The silence in Jihun's apartment was thicker and heavier than any fog machine he had ever used. It wasn't empty silence; it was a pressurized chamber filled with the scent of Minho's cologne, the ghost of fermented raspberry, and the deafening echo of a single, soft, low moan Jihun now knew had come from his own throat.
Jihun was still clutching the pillowcase, his exposed forearm, with the now-irrelevant mosquito bite, throbbing. He felt like a lab specimen under a powerful microscope—every flaw, every reaction, visible to the scientist in the expensive leather jacket.
Minho had returned to the sofa, but the casual reading posture was a performance. His focus was entirely on Jihun.
"You have five seconds to explain the protocol for this morning," Jihun finally managed, his voice dangerously even. His control had been fractured, but the core foundation—the need for order—was still fighting for dominance.
Minho smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Protocol? I believe the protocol was established in a mutual, if alcohol-fueled, outburst of creative tension. I believe the data shows a high compatibility, Jihun. And excellent tactile response."
"That data is invalid!" Jihun shouted, immediately regretting the volume. He lowered his voice to a hiss. "It was compromised by an outside contaminant—the Bokbunjaju. The system was shut down. Therefore, any results obtained are null and void."
"Ah, but I conducted an objective, non-intrusive equipment check afterward," Minho countered, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And the equipment—namely your person—was in perfect working order, just… damp. I merely performed a preventative maintenance clothing change. I'm a collaborative partner, Jihun. I saved your silk sheets from a sticky raspberry stain."
Jihun squeezed his eyes shut. Humiliation was a physical ache. He had to reset. He had to rebuild the walls, only higher this time, using reinforced concrete.
"We need to establish new parameters," Jihun declared, dropping the pillowcase to grab his thick, flannel robe and tying the sash with a militant yank. "From this moment forward, all interactions are subject to the Rule of Absolute Distance."
Minho chuckled. "The R.A.D. rule? Sounds fun. Define 'Absolute Distance.'"
"At minimum, one meter," Jihun explained, gesturing the distance with rigid hands. "One meter of physical space must be maintained at all times. No proximity for instruction, no shared seating, no accidental contact. And certainly, no discussion of… of my physical architecture or symmetry."
Minho stood up, stretching his arms above his head, emphasizing the broad expanse of his shoulders and the dangerous slack of his hips. He took a single, slow step toward Jihun, deliberately shrinking the distance to less than half a meter.
"And if the creative demand requires me to whisper a crucial directional note into your ear?" Minho's voice was a warm, close caress.
Jihun took a sharp, gasping breath, fighting the immediate, full-body shudder that threatened to expose him again. "You will transmit the instruction via a digital device, or I will use a lavalier microphone with an earpiece, effectively creating a wireless boundary."
"And if the camera frame requires us to share a cramped space, say, a tiny, poorly ventilated utility closet during a technical check?" Minho pressed, his eyes dark, challenging.
Jihun stepped back quickly, hitting the wall. "Then the test is deemed unfeasible and abandoned. I will not compromise the integrity of my personal space for a shot."
Minho smiled, finally backing away the full meter, but the damage was done. Jihun was breathing too fast, and he could feel the faint tremor in his hands. Minho had won the first round by merely moving his feet.
"Understood, DP Lee," Minho said, picking up his jacket. "One meter. No funny business. I'll see you at the studio. We have to test the new macro lens and the temperature sensitivity of the film stock for the close-ups in the subway scene. It's an urgent technical check. Be there at 10 AM. And, Jihun? Bring a clean shirt. This one is too distracting."
Minho winked, gathered his things, and left, taking the jazz music and the tension with him, leaving Jihun alone in the devastating, technical ruin of his morning.
The official testing studio, tucked away in the sprawling university campus, was Jihun's fortress. But today, Minho had steered him toward a different location: Minho's Private Studio—a cavernous, windowless space Minho had leased downtown, citing the need for "uncontaminated black-box conditions."
The space was industrial, chic, and perfectly designed to violate Jihun's new Rule of Absolute Distance. It was mostly empty, save for a massive rolling camera dolly, a few industrial lights, and a single, low, minimalist steel table dominating the center of the concrete floor.
