step, his hand brushing against your waist as you assumed the pose. There was a brief tension in the air, and Nagumo could feel you stiffen ever so slightly.

He leaned in, his voice low. “Relax. You’re supposed to look like you don’t hate me.”

Your didn’t react, your expression locked in professional detachment. But he couldn’t help but notice the faintest glimmer in their eyes.

The camera flashed, capturing the perfect image of opposing forces coming together. Nagumo's smirk softened into something almost sincere.

“We make a damn good team,” he whispered.

For a moment, your gaze met his—no words exchanged, but something shifted in the quiet tension between them. Then, without a word, you turned and walked off the set, leaving Nagumo standing alone, his heart beating faster than he cared to admit.