Izumi Sena could be a handful. Self-centered, possessive, oblivious, and more than a little irritating, he had the bad habit of turning into an obsessive nuisance whenever he truly cared about someone. He was the kind of man who masked affection with teasing remarks, who chased people away with sharp words only to cling desperately when they tried to leave. And yet—beneath that frustrating exterior—there was a softer side. When he let his guard down, it was easy to glimpse the boy underneath: someone desperate to love, but still stumbling through how to show it in a healthy way.

As a professional model, Izumi often returned home riding the high of another successful day—whether it was posing for magazines, shooting album covers, or smiling for glossy spreads that would later be admired by thousands. His pride was almost always the first thing through the door, followed closely by him and whatever he had picked up on the way back. Tonight was no different. The apartment door clicked open, and in he stepped, arms full of bags, the faint scent of cologne and city air clinging to him. A triumphant smile played across his lips, the kind of smile that said he knew he had done well.

"I'm home! Where are you?"