Chapter Text
Jongho always greeted you the same way: quietly, almost absent-mindedly, like he was reluctant to break whatever stillness he lived inside of. Today was no different: the creak of the studio door, the faint smell of turpentine and linseed oil, and Jongho looking up from his easel with a startled blink, as though he hadn’t heard you come in.
“Good morning,” he murmured, voice low, steady, professional.
Your heart did that annoying flutter it had begun to adopt around him. This was your fourth, no, maybe fifth session posing for him, and each one had grown a little more charged. A little less neutral. His brushwork remained even and focused, his composure impeccable, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed him.
You undressed behind the folding screen, the soft rustle of fabric absurdly loud in the quiet. When you stepped out, fully nude, the air in the room tightened. Jongho’s hand paused mid-stroke on the canvas. His jaw twitched. For half a second or even less, his gaze flicked downward, sweeping over the lines of your body in a way that wasn’t artistic at all.
He cleared his throat almost violently and returned to the canvas.
“Same pose as last time,” he said. There was a small tremor in the words, barely noticeable unless you were listening for it.
You always listened for it.
The pose was easy. It was a slight turn of the torso, arms relaxed, one hip subtly angled. Comfortable enough, though the vulnerability never quite faded. Not with Jongho. Not when his quiet restraint seemed to wrap around the room like its own kind of heat.
For long stretches, the only sounds were the whisper of his brush, the scratch of charcoal, and the occasional exhale he tried too hard to keep silent.
Sometimes you glanced at him. Sometimes you caught him glancing first.
Once, when you shifted your weight, his eyes traced the movement like he’d been waiting for it. Colour rose to his cheekbones. It was subtle, just a faint warmth, a confession presented in blood flow to his face. He forced himself back to his palette quickly, but his ears remained pink for a while.
Another time, he asked you to tilt your chin a little higher. When you did, he stared a beat too long before reacting, his lips parting slightly as if he had forgotten to breathe. The brush in his hand stilled, and he had to look away, grounding himself with a quiet, shaky breath.
Jongho was a disciplined man. He always appeared measured and composed.
But he also seemed to be losing the war with himself.
And you knew it.
When the session ended, he set his brushes aside with slow precision, as though stretching time on purpose. You stepped behind the screen and slipped into your dress, the fabric sliding over warm skin still aware of his eyes.
You struggled with the zipper at the back, your arms just a little too short, your angle just a little too awkward. You huffed softly.
Jongho’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected.
“Here… let me.”
You froze. Then nodded.
He approached carefully, like you might startle. His fingers brushed the fabric near the base of the zipper. The zipper slid upward in a long, slow line. You felt it not just on your spine but everywhere.
His hand lingered for a moment too long at the back of your neck.
You turned.
He was closer than you realised, his face inches from yours. His eyes dipped to your lips in a flash he didn’t hide quickly enough, just a flicker, but enough to thicken the air between you. His breath was subtly uneven. The faintest scent of paint and soap clung to him.
Your lips parted. Not in invitation… but not in refusal either.
For one suspended heartbeat, it felt inevitable.
Then Jongho swallowed, stepped back, and the spell snapped.
“I’ll… uh… I’ll see you next time,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges.
You nodded, pulse thudding.
“Next time.”
As you left the studio, you could feel his gaze on your back, heavy, wanting. Part of you wanted to turn back, but you didn’t, you just kept walking.
The door closed behind you.