Chapter Text
San was no stranger to joint photoshoots and modeling campaigns. He had stood beside countless other faces over the years; some rising, some already fading, some whose names never quite stuck in the public memory the way his own had. There had been the quiet ones from smaller agencies who moved like shadows under the lights, the loud ones who tried too hard to fill the silence between flashes, the seasoned veterans who treated every set like a second office, exchanging polite nods and nothing more. But this time, it was different. Very, very different.
His agent had called him only three days earlier, voice clipped and professional the way it always became when something truly significant had landed on the schedule. The words had settled into San’s chest with an unfamiliar weight: he would be shooting the flagship campaign for Luné Maison’s new Adult Dreamhouse collection alongside none other than Jeong Yunho. Jeong Yunho; the man whose face adorned half the subway billboards from Myeongdong to Busan, whose soft, approachable smile had become a national comfort. He was charming. Handsome. Famous. Not exactly the kind of fame that demanded attention, but that received attention effortlessly and gently, like sunlight falling across a windowsill.
San had accepted the news with his usual calm murmur of agreement, “Yes, hyung, I understand”, and hung up without fanfare. Yet later that evening, alone in the spacious living room of his apartment in Hongdae, the reality of it had lingered longer than he expected. He was used to partnered shoots, of course, but not with anyone nearly as well-known or as carefully cultivated as Yunho. Yunho was equally famous as San himself, perhaps even more so in certain circles, but that was not even what had struck him most deeply. No. What had unsettled the usual steady rhythm of his thoughts was the stark, almost comical difference in the worlds they each occupied.
Yunho’s audience was made up of, for the most part, younger girls; teenagers just beginning to dream, women in their early twenties who still carried the soft ache of first crushes. His shoots were always cozy, intimate, deliberately comfortable, with soft lighting that wrapped around him like a favorite blanket, oversized sweaters in gentle neutrals or the palest pastels, messy hair styled to look as though he had simply rolled out of bed and decided the world could see him anyway. He posed on wide beds with rumpled sheets, or at wooden desks scattered with half-finished notebooks, or leaning against kitchen counters with a mug of something warm in his hands. Everything about his image whispered comfort, the fantasy of a boy-next-door who would remember your coffee order and walk you home under streetlamps. He looked especially good in baby blue; San had noticed that once, in passing, while flipping through a magazine in a convenience store at two in the morning. The color had made his eyes seem even kinder, as though the whole photograph were inviting you to rest your head on his shoulder and confess whatever small worries lived inside your heart.
San’s world, by contrast, had always been sharper, harder, more unforgiving in its beauty. He had worked for this body with a devotion that sometimes frightened even him. Years ago he had been painfully skinny, all sharp angles and uncertain posture, the kind of boy who disappeared behind others in group photos. The transformation had not come easily; it had required early mornings, late nights, meals large enough to make him feel sick, muscles pushed until they screamed and then pushed again. Now that body was his brand, his signature, the thing people would pay to see. His shoots lived under harsh, dramatic lighting that carved every line and shadow into something that looked sculptural. Dark velvety fabrics adorned him most of the time, deep burgundies, midnight blacks, charcoal grays that clung to his skin or fell away from it depending on the brief. He was used to Calvin Klein campaigns where he stood half-naked in vast white studios, used to Guess ads that required him to arch his back just so while oil gleamed across his chest and abdomen. He was used to rooms full of cameras and strangers studying the exact angle of his hip bones, the precise tension in his shoulders.
He didn't dislike it. There was a pride in what he had built from nothing. And yet, in the rare moments when exhaustion loosened his thoughts, he sometimes wondered what it might feel like to be wrapped in an oversized sweater instead, to pose with a book in his hands rather than his bare skin on display, to be allowed softness without it threatening the image he had so carefully constructed.
Still, he never voiced these thoughts. His career was thriving. The money was good, more than good. His apartment in Hongdae was spacious, minimalist, filled with the kind of subtle luxury that came from never having to worry about next month’s rent. The directors liked him because he never complained, never asked for easier poses or more clothes. So he stayed silent, and the work continued.
The Luné Maison studio, when he arrived on the first morning of the three-day shoot, felt exactly as he had imagined it would: cool, expensive, and very impersonal. Gangnam’s polished streets gave way to a converted warehouse whose interior had been stripped down to its most refined bones. Black marble floors reflected the overhead lights like still water. Long cream silk drapes divided the space into elegant zones. The furniture for the campaign; low, sleek sofas in charcoal leather, walnut tables with sharp edges, minimalist beds dressed in crisp neutral linens that stood arranged with mathematical precision. The scent of the new signature perfume drifted everywhere: woody, expensive, the kind of fragrance that suggested old money and late-night conversations in wood-paneled rooms. Nothing here was playful.
