Jihun stood in his sterile, brightly lit bathroom, examining the dark, reddish smear that Minho had painted onto his chest. He was scrubbing with industrial-strength soap, trying to remove the last vestiges of the fake blood and the genuine, confusing sensation of Minho's black-greasepainted thumb on his skin.
The stage blood was gone, but the mark remained—not a physical stain, but a profound sense of disruption.
It was the first time in his life that someone's presence had genuinely eclipsed his focus. During the entire drive home, Jihun hadn't calculated the inverse square law of a single streetlamp or evaluated the chromatic aberration of his rearview mirror. He had only seen the electric intensity in Minho's eyes, magnified by the single key light.
"I think we just found an artistic exception."
The line was still echoing in his head. Minho hadn't just violated Clause 4 of the Collaboration Terms; he had rewritten the terms of Jihun's entire internal constitution with a single, slow, intentional touch.
Jihun stared at his reflection, noting the tightness around his jaw. This was untenable. He had to reassert control immediately, or the project—and his sanity—would be lost.
He checked his email. Minho had delivered the shot list as promised. It was titled: Shot List v1.0: Focus Blur & Close Encounters of the Thirsty Kind.
Jihun's face went immediately hot. He opened the file. The shot list itself was professional—lenses, color notes, movement—but Minho had added footnotes.
Shot 12, Close Up, Minho's Eye: "Need to capture the exact moment the light dies. Requires extreme proximity to the DP's face for focus pulling. Suggest a breath-holding contest." Shot 25, Crane Shot: "Budget for a crane? No. Instead, Jihun should hold the camera rig while standing on my shoulders. Team building." Shot 40, Montage: "Need a shot of the leads—or maybe just us—in a confined space, breathing the same air. Artistic intimacy is non-negotiable."
Jihun's fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to draft a furious, professional email detailing the necessary revisions to the tone and the elimination of the absurd footnotes. But he knew that engaging Minho on that level was exactly what Minho wanted.
He decided to go higher. He would hit him where it truly hurt: the budget.
The following day, Jihun scheduled a mandatory meeting—via email, of course, using the correct subject line—to discuss the Production Finance and Resource Allocation.
He set up the collaboration room like a corporate boardroom. He wore a fresh, starched suit, and laid out his documents: spreadsheets, amortization tables, and a meticulously organized printout of Minho's proposed budget requests.
Minho showed up ten minutes early, violating his own track record and confusing Jihun. He was wearing a ridiculously oversized, ripped vintage hoodie and immediately sat in the wrong chair.
"Good morning, DP," Minho greeted, sliding a sticky bag of convenience store pastries across the table. "I brought sustenance for the soul-crushing part of the process."
Jihun ignored the pastries. "Mr. Ryu. This meeting is to formalize the budget. As you know, the total allowance for the production design and props is ₩800,000. Your submitted requests amount to ₩4,500,000."
Minho shrugged, picking up an almond pastry. "A mere suggestion."
Jihun adjusted his glasses. "A suggestion which includes a request for ₩1,500,000 for a 'vintage, artisanal, hand-stitched leather camera bag, essential for my character's emotional truth.' Mr. Ryu, your character is a poor lighting technician. He would use a duffel bag from the market."
"But Jihun, the bag is the emotional truth," Minho argued earnestly, leaning forward. "When he sees his rival, the clean cinematographer, holding a clean camera bag, the contrast of his worn leather—that's the whole scene! You can't put a price on metaphor!"
Jihun inhaled sharply. "The price, Mr. Ryu, is ₩1,500,000, which is over 187% of our entire props allowance. We will not be purchasing this bag."
"Fine," Minho sighed dramatically. "Then scratch the bag, but you must keep the ₩80,000 for 'emergency therapeutic chocolate.' Long shooting days require emotional stability."
"The budget line item is 'contingency.' Not 'therapeutic chocolate,'" Jihun corrected, pointing a neat pen at the spreadsheet. "And what is this: ₩200,000 for 'Atmospheric Haze, Imported'? We can use a basic fog machine."
Minho shook his head firmly. "No, no, no. The difference between a simple fog machine and imported atmospheric haze is the difference between a high school drama club and art, Jihun. The imported stuff catches the light—your light—in a softer, more romantic way. It elevates the visual poetry."
Jihun could feel his calm dissolving. He was arguing about "visual poetry" versus "budgetary reality." It was ridiculous. He had to sound professional, but he was failing.
