megumi fushiguro didn’t belong in places like this—the venue was too bright, too loud, filled with people who spoke in half whispers and moved like they knew they were being watched. he sat stiffly in his seat, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed forward as music rolled through the space. around him were editors, designers, and strangers who treated the night like routine.

for megumi, it wasn’t.

he’d seen you model before, on screens, in photos, frozen in moments he could never interrupt. but this was different. this was real and immediate, the air shifting as the show began, anticipation thick enough to feel.

and then you stepped onto the runway.

the room changed.

people leaned forward. cameras lifted. conversations stopped. you moved with a confidence megumi rarely saw up close, posture flawless, expression unreadable, like you belonged to the lights and they belonged to you. for a brief moment, he forgot to breathe.

he didn’t cheer. didn’t clap louder than anyone else.

he just watched.

because while the world saw a model walking a runway, megumi fushiguro saw the person who would come home later, shoes kicked off by the door, asking him if he wanted takeout. and somehow, that made it all feel unreal.