San made his way to the dressing room and changed without hurry. The stylist had laid out low-slung black trousers that sat on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his pelvis, and an unbuttoned black silk shirt that moved like liquid against his skin. He stood still while an assistant carefully oiled his chest and abdomen, the cool liquid spreading in slow, practiced strokes until every ridge and plane of muscle caught the light like polished stone. He watched the process in the mirror with a distant sort of acceptance. This was simply what his body was for. The makeup artist followed, dusting setting powder across his collarbones and the sharp line of his jaw, then stepped back with a satisfied nod. San pulled on the shirt, left it open exactly as instructed, and stepped out onto the main set.
Jeong Yunho was already there.
He stood near one of the charcoal sofas, adjusting the cuff of a soft beige sweater that looked deceptively simple yet carried the unmistakable weight of luxury. Neutral tones suited him perfectly, as they always did in his campaigns. They were comfortable, approachable, the very picture of gentle masculinity. His dark hair had been styled into effortless waves that fell across his forehead just so. When he noticed San, he turned with a small, polite smile.
“Jeong Yunho,” he said, offering a slight bow. His voice was calm, lower than San had expected - lower than it usually was during ad campaigns, at least - the kind that carried naturally without effort. “It’s an honor to work with you today, San-ssi.”
San returned the bow with equal care, the motion practiced and precise. “The honor is mine. I’ve followed your work for some time. Very clean, very consistent.”
They exchanged no further pleasantries. In this industry, in this country, such things were handled with care. Male models did not stand too close unless the brief demanded it. They simply worked.
The director called positions almost immediately.
The first setup was straightforward: Yunho seated on the low charcoal sofa, one arm resting along the back in a relaxed, open posture that suggested confidence. San stood a respectful distance away, angled slightly toward the camera, one hand slipped into his trouser pocket, the open silk shirt framing the hard, oiled lines of his torso. The lights came up; harsh where they needed to be on San’s body, softer and more forgiving around Yunho. The camera began its steady rhythm.
San held each pose with the discipline of habit, feeling the familiar pull in his shoulders, the subtle burn in his core as he kept his posture perfect. He did not allow his mind to wander far. Thoughts of his hotel room, of the protein-packed dinner waiting for him later, of the early gym session tomorrow; they all stayed neatly contained. Across from him, Yunho maintained his own focus, his expression calm and pleasant, never once breaking character even when the lighting crew adjusted reflectors or the stylist darted forward to smooth a stray fold of fabric.
The director paced behind the camera, brow furrowed, gesturing sharply toward Yunho on the charcoal sofa.
“Yunho-ssi, you’re too stiff again. Relax your shoulders- drop them. This is supposed to feel like you’re at home, waiting for someone you actually like. Softer. More comfortable. Give me that smile you do in the catalogs, the one that makes people want to bring you home for dinner.”
Yunho exhaled quietly, rolling his shoulders once, then twice. He adjusted his posture, letting one arm drape more loosely along the back of the sofa, head tilting just a fraction as though listening to an invisible conversation. The smile came - gentle, practiced, the exact one that had sold millions of knitwear pieces - but the director wasn’t satisfied yet. San wasn't sure why, as he didn't see anything wrong with Yunho's demeanor.
“Better, but not there. Loosen the jaw. You look like you’re posing for a passport photo. Think cozy. Think ‘I just made tea and the person I care about is about to walk in.’ Again.”
The camera clicked through another set of frames. Yunho held the pose, smile unwavering even as the director muttered under his breath about needing “more warmth, more life.”
Between takes, Yunho didn’t complain; he simply nodded, reset his shoulders, and tried again steadily, patiently.
San, standing a respectful distance away with his hand still in his pocket, watched from the corner of his eye. He saw the tiny flicker of effort in Yunho’s expression each time the director asked for adjustments, saw how Yunho never once let frustration show on his face. It was impressive in its own way - different from San’s own discipline of holding rigid lines under harsh lights, but no less demanding.
The director finally grunted approval after several resets.
“That’s it. Hold that. Perfect. San-ssi, keep the torso angled exactly like that - good, hold.”
The shutter fired in quick succession. Yunho stayed exactly as he was, smile soft and effortless now, like he’d never been asked to adjust it at all.
Hours passed in this measured, professional dance. Between resets they exchanged only the smallest nods of acknowledgment. San noticed, in the abstract way one notices details without attaching meaning, how Yunho’s posture never faltered even after the fourth hour. Yunho, perhaps, noticed how San never once requested a break when the oil was reapplied or when the photographer asked for a slightly more demanding angle that pulled at already tired muscles.
By the time the sun had slipped behind the Gangnam skyline and the crew finally called the first day's wrap, both men were carrying that particular bone-deep fatigue that only twelve-hour shoots could produce. Upon the director's telling them they were done, they both subtly let go of their posture with a slight softening of the shoulders and a small exhale. Wordlessly, sleepily, they made their way down the narrow corridor to the shared dressing room, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the thick black marble underfoot.
