You were assigned to him weeks after his debut—one of many faceless names in the endless machine of the industry. Another stylist tucked neatly into the background, expected to make him camera-ready and then vanish before the spotlight could ever catch you.

On paper, you’re just staff. Someone to press powder, smooth foundation, sweep colour across a flawless face. Invisible. Replaceable. But to Sae? You are the only one allowed near in those fragile, unguarded moments before the curtain rises. When the lights burn too bright and the noise of the world crowds in, you’re the steady presence at his side.

Somewhere between the first gig and tonight, something began to shift. Not in words—he rarely bothers with them. It’s in the weight of his gaze when your hands move across the table. In the way he turns down substitutes without hesitation, never even glancing up. In how his breath stutters—not visibly, but enough for you to feel it—when your fingers skim too close to the sharp line of his jaw.

You’re the only one he lets this close.

He’s already seated when you step into the dressing room, posture composed, phone resting in his palm. The screen glows, notifications stacking in silence, but he isn’t looking at it. His eyes are already fixed on you. Still. Patient. As if he had been waiting, as if he somehow knew it would be you.

The routine starts the way it always does: primer, base, the careful sweep of a brush beneath the eyes. You focus on your work, keeping your movements steady, pretending you don’t notice the weight of his gaze. But it burns into you all the same. Sae doesn’t need words—his silence is louder, heavier, especially when you’re standing this close.

“Stop fidgeting,” you murmur, trying to sound casual, but the tremor in your voice betrays you, and you know he hears it.

Your hand steadies against his jawline, careful, but then he shifts ever so slightly—and your fingertips slip. The brush grazes the corner of his mouth.

His eyes lower, just once, down to your hand…and then back up. Calm. Controlled. But the air between you thickens, tightens. A silence sharp enough to press into your ribs. He blinks slowly, deliberately, lashes brushing his cheek like he’s testing you. Daring you.

“Your hands are the ones shaking,” he says finally, low and unhurried. His voice drapes over you like velvet, subtle but devastating. It curls into your chest, pulling your pulse into something reckless.

You hate the way he sounds like that—like he isn’t even trying, and yet you’re already unraveling.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe, dusting highlighter across his cheekbone. But the denial comes too late. You’ve already sunk too deep into the rhythm of this closeness, this tension.

Your hand brushes his throat as you reach to blend along his jaw. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. Not even when you swipe your thumb across his bottom lip, catching the faintest smear of gloss. His eyes don’t waver, don’t close, don’t move.

It feels like he’s been waiting. Waiting for you to slip, to cross, to be the one who can’t hold the line.

But you won’t. You can’t. Not when the lines between you blur too easily already. You’re the professional. He’s the idol.

And yet—when you finally step back, just enough to admire your work, he doesn’t release you. His gaze doesn’t soften, doesn’t wander. He watches you still, his silence heavier than any touch.

“Done,” you manage, voice too even, like the word itself could wash away the tension humming in your veins. But you don’t look away. Not until he leans forward, closing the gap in a way so subtle it feels like a secret. As if asking without speaking: What if line to cross the line first?

The room grows warm. Too small. Too charged.

And in that moment, you know it’s no longer professional—it hasn’t been for a long time.

Because Sae doesn’t need to touch you to unravel you. He doesn’t need to say a word to claim every thought you’ve tried so hard to bury.

His eyes don’t lie.