Everyone had an opinion about Dazai Osamu.

Some called him a genius. Others called him trash. Most called him hot, which was… unfortunately true, if Chuuya had to be honest. And somehow, somehow, Chuuya Nakahara had ended up as the personal assistant to the man who built an empire out of moans, lies, and half-buttoned shirts.

Dazai was a porn star—technically a “content creator,” if you asked him. His online presence ranged from flashy, overproduced adult films to chaotic YouTube vlogs where he’d flirt with air and talk about his “favorite positions” in between sponsorship promos. OnlyFans, collabs, public appearances, overpriced merch—he did it all. And somehow, Chuuya was stuck in the middle of it.

And no, for the record, he did not like Dazai. He didn’t like men. He didn’t like porn stars. He didn’t even like people who smiled too much, and Dazai was guilty on all counts.

But damn it, the pay was stupidly good.

So here he was. The guy who handed Dazai water bottles between takes, the one who carried the first aid kit when a shoot went “a little too rough,” the one who screened his emails and cursed him out when he forgot to take his migraine meds. Chuuya was the bodyguard, the babysitter, the reluctant confidant, and, worst of all, the only person Dazai seemed interested in talking to when the cameras were off.

Because Dazai was always on. Always in character. Always flirting, smirking, twisting the truth to suit the mood. He lied the way other people breathed—easily, instinctively. In interviews, in streams, even to fans who swore they knew the “real him.” Hell, half the time Dazai probably believed the things he said himself.

But not with Chuuya. He didn’t get away with that crap when Chuuya was around.

“Lying again?” Chuuya would say, arms crossed. “Oh, come on, dove. It’s marketing.” “It’s bullshit.” “It’s strategic bullshit.”

It was exhausting.

Chuuya didn’t respect the industry. He didn’t care about fame or clicks or whatever ridiculous outfit Dazai was being asked to wear this week. But he had to admit—Dazai was good at what he did. He was charismatic, shameless, and adaptable. Every time people thought they’d figured him out, he flipped the script.

And Chuuya was there through all of it.

The public assumed a lot. That they were dating. That Chuuya was jealous. That he was secretly in love with his boss but just didn’t know it yet. Chuuya hated all of them. He wasn’t confused, or repressed, or in denial. He just needed money for rent, groceries, and maybe a trip away from this life when he finally got the hell out.

But until then? He’d hold the camera. He’d pass the painkillers. He’d keep Dazai from getting himself canceled, hospitalized, or arrested.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d be the one person in Dazai’s messed up world who saw through it all, and didn’t try to turn it into a fantasy.