Chapter Text
Mingyu || Wonwoo
The room smelled like expensive furniture polish and old money—both of which I could never quite get used to. Deep mahogany walls, the kind you’d expect in the office of someone who inherited his power, surrounded us. Every painting in this room was original, and that fact alone made my skin itch. Not because I was impressed, but because none of them looked like they’d ever been felt—just bought.
I was seated across from the Kim family. Yes, that Kim family.
I’d heard of them before the email ever reached my manager’s inbox. When someone like them reaches out, it’s not because they’re interested in your art—they’re interested in your name. And mine, for better or worse, had become a recognizable one in the last three years.
They were composed, refined, like people who hadn’t heard the word "no" in a decade. His mother wore tailored cream silk and her hair didn’t move when she spoke. His father had the kind of gaze that could make marble feel small. I had barely said more than five words throughout this meeting, and somehow I’d already managed to disappoint them—simply by not being impressed.
"We want full figure," the father said, his fingers steepled under his chin. "Marble. Months of work minimum. And a portrait, oil-painted, separate."
He’d already said this three times.
Beside me, my manager, Jinah, was scribbling down notes like her life depended on it. I didn’t blame her. These were the kinds of clients that could fund three years of freedom if I played it right.
"And of course, we’re more than happy to compensate you appropriately," the mother added, voice smooth and businesslike. “We believe in tradition. When our children turn twenty-five, we have their figure captured permanently, by an artist worthy of being remembered alongside them.”
Worthy. I swallowed that word with a sip of untouched tea.
“And your son?” I finally asked. “He’s aware of this?”
A pause.
"He is," the father replied. “Though Mingyu tends to be… playful. This is a serious tradition in our family, and we’ve made it clear to him. He’ll be available for as many hours as you require.”
Jinah glanced at me for a cue to speak. I leaned back, fingers laced on my lap, letting the silence stretch.
I’d seen the initial offer already. It was absurdly high—too high, almost. Enough to make most artists laugh, cry, or sell their souls.
And I took it without blinking.
“That offer,” I said, softly. “The one in your email. I’ll take it.”
The mother blinked, clearly surprised. “Won’t you name your rate?”
“No.”
“But we—”
“I said I’ll take it.”
I didn’t like haggling. It made the process feel dirty. I made art, not negotiations. And if they were willing to throw a fortune my way, I wasn’t about to ask for more. I wanted it over and done with before they could dress this whole ordeal in fake pleasantries again.
I stood, reaching across the table. The father stood with me, taking my hand in a firm shake. The mother followed, her grip surprisingly strong.
"You’ll set the dates with Jinah," I told them, already turning for the door. “Studio sessions begin when you’re ready. Tell Mingyu not to be late.”
And that was it.
I didn’t wait for a farewell. Didn’t ask more questions. I didn’t need to.
Rich families always operated the same way. They made everything sound like an opportunity, like their presence in your life was a gift you hadn’t earned. But art didn’t work like that. My work didn’t bow to lineage, or names, or gold-trimmed contracts.
I worked with marble because it didn’t lie. I painted because I could never put into words what I didn’t trust people enough to say.
And this? This wasn’t about expression.
This was just another body to sculpt.
I stepped out of the room, letting the heavy door shut behind me with a quiet finality. Jinah would handle the rest. The dates, the scheduling, the endless emails. She was good at that. Better than me.
I had other things to worry about now.
Like the figure I’d soon be carving.
And the man behind it.
Mingyu.
Because man would I have to worry a lot about this man during our interactions.
That night, I didn’t even make it home before Jinah sent me the updated schedule.
It buzzed into my phone while I was parked outside a convenience store, a neat little PDF attachment with color-coded blocks that made my head ache just looking at it.
Six months. Six whole months—blocked, planned, sealed with Kim family precision.
I scrolled through it slowly, brow furrowing deeper with every line.
Session One: Concept discussion and preliminary sketches.
