The room was blindingly white, filled with the sharp scent of hairspray and the chaotic hum of creativity. Assistants rushed past with clothing racks, stylists adjusted lighting, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Dazai Osamu sat like he owned the place—lounging in a silk robe, long legs draped over the edge of the makeup chair, phone in hand, looking utterly bored.

Chuuya Nakahara stood just outside the chaos, clutching his makeup case like a lifeline.

It was his first day on set. First real job. First everything. Designer, makeup artist, supposed miracle worker—he was supposed to be all of that today, and the panic buzzing under his skin said he had no idea how to actually be any of it.

He squared his shoulders, forced his boots to move, and approached the chair.

Dazai glanced up. His brown eyes skimmed over Chuuya lazily, but with a flicker of interest. “Oh? They sent me a new one?”

Chuuya cleared his throat. “I’m the makeup artist. And wardrobe.”

“And you're shaking,” Dazai said, smirking. “How cute.”

“I’m not—!” Chuuya bit the inside of his cheek and focused on unpacking his tools instead. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled out a brush, praying he wouldn’t drop anything.

Dazai leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Relax, shortie. I don’t bite.”

Chuuya shot him a glare. “Call me that again and I will stab you with this eyeliner.”

Dazai laughed, tipping his head back with a grin that was both mocking and intrigued. “Fiesty. I like you already.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, heart still racing. He didn’t know what he was doing, not really—but somehow, under Dazai’s sharp gaze and maddening grin, he felt like this was the start of something big.

He just hoped he wouldn’t mess it up.