Jihun arrived ten minutes early, wearing a new, perfectly crisp, buttoned-to-the-neck white shirt, almost a suit of armor. Minho was already there, fiddling with a camera on a tripod.
"Good, you're on time," Minho said, not looking up. "We're simulating the cramped conditions of the subway scene, but for a close-up insert. The lighting is low-key, but we need high fidelity in the skin texture. We are checking for thermal bloom—how heat affects the skin's appearance under intense, focused light."
"I'm aware of thermal bloom, Mr. Ryu," Jihun replied, marching toward the light stand. "It's a contrast issue exacerbated by temperature. I've brought the thermal monitor. I can use the infrared laser from here. No need for proximity."
"Wrong," Minho corrected, finally looking up, his expression serious, professional, and entirely disarming. "We are testing the macro lens at its absolute closest working distance—about 5 centimeters. The model must be perfectly still, and the distance must be maintained by a physical guide, not a measurement. I am the guide. You are the model."
Jihun froze. "I am the Director of Photography. I am not a model. I am the man behind the lens. This is… highly irregular."
"The lead actor refused to come in for an un-paid 9 AM technical check," Minho shrugged. "And you, Jihun, are the only one here with the emotional integrity of the character. You are the protagonist of this production, whether you admit it or not. Sit."
He pointed to a low stool placed directly beneath a single, narrow, adjustable focus light—a powerful, bare halogen bulb that cast an extremely sharp, unforgiving circle of light onto the concrete floor.
Jihun hesitated, but the word integrity resonated painfully. He was the DP. He had to ensure the technical quality of the shot. If Minho insisted on the setup, Jihun had to test its limitations.
He walked stiffly to the stool and sat down.
"Now, cross your arms," Minho instructed. "The focus of this shot is the character's nervous energy—the physical manifestation of his stifled desire. The light source must feel oppressive. We're aiming the macro at… your chest."
Jihun's breath hitched. The chest. The memory of Minho discussing his "physical architecture" flashed in his mind.
"The chest is an irrelevant detail for the emotional close-up," Jihun argued, his voice wavering slightly. "The face and eyes are the focus. I insist we use the eyes."
"The eyes lie, Jihun," Minho countered, his tone decisive. "The torso is the truth. The subtle tension in the fabric, the slight rise and fall of the breath, the way the areolae tighten when the body is under stress—that's the true narrative. I need to capture that subtle tension."
Minho picked up the camera, now fitted with an enormous, terrifyingly precise macro lens, and placed it on the table, adjusting the height until the lens was aimed directly at Jihun's sternum. Minho's head was now alarmingly close to Jihun's waist.
"Now, Jihun," Minho said, his voice dropping, taking on a new, intimate quality. "I need you to open your shirt. Just the top two buttons. We need to see the skin reacting to the intense heat from the light to calibrate the exposure compensation."
Jihun's hands, resting stiffly in his lap, refused to move. "I… I can calibrate the exposure compensation using a gray card. Or my palm. There is no need for… skin exposure."
"The gray card does not blush, Jihun," Minho said, his eyes finally meeting Jihun's. The look was intense, demanding, and entirely devoid of the previous morning's humor. "We are testing for the subtle color shifts caused by thermal bloom. It's a color science issue, DP Lee. Not a morality one. Open the buttons. Or I will."
The threat was palpable. Jihun knew Minho wouldn't hesitate. He was the DP. He had to do it. He had to maintain control of the experiment.
With a trembling hand, Jihun fumbled with the first, then the second, button. He pulled the stiff white fabric apart slightly, revealing a perfect, shallow V of pale, warm skin, the slight shadow of his collarbones, and the fine, almost invisible dark hair near his sternum. The heat from the halogen light immediately felt oppressive, settling on the exposed skin.
Minho didn't touch him, maintaining the literal one-meter distance, but his gaze was a physical weight.
Minho adjusted the light source, bringing the focus spot to an unbearable intensity, centering it on Jihun's exposed chest. He picked up a magnifying loupe, the kind used to examine film negatives, and leaned in, staying just outside the one-meter radius, using the optical tool as a barrier.
"I'm going to adjust the angle of the light now," Minho murmured, his voice now a low, concentrated hum. "And I need you to just breathe, Jihun. Deeply. We're looking for the reaction."