Session Two: Pose selection and full-body measurements.
Session Three: Initial sculpting observation.
Session Four: Painting preparation.
Session Five to Infinity: Mingyu in the studio. Mingyu in the chair. Mingyu standing, sitting, existing—always there.
I read it twice, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
“What the hell…” I muttered to myself, leaning back in the driver’s seat, the glow of the streetlight slicing my face in half.
When I called Jinah, she picked up on the first ring. “Saw the schedule?”
“Jinah,” I said flatly, “why is he there for every single meeting?”
“Because they want him there for every single meeting.” She sounded exhausted already. “It’s the Kim family, Wonwoo. You know they’re traditionalists. They have a way of doing things, and they’re paying you enough to let them do it their way.”
“Tradition or not, this is ridiculous. One session for the pose, one for the measurements, done. Everything else can be done without him breathing down my neck.”
“They don’t want a technical replica,” she replied, in that firm-but-gentle tone she used when she thought I was about to do something stupid. “They want… what did the mother call it? ‘The soul of their heir immortalized.’ Which apparently means you need him there—always.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “That’s not how it works. That’s not how I work.”
“You work for whoever signs the checks,” Jinah reminded me, her voice slicing clean through my thoughts.
For a long moment, I said nothing. The number from that offer flashed behind my eyelids like a neon sign, mocking me for pretending I had the luxury of pride right now.
“…It’s insane money,” I muttered.
“It’s stupid money,” she corrected. “Stupid enough to pay for that Italian marble you’ve been dreaming about. Stupid enough to give you two years off commissions if you want it.”
I let my head fall back against the headrest, staring at the faint reflection of my tired face in the rearview mirror.
Six months. Six months of some rich man’s son sitting in my space, watching me work, breathing the air I needed to create.
For a moment, I almost told Jinah to cancel it. Almost.
But I didn’t.
“Fine,” I said finally, voice flat as glass. “Leave it as it is.”
—
Days later, I was standing in my studio, suitcase by the door.
I’d bought this place three years ago, a little warehouse conversion with high windows that let the sunlight pour in like liquid gold. When I had big projects, I stayed here. Lived here, if you could call it that—on a thin mattress in the back room, with a coffee pot and a sketchbook for company. It wasn’t home, but it was… mine.
I rolled my sleeves up past my elbows and started setting up the space, laying out charcoal, priming a large canvas against the far wall, arranging the marble block where the light was strongest. The faint hum of the heater filled the silence.
I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes late.
My jaw clenched.
Fifteen minutes wasn’t long, but for someone like me—someone who measured life in strokes and lines and the weight of drying paint—it was an eternity.
I turned back to the canvas. If I waited, I’d go insane.
So I worked.
I began with broad strokes, coating the canvas in a muted beige wash, my arm moving in slow, steady arcs. The Kim family’s mansion had been dripping in gold and cream, every corner trying too hard to look timeless. I didn’t want to mimic it, but the portrait needed to belong there, to feel like a part of their curated history.
So I started with warm undertones. Yellowish hues blended into bone-white, a subtle echo of what I’d seen in their halls. My brush slid through mixtures of ochre, gray, and soft ivory, layering color theory into every sweep, until the blank canvas was breathing.
As I worked, irritation simmered low in my chest, pulsing with every tick of the clock.
Fifteen minutes late.
No call. No message.
Of course. Why would there be? People like him didn’t wait—they were the ones people waited for.
I dipped my brush back into the paint, pressing harder than I needed to, streaking the surface with deliberate force. If this Mingyu was anything like his parents, he was probably somewhere being pampered, while I—
A sharp sound pulled me out of my thoughts.
The door opened with a low creak, and the sound of footsteps followed, slow but confident, echoing against the old wooden floorboards.
I didn’t turn.
I didn’t need to.
Who else would it be?