"Mr. Ryu, I am the DP. I can make a budget fog machine look like 'visual poetry,' as you put it," Jihun said, struggling to keep his voice level. "We need to adhere to the numbers, or the Dean will reject our proposal. We are responsible for the financial integrity of this—"
Minho suddenly burst into a loud, joyful peal of laughter. He reached across the table and plucked the pen from Jihun's hand, then scribbled something on the budget sheet.
"We don't need the Dean's approval, Jihun," Minho chuckled, tears welling in his eyes. "Didn't you read the email? This project is being financed entirely by my uncle. He said, and I quote, 'Just make it pretty, nephew. The check is already cleared.'"
Jihun stared at the number Minho had just scrawled: an extra zero at the end of the total budget. ₩8,000,000.
The air left Jihun's lungs. All the hours he had spent carefully calculating, reducing, and justifying—the spreadsheets, the amortization, the legalistic arguments—had been entirely, humiliatingly pointless. He had prepared for a military operation, and Minho had turned it into a poetry slam.
Jihun felt a deep, slow flush of crimson rise from his collar and spread across his neck and face. He, the man who prided himself on preparation, had wasted an entire evening defending a budget that was now ten times larger.
Minho looked at Jihun's rapidly reddening face, his amusement softening into a genuine, curious smile.
"It's okay, Jihun," Minho said, his voice quiet. "You look beautiful when you're angry about money." He reached out, not to touch Jihun's skin this time, but to gently push Jihun's glasses back up his nose.
"Now," Minho said, his tone shifting into something warm and conspiratorial. "About that imported haze. You know it will make your light look like liquid gold."
Jihun was too mortified to argue. He could only manage a choked, "I need... to revise the schedule."
Minho's success at dismantling Jihun's professional defenses made him bolder than ever.
The following week, they were ready for their first test shoot: the "Confined Space" setup, Shot 40 from the list. Minho, leveraging his new, unrestricted budget, had insisted they use a tiny, rented storage unit near the campus—the space was barely two meters by two meters, necessary for the suffocating emotional atmosphere he wanted.
Jihun, who required space and precision to operate, was immediately on edge.
"I need to rig the backlight first," Jihun announced, entering the small unit. It was filled with dusty, stacked film cans and draped fabric—the perfect visual mess Minho required.
Minho was already inside, sitting on an overturned crate, looking relaxed. "No problem, DP. But you need to measure the distance from the subject to the back wall for the exposure compensation. I'm the subject, remember?"
Jihun meticulously unrolled his measuring tape. The tape was marked, clean, and entirely predictable. He needed to measure from Minho's face to the wall behind him.
"Stay perfectly still," Jihun instructed, moving cautiously through the cramped space. He knelt down, bringing the tip of the measuring tape toward Minho's nose.
Minho smirked. "This is highly intimate, Jihun. Are you sure you can maintain professional distance?"
"I am measuring in centimeters, Mr. Ryu. There is no sentiment in metric," Jihun replied, his voice firm, though he felt a nervous tremor in his hands.
He began to take the first measurement. He had to lean very close. Minho's knee was touching Jihun's shoulder. Minho was close enough that Jihun could smell the expensive, smooth, woodsy cologne, mixed with the sweat he'd worked up carrying the equipment.
Jihun focused entirely on the numbers. One-hundred and seven point five.
"Now the key light position," Minho said, before Jihun could withdraw. "I need you to estimate the height of the light stand next to me to confirm the angle."
This was worse. The light stand was wedged between Minho and the side wall. Jihun had to pivot his body, placing his hands on the dusty wall to brace himself, and effectively straddle Minho's outstretched leg to see the numbers.
He was trapped. Minho was boxed in by the crate and the equipment, and Jihun was boxed in by Minho and the wall. They were practically fused into a single, breathing unit in the dusty, dark unit.
"This is unnecessary proximity," Jihun protested, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"It's efficient spatial planning," Minho countered, his eyes dark with amusement. He didn't move an inch. He was utterly relaxed, enjoying Jihun's obvious distress. "Can you see the angle? Is it ten degrees? Or should we go for a more dramatic fifteen, my perfectionist DP?"
Jihun tried to angle his head to read the tiny marking on the stand. His cheek brushed against the soft denim of Minho's thigh. The contact was purely accidental, a physics problem of two solid objects occupying the same impossible space, yet it sent a searing shot of heat through Jihun.
"Ten degrees is sufficient," Jihun breathed out, his voice hoarse. He shifted, trying to pull away, but Minho's hand suddenly came up and rested—just rested—on Jihun's hip, a steady, warm pressure that anchored him.
"You're going to hit the camera with your head if you move that fast," Minho warned, his voice low, his thumb subtly pressing against the fabric of Jihun's trousers.