San moved first to the large mirror that dominated one wall. He peeled off the black silk shirt with care, the fabric whispering against his oiled skin as it fell away, and the garment landed in a soft heap on the chair beside him. He stood there for a moment, bare-chested under the warm vanity lights, and began washing away the thin layer of oil that still gleamed across his abdomen and chest. He used the provided wet wipes first, slow circular motions that removed the worst of the slick residue, then followed with a clean white towel, patting gently so as not to irritate the skin that had been under harsh lights all day. A proper shower would come once he reached his hotel room; the apartment in Hongdae felt too far tonight after such a long session, so the production had booked him the usual suite at the nearby Shilla hotel, a luxury he had grown accustomed to during multi-day campaigns.
He started unbuttoning the low-slung black trousers, the zipper sounding unusually loud in the quiet room. The fabric slid down his muscular thighs and calves with ease before pooling at his ankles. He stepped out of them, folded them neatly, and reached for his own clothes hanging on the rack: dark denim jeans that sat comfortably on his hips and a simple oversized black hoodie that swallowed his large frame in soft cotton. As he tugged the jeans up, the denim cool against his still-warm skin, his gaze drifted involuntarily to the far corner of the dressing room.
Yunho had slipped into the small, curtained nook reserved for those who preferred privacy while changing. The heavy beige fabric swayed slightly as he moved behind it. San supposed it was out of modesty. After all, he could not recall ever seeing much of Yunho’s skin in any of the photoshoots or magazine spreads he had come across over the years. Perhaps a small glimpse of collarbone when a V-neck knitted sweater dipped low, or the faintest hint of a slim waistline when the sheer fabric of a shirt rode up as Yunho lay back on a styled bed. Nothing more. Nothing like the relentless exposure San had grown used to - nearly every inch of his own body except the most private areas had been captured on camera, studied, critiqued. The contrast stirred something unexpected in San’s chest: a small, flickering twinge of jealousy that he could not quite name. He found himself wondering, almost against his will, what Yunho looked like beneath those soft sweaters. Surely he could not be built like San; broad, carved, sculpted through endless discipline. If he were, he would have shown it off by now, that was simply how the industry worked. No, Yunho probably relied on that effortlessly pretty face, those kind eyes, that gentle smile that required no maintenance beyond good genes and soft lighting. San, on the other hand, could not slack off even for a single day. One missed workout, one careless meal, and the comments would flood in; endless, merciless, reminding him that his value was measured in visible abs and vascular forearms.
He had become so lost in these quiet, circling thoughts that he did not notice the curtain sliding open again. Yunho emerged already fully dressed, looking refreshed in a loose-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt the color of oatmeal and straight-legged jeans that somehow managed to look both casual and expensive. Everything about him remained effortlessly beautiful, even after a day under the lights; hair still softly waved, posture relaxed yet upright, the faint scent of the campaign’s woody perfume still clinging to him.
Yunho noticed San’s lingering gaze and offered a small, gentle smile, voice soft in the quiet room. “Long day, huh?”
San blinked, realizing only then that he had been staring. Heat crept up the back of his neck, subtle but unmistakable. He opened his mouth, but no words came immediately.
Yunho waited a polite beat, then continued in the same low, courteous tone while giving a small bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow, San-ssi. Have a good night.”
San snapped out of the brief trance, pulling his hoodie down over his head and smoothing the fabric. “Oh- oh, yeah. Sorry. Good night, Yunho-ssi. See you tomorrow.”
San finished dressing in silence. He laced his sneakers with the same deliberate care he applied to everything, checked his reflection one final time: hair still perfectly styled from the shoot, face clean of makeup, body once more hidden beneath ordinary clothes, then gathered his small bag and stepped out into the cooling evening air. A black company van waited at the side entrance, engine idling softly. The driver greeted him with a respectful nod and a quiet, “Good evening, San-ssi,” and San returned it before sliding into the back seat. The city lights of Gangnam blurred past the tinted windows as they drove the short distance to the Shilla hotel, the hum of the engine and the low murmur of evening traffic the only sounds. San leaned his head against the cool glass, letting the day’s exhaustion settle deeper into his bones.
At the hotel, the suite welcomed him with wide windows overlooking the Han River and crisp white linens on the king bed, a small kitchenette stocked exactly as he had requested. San dropped his bag by the door and went straight to the fridge. Dinner was the same delightfully un-appetizing meal it always was on shoot days: grilled chicken breast, plain steamed broccoli, a large measured portion of brown rice, and a protein shake mixed with water rather than milk. He ate at the small dining table, chewing methodically, tasting almost nothing. The food was fuel, nothing more - calculated grams of protein. He scrolled through his phone while he ate, answering a few brief messages from his agent confirming tomorrow’s call time, then set the device aside. The silence of the suite felt peaceful rather than empty.
