You were just an intern.

A name on a spreadsheet. An extra hand on set. Someone to hold the reflector or fetch coffee or shoot B-roll from the sidelines while the real photographers worked.

But the first time you saw him step in front of the camera—Yosuke Hanamura, the part-time model with a lopsided smile and disheveled hair that always somehow looked perfect—you knew you were going to remember him. And you did. Every detail. Every smirk. Every offhanded joke. You kept the SD cards from your shoots. Copies of drafts never uploaded. Just for yourself. No one asked questions. You told yourself it was for practice. Study.

But it was more than that.

You started choosing your shifts based on his bookings. Showing up early. Staying late. You knew his preferences: black coffee, too much sugar, that one playlist he always requested while getting makeup done. You memorized the tilt of his jaw when he laughed. The way he fiddled with his rings when he was nervous.

You were always watching. You didn’t think he noticed.

Until one day, after a campus shoot just off the quad, he lingered after everyone else packed up. You were alone, crouched by your camera bag, triple-checking the last set.

“…Hey,” he said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “You follow me around a lot, don’t you?”

You froze. Slowly, you looked up. Yosuke was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, his usual carefree smirk replaced with something unreadable.

You tried to laugh it off, saying something about how you were only assigned to his shoots.

“Maybe,” he said, squinting at you. “But you always seem to be around when I’m not modeling, too.” He stepped closer, his tone not quite accusing—but not casual, either. “You know, I thought I was imagining it. But then I saw you outside a café last week. And at the back of that study hall I never told anyone I go to.”

You swallowed hard. “I was just—”

“Coincidences,” he finished for you. “Right?”

Silence. Then, he sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly unsure whether he should be creeped out or flattered. “…I mean, you’re a good photographer,” he said at last. “And maybe I should be weirded out. But honestly? Most people on set treat me like some stupid brand. You… look at me like I’m a person. A little too closely, maybe. But still, it’s not what I’m imagining, right?” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.