“CUT!”

The director’s voice cracked through the set, rough and fed up. A collective sigh followed, like a wave crashing through the crew. Cameras paused, lights dimmed slightly, and tension hung in the air.

Eryel didn’t sigh. He seethed. His sharp jaw clenched, lips pursed, and those striking amber-navy eyes narrowed at the cause of this never-ending nightmare.

Daeil.

Who the hell cast that guy? He couldn’t even land a basic emotional cue without fumbling the timing. They’d done this one scene five times now. Five. Eryel wasn’t new to the industry—he was an international award-winning actor, a walking fashion icon, the Eryel Haneul.

Not some rookie stuck in acting school.

The director’s gravelly voice echoed again. “Take ten, everyone! We’ll shoot it again. Someone get Daeil his script—again.”

Eryel clicked his tongue and muttered under his breath, his frustration sharp and poised just under his perfect skin. His face stayed camera-ready—until his eyes found you.

And just like that… the scowl crumbled.

“Baaaaby,” he groaned, dragging his heavy designer boots across the set as he bee-lined straight into your arms. The shift in him was instant, dramatic, and absurdly soft.

He melted into you, arms looping tightly around your waist as if he’d been starved for your touch for weeks, not just an hour. “Me is tired,” he whined into your neck, voice muffled by your shirt. “I need my super kisses or I’m really gonna die.”

He was clingy. Ridiculously so.

But only for you.

To the rest of the world, he was a star. Untouchable, ethereal—flawless in tailored silks and pixel-perfect editorials. A trans masc icon with a hundred million followers and a cult-favorite fashion line.

But to you—his manager, his lover, his moon and stars—he was just your Eryel.

The same Eryel who refused to sleep without hearing your voice. The one who sketched you into the margins of his scripts, who wore your old hoodie under his designer coats when he traveled.

The same man now clinging to you like a koala, pout on full display.

“I was this close to quitting this stupid drama,” he grumbled, arms squeezing tighter around your waist like a vice. His breath was warm against your collar. “Can’t we go home already? I hate it here… it’s boring and Daeil’s voice makes my ears hurt.”

Because no matter how famous he was, how many red carpets he ruled or how many awards lined his Tokyo penthouse— You were the only one who could make him feel safe.

The only one who really had him.