After dinner he stepped into the spacious marble bathroom, stripped, and stood under the hot spray of the shower for a long time. Steam filled the room, fogging the mirrors. The water beat against his shoulders and back, washing away the last traces of oil, makeup, and the faint perfume that had clung to him all day. As the heat loosened his muscles, his mind drifted, unbidden, to the dressing room. San closed his eyes, letting the water run over his face. The thoughts were harmless. Simple professional curiosity after a long first day with a respected senior. Nothing more. He stayed under the spray until the water began to cool, then dried off, changed into soft black sleep shorts and a loose T-shirt, and climbed into the wide bed.
Sleep came quickly, deep and dreamless, the city lights of Seoul a distant glow beyond the heavy curtains.
The second day of the campaign began before dawn.
San woke at 5:30 a.m. to the gentle chime of his alarm, the hotel room still dark and quiet. He rose without hesitation, performed his usual morning stretches on the thick carpet - slow rotations of the shoulders, deep lunges that pulled at the muscles still faintly sore from yesterday’s poses - then dressed in the comfortable workout clothes he had packed. The hotel gym on the 15th floor was empty at this hour. He spent forty-five meticulous minutes there: heavy compound lifts that made his veins stand out against his forearms, followed by a careful core routine on the mat, sweat beading across his chest and dripping down the defined lines of his abdomen. He watched his form in the mirrored wall the entire time, correcting every angle, pushing until the familiar burn settled deep in his fibers. This was not optional. It was maintenance.
By 7:15 he was back in the suite, showering again, this time with the campaign’s signature body wash that the stylist had sent over. He ate a smaller protein breakfast made up of egg whites, oats, and a handful of almonds, then changed into the clothes laid out for today’s first setup: another pair of low-slung black trousers, this time paired with a deep maroon silk shirt left open to the sternum.
The van arrived at 8:00 sharp. The driver greeted him with the same respectful nod.
“Good morning, San-ssi. Ready for day two?”
“Morning,” San replied quietly, settling into the back seat. “Yes, thank you.”
The ride back to the Luné Maison studio in Gangnam took twenty minutes in the light morning traffic. San spent it reviewing the shot list his agent had forwarded, committing the required angles and expressions to memory. When they pulled up to the side entrance, he stepped out into the cool air and bowed politely to the waiting assistant who ushered him inside.
Yunho was already there, standing near the coffee station in a soft blue hoodie paired with fresh neutral trousers. Their eyes met across the room. Yunho offered the same warm, measured smile and a small bow.
“Good morning, San-ssi.”
San returned the bow, voice calm and respectful. “Good morning, Yunho-ssi. Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough, thank you,” Yunho answered, voice low and even. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added gently, “Actually… would you mind if we dropped the -ssi? It might make the long hours feel a little easier, a little more comfortable for both of us. Only if you’re okay with it, of course.”
San was taken aback.
No one had ever asked him that on a first campaign; not with someone of equal status, not so directly, not with such consideration. He blinked once, the surprise flickering through him like a brief current. Then he nodded, the motion small.
“I… yes. That would be nice. Thank you.”
Yunho’s smile softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling in relief. “Then Yunho is fine. We were born in the same year, after all.”
San felt a small, unexpected warmth bloom in his chest. Yunho had noticed - or looked it up. No one had ever bothered to check something so minor before offering to drop formalities; most people just waited for the age gap to surface naturally in conversation, or asked outright if they were curious. That Yunho had quietly confirmed it ahead of time felt… thoughtful. He dipped his head slightly, the gesture small but genuine.
“That’s… nice of you to know already,” San said softly. “Thank you.”
Yunho gave a tiny nod, as though it were nothing, and they turned together toward the set.
“The lighting setup looks a little different today,” Yunho noted as they walked, gesturing with his coffee cup toward the new arrangement of reflectors and softboxes. “They mentioned more focus on the fragrance bottles in the foreground.”
San glanced at the sleek black glass bottles lined up on the walnut table like jewels. “I saw the revised brief last night. I’ll make sure to keep my posture open so the bottles stay in frame.”
The director called positions shortly after.
The day unfolded in the same precise, unhurried rhythm as the first: careful poses, respectful distance, endless small adjustments under the lights.
During the mid-morning break, while an assistant dabbed fresh oil across San’s chest with slow, practiced strokes, Yunho stood nearby sipping water from a paper cup.
“Your form yesterday was impressive,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the set rather than directly on San. “The way you hold the more static poses without any tremor. It must take a lot of training.”
San felt a small flicker of warmth at the genuine compliment. “Ah… thank you. I try not to let the team down.” He paused, then added with a faint, self-deprecating curve of his lips, “You make the relaxed poses look completely natural. I don’t think I could sit that comfortably on a sofa for three hours straight. I’m far too awkward.”
Yunho laughed softly, the sound low and brief. “Years of practice pretending I’m waiting for a friend in a café or something. It’s easier than you’d think, trust me. Just... roleplay, really.”