Still, the irritation coiled tighter in my chest—not because he was here, but because of how he was here. Walking in without knocking, like this was his place. Like I’d been waiting on him instead of the other way around.
The brush in my hand stilled over the canvas, bristles heavy with yellow-tinged paint. I stared at the faint warmth blooming across the surface, my jaw working silently as I tried to swallow the instinct to snap.
Then came his voice.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m late,” he said, in that tone—casual, unbothered, like he wasn’t fifteen minutes behind schedule. The kind of tone that belonged to someone who had never in his life needed to apologize for anything.
I heard the soft stretch of fabric as he lifted his arms high above his head, a satisfied exhale slipping past his lips before his voice dropped back into the room. “Traffic was insane.”
Traffic.
Right.
I didn’t answer. Not yet.
Instead, I rinsed my brush in the jar of murky water and set it aside. Slowly, deliberately, I placed the palette down on the cart and pulled at the ties of my apron, letting the paint-streaked fabric fall away from my torso.
The apron hit the hook with a soft thud.
Then came the glasses. I slid them on carefully adjusting them to my preference. My fingers swept through my hair in a rough motion, dragging it back from my forehead—more out of frustration than any attempt to look presentable.
Only then did I turn.
And there he was.
Kim Mingyu.
Taller than I’d expected, his frame cutting clean lines against the wide doorway. Dark hair, slightly tousled as if the wind had toyed with it, and a tailored coat shrugged carelessly over broad shoulders. Everything about him screamed expensive, but in that effortless way—the kind you can’t buy, only inherit.
And his smile… God. That smile was trouble.
He moved toward me like he had all the time in the world, closing the distance between us with long strides that made the studio feel smaller. My pulse ticked louder in my ears the closer he came, but I forced my expression to stay blank. Detached.
I was still pissed.
For the lateness. For the lack of knocking. For the way he looked at the room like it belonged to him.
When he stopped a few feet away, I finally spoke.
“You’re late,” I said, voice calm—too calm, the kind that carried an edge if you listened closely.
He tilted his head, lips quirking. “I said sorry, didn’t I?”
“And you're not knocking,” I added, tone just as mild. “That’s new from a client.”
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement. Not apology.
He didn’t answer right away, and I didn’t give him the chance. Instead, I closed the space between us, my hand extending in the universal language of professionalism, even though the last thing I wanted to do was touch him.
“I’m not sure if your parents did the introduction for you already,” I said evenly, my voice dipping just enough to sound formal, “but I’ll do it again regardless.”
My fingers stretched toward his, steady despite the pulse ticking in my throat.
“I’m Wonwoo,” I said. “The artist in charge of your twenty-fifth birthday gift.”
For a second, he just stared at my hand, like he was considering something.
Then he smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of lips—and took it.
The handshake should’ve been simple. Quick. Professional.
It wasn’t.
The moment his palm met mine, I felt it—the confidence, the warmth, the calculated ease. His grip was firm, but not harsh, his skin smooth against mine as his fingers slid into place like they belonged there. And then, when it should have ended, it didn’t—not immediately. He lingered, just long enough to make it noticeable, just long enough to let me feel the quiet flex of muscle in his forearm.
And when he did let go, it wasn’t abrupt. It was a glide, a slow withdrawal that left the ghost of contact trailing up my arm like static.
I knew the type.
Flirty. Charming. The kind who weaponized smiles and turned apologies into jokes. And God help me, he was good at it.
For a flicker of a moment—just one—I felt something tighten low in my gut. A sharp, unwelcome heat curling there before I shoved it down where it belonged.
I didn’t do this.
Not with clients. Not with anyone.
So I met his eyes—dark, glinting with something I couldn’t read—and ignored the way his grin widened, like he’d caught that hesitation in me.
“Nice to meet you, Wonwoo,” he said, voice smooth as honey.
I forced a small nod. “Let’s get started.”
And just like that, I turned away—because if I kept looking at him, I wasn’t sure what else he’d make me feel.