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Seeing the mix of resentment and wounded pride on her colleague’s face after his measurements were taken, Elira couldn’t help but laugh.
“Hey, you don’t have to look that miserable, you know?”
“No, but shouldn’t this kind of job be left to professionals?”
“Well… I mean, look at the other two guys. They were the loudest about refusing earlier, and now…”
Claude turned his head to follow her gaze.
His two friends were enthusiastically giving each other feedback on poses and expressions, completely forgetting how, during their earlier product planning meeting, they had so confidently insisted on hiring a well-known influencer to help promote their brand.
Claude couldn’t bring himself to pour cold water over them now—couldn’t bring up the awkward fact that they were contradicting their own words.
But at the same time, he genuinely didn’t want to face the harsh reality in front of him—
A perfumer, who was supposed to stay behind the scenes, quietly watching others introduce his creations… was now expected to become a model and promote his own work.
As someone with a background in the sciences, Claude had never expected his path to turn out like this. Still, compared to analyzing data in a lab, checking for errors, and writing reports, he found himself drawn more to something… creative.
Perfumery, after all, wasn’t so different. It required endless repetition and experimentation—combining raw materials, calculating precise ratios—but it also demanded inspiration drawn from everyday life, woven together with personal experience and an understanding of the market. It was a profession that balanced scientific knowledge with artistic sensibility.
And perhaps because it wasn’t entirely dry or mechanical, Claude—who had never been particularly fond of basic chemistry—gradually found himself immersed in it. Eventually, after graduation, he chose to start a studio together with a few friends.
—But that didn’t mean he liked being put on display.
“Just think of it as saving budget! We were already planning to make a set of coordinated outfits for formal events anyway, right?”
“…Can I at least wear a mask on the day of the shoot?”
“If you can convince the photographer?”
Naturally, he failed.
After being firmly—and mercilessly—rejected by the purple-haired photographer, Claude slumped over a nearby table, looking utterly defeated as he endured the makeup artist’s chatter. From his spot, he watched as his friends one by one completed the promotional shots for their perfumes.
Just as he started wondering if he could sneak away unnoticed, the tailor—who had come over to check whether the custom outfits needed any last-minute adjustments for the shoot—suddenly spoke to him:
“Um… Mr. Clawmark?”
“…Hm?”
“I didn’t get the chance to tell you the other day, but I really like the fragrance you created.”
“…Oh—uh, thank you.”
“I just wanted to let you know—the outfit you’re wearing right now was designed with both your perfume and you in mind.”
“…Huh? Wait—what?”
“So, for the shoot later… you’ll be just fine.”
Meeting the other person’s earnest gaze, Claude felt warmth rise to his cheeks—an embarrassed flush born from praise and trust. Never good at handling compliments, he fumbled for words, mumbling another quiet “thank you” under his breath.
When the photographer called his name and asked him to step in front of the camera, Claude froze for a split second. Instinctively, the first place his eyes drifted to was the corner where he had been waiting earlier.
Whether it was simple herd instinct, or his mirror neurons playing tricks on him, he found himself unconsciously mimicking the tailor’s posture—striking a pose he hadn’t given a second of thought to before.
With one hand, he raised his own creation near his lips. The other rested lightly across his waist.
It was a gesture that invited others closer—as if urging them to lean in and savor the fragrance like a fine wine, to experience the allure and beauty he embodied. And yet, at the same time, it felt as though he was quietly guarding it—locking away something rare and irreplaceable, a treasure too precious to be freely given.
When his gaze met the camera, it lingered—just for a moment.
Long enough to capture attention.
Long enough that no one could quite look away.
Without a single word, that one look alone conveyed—
Click.
“Got it. That expression was great—much better than anything forced—hey, wait, where are you going?”
Ignoring the photographer’s voice behind him, Claude hurried off the moment he heard “That’s good.” His eyes were fixed on the tailor, who had already relaxed into a small smile and turned to leave, as if their role here was finished.
“Wait!”
The tailor paused, fingers already moving to input the code for the studio door.
“What is it, Mr. Clawmark?”
“Thank you… for earlier. Really.”
“Oh, it was nothing. I told you—you’d do just fine.”
“And—”
“Yes?”
“…Would you mind being the muse for my next fragrance?”