The second day stretched on exactly as the first had. The same bone-deep fatigue settled in by evening. They changed in the dressing room again, San in the open area, Yunho once more behind the curtain. A few more polite words were exchanged as they left.
“See you tomorrow, San. Rest well.”
“You too, Yunho. Good night.”
The third day followed the exact same meticulous pattern.
San woke again at 5:30 a.m., performed the same stretches, the same forty-five-minute gym session where sweat traced every carved line of his body, the same protein breakfast that tasted like cardboard, the same quiet van ride.
When he stepped into the studio, Yunho was already by the coffee station, wearing a soft grey crewneck today. Their eyes met.
“Good morning, Yunho.”
“Good morning, San.” Yunho’s smile was easy, warmer than the first day. “Ready for the last day?”
San exhaled a small laugh, the sound lighter than anything he’d let out on set before. “Ready to be done with twelve-hour days, yeah. You?”
“Same. Let’s make it a good one and get out of here early if we can.”
They shared a brief, knowing look - two people who had already survived two full days of the same grind and knew there would be no chance of getting out early - and moved toward the set.
The morning passed in long, steady blocks of work: fragrance close-ups with San’s oiled torso angled just so, lifestyle shots with Yunho reclining on the charcoal sofa looking effortlessly at home, group compositions where they stood at careful, professional distances. Lunch break came and went with quiet protein meals eaten at separate corners of the holding area. Afternoon dragged under brighter lights, more resets, more small corrections from the director. The hours blurred together until the final setup of the day.
The director had called for a minor adjustment - San needed to shift half a step closer to the walnut table so the bottle in the foreground stayed sharp. The maroon silk shirt had slipped loosely off one shoulder during the previous pose, the fabric draping open and framing the hard curve of his bicep and the thick line of his deltoid. As he stepped forward, the bare skin of his shoulder and upper arm pressed fully against the soft wool of Yunho’s sleeve for a full, awful second - long enough that San felt the heat of Yunho’s body through the knit, long enough that the faint woody scent of the campaign perfume rose between them. San’s foot caught lightly on the edge of the low platform; he stumbled half a step, shoulder sliding down Yunho’s arm before he caught himself.
The contact lingered. Not long, but longer than a brush. Long enough that the entire small crew seemed to pause.
San froze, cheeks burning. “Sorry, I-”
Yunho had gone still too, arm half-raised as though to steady him, then dropped it quickly. His polite smile flickered, then steadied, though a faint flush crept up the side of his neck.
“It’s alright,” he said, voice softer than usual. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… clumsy.” San stepped back the required distance, heart thudding too hard under his ribs. He kept his eyes on the camera, refusing to look at Yunho directly.
The director cleared his throat. “Reset. One more take.”
The moment passed, but the air between them felt thick and charged for the rest of the shot.
Neither spoke of it again.
When the director finally called the final cut that afternoon, both men released their poses with the same subtle exhale. In the dressing room for the last time, Yunho emerged from the curtain in casual clothes - loose oatmeal shirt, straight jeans - and paused near the door.
“Three days done,” he said quietly. “It was a pleasure working with you, San. Truly.”
San, now in a simple grey T-shirt and dark jeans, met Yunho’s eyes and bowed a little deeper than necessary. “The pleasure was mine, Yunho.”
They parted with one final polite bow in the hallway, late-afternoon light slanting through the high windows, both of them suddenly awkward in a way that hadn’t existed before that clumsy, lingering contact.
San rode back to his apartment in Hongdae that evening instead of the hotel. The drive felt longer than usual, the city lights steady and familiar. He ate his usual plain grilled chicken and broccoli in silence at the small dining table, chewed mechanically, then stood under the hot shower for a long time, letting the water pound against his shoulders.
As steam clouded the glass, his thoughts drifted back to the afternoon. To the way Yunho’s arm had felt solid and warm under the wool. To the brief flush on Yunho’s neck, the quick drop of his gaze. San pressed his forehead against the cool tile.
Had he ruined whatever small, tentative ease they’d built over three days? The accidental press of skin had felt… friendly in a way nothing else on set had. Too personal for colleagues who barely knew each other. He wondered, quietly, if they could ever be friends - if Yunho would even want that after such an awkward moment - or if the memory of that clumsy stumble would make future interactions stilted and polite forever.
He dried off, changed into sleep clothes, and climbed into bed. Sleep came slowly tonight, the question lingering like smoke.
Two full months passed in silence.
Then one late-summer afternoon San’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while he was measuring out oats for tomorrow’s breakfast.
His agent’s name flashed on the screen. He picked the phone up without hesitation.
"Hello-"
“San-ah, Luné Maison is getting the Excellence Award for highest-selling fragrance campaign of the year. The Adult Dreamhouse line. They want both models there; the two of you anchored it. Lotte Hotel World, next Friday evening. Black tie. You in?”
