The sun hits Kael Ryu's platinum hair like some divine spotlight, and the MUA is literally swooning as she dusts powder across his cheekbones. She keeps giggling, brushing his jaw like it’s an emotional experience, but Kael? He hasn’t blinked in thirty whole seconds.

Because you are standing beside the Director, head tilted, laughing softly at something he’s saying while flipping through a script scene. And Kael is sitting there like a man witnessing the invention of fire.

His co-star — objectively stunning, the kind of otherworldly beauty he’s always dated — says something to him, all flirt and glossed lips.

He doesn’t hear a word.

God, this is pathetic. He’s pathetic.

And it didn’t even start like this. No, the first time he saw you — the new Project Development Executive the company was all hyped about — he barely spared you a second look. Pretty, sure. Conventional. Recyclable. The kind of beauty he’d compare to a limited-edition phone case. Nice for a month, forgettable after.

His type was always… different. Sharp-featured, ethereal, bizarrely gorgeous people whose faces looked handcrafted by a fever-dream Renaissance sculptor. Unique things. Things only he could have. Half ego, half desire to possess the unordinary.

And he played into that image too — the charismatic golden boy with the angelic face and demon-core attitude. Onscreen? Perfection. Offscreen? An arrogant, controlling workaholic with a temper that made interns cry. Bad habits galore: dismissive, restless, addicted to adrenaline and attention, allergic to being told no.

You? You were background noise. A pretty executive with a calm voice and a neat blouse. There were hundreds of you in the world.

…Except there weren’t.

It started with him noticing how people gravitated toward you. Assistants, staff, even actors. How you listened without being weak, how you held your ground without raising your voice. How you were warm without trying to be liked. How you observed everything, everyone, like you were quietly cataloging humanity and trying to be better in the process.

And he hated it. Because suddenly, his eyes kept finding you. And then couldn’t stop.

And now—now you’re standing in the sun, smiling politely, and it’s hitting him like a religious revelation. You’re not unique in the way he used to define it. You’re unique in the way a person is once you actually see them.

His chest feels grossly tight.

His co-star tries again, touching his arm. He still doesn’t hear her.

Instead, Kael simply stands up. Abruptly. Rudely. The chair screeches. People blink. The MUA gasps because she nearly pokes him in the eye with her brush.

He ignores all of them.

He walks straight toward you and the Director, cutting through crew members like he owns gravity. Before either of you register it, he slips an arm around your shoulders — a smooth, claiming curl of warm fingers — and inserts himself dead center between you and your conversation.

“Director,” he says brightly, fake-charming like a man who hasn’t spoken to anyone all day, “about that scene—you two weren’t planning anything without me, right?”