The touch wasn't professional. It wasn't accidental. It was a conscious claim, a clear violation of the "No Touching" rule, done with such casual dominance that Jihun was completely undone.
Jihun's entire professional façade crumbled. He lost his grip on the heavy, silver Sekonic light meter. It tumbled from his numb fingers and hit the concrete floor with a heavy, expensive clunk.
Silence.
Jihun stared at the meter, then at Minho. He had broken an essential, expensive, and irreplaceable piece of equipment because his DP's concentration had been destroyed by an illicit touch.
Minho looked down at the broken meter, then back at Jihun's face. Jihun's eyes were wide, his lips parted, and a deep blush was scorching his cheeks. He looked mortified, angry, and undeniably vulnerable.
"Oops," Minho murmured, his voice soft with satisfaction. "I guess even your perfect tools break under pressure, DP."
Jihun slowly pushed himself away from the wall, away from Minho's touch, backing up until he hit the opposite wall. He was breathing quickly, trying to formulate a furious, professional reprimand, but the words wouldn't come.
Minho picked up the broken meter. "Don't worry," he said, holding the ruined equipment up. "Uncle's budget is here to save the day. But for the record, Jihun, you broke it. Not me."
Jihun's voice finally returned, tight and strained. "We are done for the day. I need to replace this immediately."
Minho smiled, a genuine, intimate smile. "No, we're not. We still need the shot. Now that the distractions are gone, let's get back to work. Come on, DP. Calibrate your focus. We need your light."
Jihun spent the next hour working with a borrowed, unfamiliar light meter, which only compounded his stress. He had to be perfect, now more than ever, to prove that the earlier incident was a fluke, a momentary lapse.
Minho, having successfully dismantled Jihun's professional cool, was the epitome of concentration. He stepped into the set. The camera was rolling, focused on a tight close-up of his face.
The scene was the emotional core of the film: Minho's character, the maverick lighting tech, finally admits to his stickler rival (off-screen, represented by the camera) that his volatile lighting choices are a defense mechanism.
"Action!" Jihun called out, his voice crisp.
Minho began the monologue. He was incredible. He wasn't acting; he was channeling. His eyes—dark, magnetic, and completely devoid of their usual teasing—were fixed directly on the lens, and by extension, on Jihun.
Minho's voice was rough with vulnerability. "You think I like the chaos? You think I enjoy shooting in light that's unreliable, that's going to fail me? No. I just... I trust the things that are already broken. Because when they fall apart, you know exactly where you stand. You, with your perfect schedule, you're terrifying. Because you make me believe in things that might actually last."
Tears welled up in Minho's eyes, the imported atmospheric haze catching the light around him, making him look like a tragic, beautiful apparition. Jihun felt the familiar, professional thrill: this was a perfect take. The exposure was flawless, the lighting sublime.
But then, Minho did something that was not in the script.
Minho's character was supposed to drop his head, defeated. Instead, Minho—the actor, or perhaps Minho, the man—slowly reached out his hand, moving it past the lens, directly toward Jihun, who was standing right next to the camera.
Jihun froze.
Minho's hand was warm, his fingers slightly curved. Instead of turning to the wall, Minho gently placed his palm flat against Jihun's cheek, just where the blush was fading.
The contact was devastating. It was soft, possessive, and entirely unexpected.
Minho's eyes never left Jihun's. He spoke the final, unscripted line, his voice dropping to a breathy, intimate murmur that was meant for Jihun, not the camera.
"Just... let your guard down for one second, Jihun. You're not filming. You're here."
Jihun's mind went blank. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't call "Cut!" The professional separation was completely breached. He could feel the warmth of Minho's palm on his skin, the pressure of his thumb dangerously close to his mouth. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
He felt the familiar, consuming heat of a blush spreading up his neck and across his face, not from professional error this time, but from sheer, undeniable desire.
Finally, Minho slowly retracted his hand.
Jihun stood there, stunned, until the silence stretched too long.
"Cut," Jihun managed, his voice barely a rasp. He didn't look at the camera operator, who was blinking in surprise. He only looked at Minho.
Minho smiled, a slow, deep smile that said: I know exactly what I did.
"That was perfect, DP," Minho said, his eyes glittering. "We're done for the day. That's the keeper."
Jihun didn't argue. He couldn't. He had allowed the chaos to make a perfect, intimate moment on film, and he knew he would never be able to watch that footage without remembering the heat of Minho's hand on his skin and the shattering loss of his own control.
The shame was delicious.