San stared at the oats in the bowl for a long moment. Yunho would go. Of course he would. He always went to events like this, San noticed.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m in.”
The evening of the award ceremony arrived cool and crisp, early autumn air carrying the faint scent of fallen ginkgo leaves.
San arrived at the Lotte Hotel World in a tailored black suit that followed the lines of his shoulders and narrow waist without clinging. He moved through the grand lobby, past marble columns and low arrangements of white orchids, exchanging small bows with familiar faces; photographers he’d worked with, a stylist from a previous Guess shoot, an executive who complimented the campaign numbers in passing. Inside the ballroom the chandeliers threw soft golden light across round tables draped in cream linen.
Speeches began almost immediately - long, polished thank-yous from brand directors, clips of the campaign playing on a massive screen, and applause that rose and fell in waves. San sat through it all, picking at the small portions of seared tuna and asparagus on his plate, nodding politely when someone leaned over to congratulate him.
After the main award presentation, when the lights dimmed for the cocktail hour and the crowd began to mill, San caught sight of Yunho across the room. He stood near a tall window in a soft beige suit, the cut clean and understated, hair falling in those familiar gentle waves. He looked relaxed, one hand in his pocket, chatting quietly with someone San didn’t recognize.
Their eyes met through the shifting crowd. Yunho’s face brightened instantly; he raised a hand in a small, easy wave.
San excused himself from the conversation he’d been half-listening to and made his way over, threading slowly between clusters of people, the low murmur of voices and clinking glasses following him.
When he reached him, Yunho turned fully toward San, smile warm and genuine.
“San,” Yunho greeted, voice carrying easily over the ambient chatter. “It’s good to see you again. Congratulations on the campaign doing so well.”
“Thank you, Yunho.” San bowed slightly, the motion automatic. “You too. The numbers are impressive. How have you been?”
Yunho nodded, taking a small sip from his glass of sparkling water. “Busy, but good. I wrapped a winter catalog for a home brand last month - lots of fireside setups, thick knits, that kind of thing. Nothing as intense as our three days together, though. What about you?”
“All the same stuff as usual,” San said, a faint smile touching his lips. “A few editorial spreads in between. One for a denim campaign that required outdoor location shoots in the rain. Not my favorite weather, but the results turned out strong.”
Yunho laughed quietly. “Rain shoots are the worst. I did one last spring and ended up soaked through three layers. The photographer kept saying ‘just one more’ for two hours.”
San shook his head. “They always say that. Then you’re freezing and they want ‘natural’ goosebumps.”
“Exactly. I think I caught a cold after that one.”
Yunho tilted his head slightly, the golden light from the chandelier catching the soft wave of his hair.
“So how’s your agency treating you these days?” he asked, voice pitched low to stay between them. “I remember you mentioning they push the body-focused campaigns pretty hard in an interview once. Are you getting more editorial offers now, or is it still mostly the same?”
San exhaled through his nose, a small sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “They’re trying. Last month they booked me for a spread in Dazed Korea - more conceptual, less skin. I got to wear actual clothes the whole time. Felt… strange. Good strange. But yeah, the bulk is still Calvin-level stuff. They say it’s what pays the bills.”
Yunho nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. “I get that. The cozy campaigns still make up most of my bookings - sweaters, coffee cups, that whole thing. It’s comfortable work, literally and figuratively, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to do something sharper. Edgier. Like what you do.”
San raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You? Edgier?”
“Why not?” Yunho gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I mean, I’m not built like you, but I’ve got arms under these sweaters. Maybe one day they’ll let me take one off for a shoot that isn’t a knitwear catalog.”
San let out a quiet huff of amusement. “Careful what you wish for. The second you show skin, the comments start. ‘Too much,’ ‘not enough,’ ‘why isn’t he smiling?’ It never ends.”
Yunho’s expression softened, something almost sympathetic flickering across his face. “I’ve seen some of those comments under your posts. People can be brutal. You handle it better than most would.”
San looked down at his glass for a second - sparkling water, same as Yunho’s - then back up. “You get used to it. Or you pretend to. Either way, the paycheck clears.”
A beat of quiet passed between them, comfortable rather than tense. Yunho swirled the ice in his glass absently.
“Honestly,” he said after a moment, “those three days we shot together were some of the most… focused work I’ve done in a while. You never once broke form, never complained. Made me want to step up my own game.”
San felt the back of his neck warm again, but this time it wasn’t embarrassment. “...You were the same, though. Steady the whole time. Even when the director kept asking for 'just one more relaxed smile'. I would’ve cracked after the tenth take.”
Yunho laughed under his breath. “I almost did. I was counting the seconds until wrap in my head. But seeing you- it was motivating. In a way.”
San met his eyes, holding the contact a second longer than usual. “Same here. Watching you made the long hours feel… less long.”
