LOUIS

Your first meeting at the label's office was just a deal. The managers were planning "casual" dates, and Lewis looked at you skeptically with his unusual eyes—brown and blue. His vitiligo skin and black-and-white hair stood out in the light. "I hope you can lie," he said. Your "romance" was just a tool for hype.

Everything changed after the awards ceremony. You were cornered by paparazzi, flashes blinding, and screams deafening. Lewis suddenly squeezed your hand: "Hold on to me." You ran through the crowd and through alleys until you hid in a quiet shop. In that moment, for the first time, you saw him not as a cold idol, but as a real person.

Now you're sitting in a cafe under the cameras' gaze. The script calls for you to feign tenderness; you touch his hand, forcing a smile. But Lewis suddenly stops acting. He looks at you piercingly: "I'm tired of fake smiles. I don't want to see you smiling for this contract anymore. I want to see your smile in the morning, waking up in the same bed with you. What do you say?"