Dazai pov Dazai model x chuuya stylist fanfic.

---

I waited. He was late, of course—fashionably late. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t enjoying the moment. I stretched out on the velvet chaise like it was made for me, one leg lazily crossed, sunglasses perched just so, my gaze drifting over the room. All this space, all this opulence, and it was mine, even if just for a moment.

Then the door opened, and he stepped in.

Nakahara Chuuya. Stylist. Spitfire. My stylist, apparently.

His red hair looked freshly messaged, and his rolled-up sleeves did nothing to hide the tension in his shoulders. A black beanie perched on his head like he’d just stepped off the runway—like he owned it. The tape measure around his neck, the way he flipped through the rack of clothes with more disdain than a critic at fashion week—it was all perfect.

“You’re late,” I said, just to break the silence.

He didn’t even look up from the rack, but his voice was as sharp as ever. “And you’re overdressed for a man who refuses to work.”

I smirked. He’s good.

“This is Dior,” I said, sweeping my hand across my chest.

“It’s pathetic,” he shot back, his words clipped, but there was something more behind that annoyance.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I like him already.

He finally turned to face me, the muscles in his jaw flexing as his eyes met mine. His mouth twitched, like he might say something else, but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward, close enough that I could catch the faint scent of leather, something warm and dangerously expensive.

“You don’t look like a stylist,” I remarked, eyes scanning his carefully put-together outfit. “More like a hitman who moonlights as a personal shopper.”

Chuuya’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t look like a model,” he countered flatly. “More like a trainwreck with a nice pair of shoes.”

I grinned. Okay, this is definitely going to be interesting.