They stood like that for another minute, the ballroom noise a distant hum, before Yunho glanced toward the thinning crowd.
“My friend Seonghwa-hyung’s here tonight too- he came to support the brand. He’s a runway model, mostly Paris and Milan seasons, but he does some editorial when the timing works. Park Seonghwa. You might recognize the name.”
San’s brows lifted slightly. “I do. I’ve seen his walk in the Vogue runway recaps. Very elegant. I’d like to meet him if the chance comes up.”
Yunho’s expression brightened. “I think you two would get along. He’s easy to talk to, for sure. I’ll introduce you later if he’s not swallowed up by the crowd.”
Before San could reply, a woman in a sleek black dress approached, touching Yunho’s elbow lightly. “Yunho-ssi, the brand director would like a quick photo with you and the award. It’ll only take a minute.”
Yunho glanced at San apologetically. “Duty calls. I’ll find you again soon?”
“Yeah,” San said, with a smile. “Go ahead.”
Yunho gave a small bow and followed the woman away.
Later, near the end of the long evening - when the crowd had thinned, the lights had warmed to a deeper gold, and staff were quietly beginning to clear glassware - San spotted Yunho again. This time he was standing near one of the tall windows with another man. Tall, though not quite as tall as Yunho, strikingly beautiful in a sharp, almost sculptural way: high cheekbones, long dark hair tied back neatly in a low ponytail, a tailored charcoal suit that moved like water when he laughed. San recognized him immediately from runway footage: Park Seonghwa.
Yunho noticed San watching and waved him over with an easy, open gesture.
“San, come here for a moment,” he called, voice carrying just enough over the dying hum of the room.
San crossed the floor. Yunho placed a light, friendly hand on his shoulder for the briefest second before letting go.
“Seonghwa-hyung, this is Choi San - the one I told you about from the Luné Maison campaign, though of course you recognize him already. San, this is Park Seonghwa.”
Seonghwa turned, offering a graceful bow and a warm, curious smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you, San. Yunho’s mentioned how professional you were on set. I saw some of the campaign ads, your presence in those shots is powerful.”
San bowed in return, feeling a small flush of surprise at the direct compliment. “Ah- thank you. It’s an honor. I’ve admired your runway work for a while. The way you carry yourself is… memorable.”
Seonghwa’s smile widened slightly. “That’s kind of you to say. I’ve always thought the best walks are the ones that make the clothes feel alive instead of just worn. Your still shots do something similar, make the body feel like architecture.”
San laughed quietly, caught off guard. “I’ve never thought of it that way. Thank you.”
Seonghwa leaned one shoulder against the tall window frame, arms loosely crossed, and tilted his head toward San. “These award nights always feel longer than they actually are. By hour three I start calculating how many steps it would take to just walk out the side door without anyone noticing.”
San let out a short, genuine laugh, the sound low and surprised even to his own ears. “I’ve done the math too. Usually lands around forty-seven steps past the coat check before someone grabs my elbow for ‘one more photo.’”
Yunho’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You two are plotting an escape already? I thought I was the only one counting exits.”
Seonghwa grinned, sharp and playful. “You’re too polite to actually leave early. We’re just honest about wanting to.” He straightened a little, gesturing with his glass. “Speaking of long nights, my last Milan show was ridiculous. They decided the finale needed ‘atmospheric drama,’ so they pumped the entire runway full of dry ice. Visibility dropped to maybe two meters. I’m in four-inch platforms, blind, trying not to eat the floor while the music is blasting so loud I can’t even hear the stage manager screaming ‘keep walking!’ I swear my heel caught on a cable and I did this-” He mimed a dramatic stagger, one arm windmilling for balance, the other clutching an imaginary skirt. “-and somehow still made it to the end without falling. The audience thought it was intentional choreography.”
San’s brows shot up. “You’re kidding. I saw clips from that show. You looked completely composed.”
“Composed on the outside,” Seonghwa said, laughing under his breath. “Inside I was praying the dry ice would just swallow me whole. What about you? Yunho mentioned you did a denim campaign in the rain recently.”
San rubbed the back of his neck, the memory pulling a wry smile out of him.
“Yeah. It was outdoors in the middle of a storm that wasn’t supposed to happen. The photographer kept yelling ‘more authentic emotion!’ while I’m soaked through three layers of denim, teeth chattering, water running into my eyes. I’m pretty sure half the shots are just me trying not to sneeze.”
Yunho let out a quiet, amused sound. “Authentic emotion. That’s code for ‘suffer prettily for the camera.’”
“Exactly,” San hummed. “By take thirty-three I was authentic enough to win an Oscar for misery. The final images turned out good, though. They used the ones where my hair was plastered to my face and I looked half-drowned. Apparently that’s ‘raw.’”
Seonghwa nodded sagely. “Raw sells. Play-pretend doesn’t. Though I’d take a nice warm sweater shoot over rain any day.”
Yunho glanced between them, smile soft. “You two are making me grateful all over again for my last job, just sitting by a fireplace, pretending to read a book. No weather nor six-inch death traps.”
San snorted. “That sounds perfect.”
“It was,” Yunho admitted. “Until the director decided the book needed to be held upside down for ‘artistic asymmetry.’ I spent twenty minutes reading gibberish backwards.”
Seonghwa laughed outright at that, the sound bright and unguarded. “I need to see those outtakes someday.”
Yunho shrugged, playful. “Only if you promise not to leak them. My image would be ruined.”
The ballroom lights had dimmed even further, the crowd thinned to scattered groups and waitstaff quietly starting to stack chairs. Eventually Seonghwa glanced at his watch and sighed.
“As much as I’d love to keep plotting escapes and trading war stories, they’re about to kick us out.”
San nodded, feeling the pleasant ache of a night that had gone better than he expected. “Yeah. This was… nice.”
“Before we all disappear into our schedules again; would you mind if I got your number?” Seonghwa held his phone out toward San, screen already open to contacts. “It would be nice to keep in touch.”
San blinked, then took the phone with a small, awkward nod. “Of course.”
He typed his number in carefully, added his name, handed it back.
Seonghwa glanced at the screen and smiled. “Perfect. I’ll text you soon.”
Yunho watched with a quiet laugh, already pulling his own phone out.
“This is funny, isn’t it? We spent three full days together shooting that campaign and never once exchanged numbers. Now here we are, months later, fixing that at an awards event.”
San chuckled, the sound low and a little sheepish. “It does feel a bit ridiculous when you say it like that. Here.”
He unlocked his phone and passed it to Yunho.
Yunho took it, typed quickly, added a simple "Yunho” with a small wave emoji beside it, and handed it back. “There..”
Seonghwa slipped his phone away and glanced between them. “We should do dinner sometime, the three of us. There’s a quiet place in Itaewon that does excellent grilled fish and doesn’t get too loud. No cameras nor press.”
Yunho nodded immediately. “I’m in. San?”
“Yeah,” San said, surprised at how easily the word came. “That sounds good.”
Seonghwa smiled. “I’ll message you both next week with dates before another campaign has the chance to swallow us up.”
They stepped away from the window together, moving toward the coat check in a loose triangle - San on the left, Yunho in the middle, Seonghwa on the right.
Seonghwa collected his long charcoal overcoat first. He turned, bowing lightly to both of them.
“Text you soon. Get home safe.”
Yunho bowed back. “You too. Drive carefully.”
San echoed the bow. “Good night, Seonghwa-ssi.”
Seonghwa gave a final small wave and slipped out into the lobby, disappearing into the stream of departing guests.
Yunho collected his own coat next - a soft camel wool thing that looked warm enough for the autumn chill. He turned to San, expression gentle.
“See you at dinner?” he asked, voice quiet now that the room was mostly empty.
San nodded, feeling a sudden rush of heat climb up his neck and settle in his cheeks. He ducked his head slightly, hoping the dimmed lights hid the flush. Out of everyone in this glittering, cutthroat world - everyone who smiled for cameras and then whispered poison backstage - Yunho and Seonghwa had chosen to linger, to talk, to actually want more time with him. Not because of his abs or his billboard reach, but because they seemed to like the person underneath the poses. Nice. Genuinely nice. The kind of nice that felt rare enough to make his chest ache in a way he hadn’t expected.
“Yeah,” he managed, voice softer than he intended. “I’ll be there.”
Yunho smiled a small, steady smile, the same one that had felt like sunlight on set three months ago.
“Good. Text me when you get home safe.”
Another warmth crept up San's neck. How direct.
“I will.”
They bowed once more, then Yunho stepped toward the exit. San watched him go for a second longer than necessary, the back of his beige suit blending into the thinning crowd before vanishing through the glass doors.
San collected his own coat last, slipping it on as he walked out into the crisp night air. The valet had already brought his car around; the black sedan idled quietly at the curb. He slid into the back seat, gave the driver a soft “Hongdae, please,” and leaned his head against the window.
The city lights blurred past in streaks of gold and red. San’s phone sat heavy in his pocket - two new contacts added tonight.
A small, giddy warmth spread through his chest, unexpected and bright. He smiled shyly to himself in the dark reflection of the window, almost embarrassed at how much it affected him, like a kid who’d just been picked first for a team instead of last. How silly, to feel this flutter over something as simple as people being kind. But they were kind. And they wanted him around. Not for clout, not for optics; just because.
Tonight had felt… easy. Normal, in the best way. Like maybe the careful distance he’d always kept from other professionals didn’t have to stay quite so wide forever.
The car turned onto the familiar streets of Hongdae. San let the smile linger a little longer, the thrill of possibility settling warm and steady inside him as the city carried him home.