Jihun tried to follow the instruction, but the heat of the light, combined with the devastating focus of Minho's gaze and the agonizing proximity, made his lungs seize. He felt the rapid, shallow beating of his heart in his throat.
Minho moved the light source just enough that the harsh circle of illumination caught the delicate, sensitive skin around Jihun's breasts.
"Hold still," Minho commanded, his voice barely a breath. "The magnification is extreme. We're at a 1:1 ratio. The lens is picking up every single pore, every slight tremor in the muscle. Every nuance of color."
Minho was examining Jihun's chest through the loupe, his face inches from the exposed skin, his concentration absolute. He was studying Jihun with the cold, calculating precision Jihun usually reserved for a color waveform monitor. It was an objective gaze, but it was also the most intense, intimate scrutiny Jihun had ever experienced.
"The skin texture is incredible, Jihun," Minho whispered, his voice vibrating slightly. "It's like silk, but underneath... the circulation is already reacting to the heat. We have a faint pink bloom starting at the perimeter of the focus spot."
Then, Minho straightened up, putting the loupe down. He moved to the camera, his hand reaching for the focus ring.
"We need an emotional reaction now, Jihun," Minho commanded, his voice suddenly husky. "I need the lens to capture the moment of the character's greatest internal stress. The moment his control breaks. Don't move. Don't speak. Just feel it."
Minho started speaking, not about the camera, but about the memory Jihun was desperately trying to suppress.
"Last night, Jihun," Minho began, his voice a low, sensory assault, "when I had my hands on your waist, pulling you across the table. When I could taste the raspberries and the desperate need in your mouth. When I felt that tight, rigid body finally go slack and fall against me."
Jihun squeezed his eyes shut again. The heat of the light was unbearable, and the air in the small focus spot was instantly cold as the skin began to react. He felt his breath turn shaky, stuttering in his lungs.
"When I took your shirt off," Minho continued, his voice now a low, deep growl, "I saw what was under the starch. I saw your nipples. They were tight, Jihun. Already tight. And they are beautiful. Perfect little shadow details."
Minho walked around the table slowly, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. He didn't break the one-meter barrier, but he made the distance feel like an agonizing gulf.
"They're reacting now, aren't they, Jihun?" Minho murmured, his voice thick with satisfied observation. "Look at the magnification. The sheer focus of the lens on that small, perfect detail. The tension. The color shift is moving from pink to a dangerous, high-contrast red. They are straining against the shirt fabric, DP Lee."
Minho's observation was agonizingly correct. The intense psychological pressure, combined with the physical heat and the shame of being so intensely seen, had caused a visceral, uncontrolled physical response. Jihun could feel his areolae tightening, the sensitive tissue peaking, straining against the fine cotton of his shirt, hardening in a way that had nothing to do with the studio's ambient temperature.
Minho reached out—his fingers covered in a thin cotton glove, maintaining the "cleanliness" of the technical check—and adjusted the light one last time.
"I'm bringing the depth of field to its absolute shallowest now," Minho whispered. "Everything else is going to fall away. Just that single, perfect point of tension. I need to capture the f-stop of no return, Jihun."
He leaned over the lens, his face now inches away from Jihun's, the glass of the macro lens an unnerving magnifying mirror for Minho's dark, hooded eyes. Minho's breath was warm and smelled faintly of mint and coffee.
"The Rule of Absolute Distance," Minho whispered, his voice catching slightly. "It's a magnificent rule, Jihun. It forces us to use the only tool we have left to touch each other. The intensity of the gaze."
Minho pressed the shutter release, a soft click that seemed to reverberate through Jihun's entire nervous system. Click. Click. Click. Each shot felt like a physical violation, yet Jihun remained perfectly still, trapped by his own need for technical perfection.
Minho took three more pictures, then slowly retracted his head from the lens, his eyes heavy-lidded.
"Perfect," he breathed out. "That exposure is… dangerous. A 1/125th second moment of complete loss of control. We captured the narrative."
Jihun could barely breathe. He was hot, embarrassed, and intensely aroused. His professional armor was shattered, and the two open buttons of his shirt felt like a humiliating, glaring spotlight on his complete surrender.
He had to get out. He had to reset the entire universe.
Jihun scrambled off the stool, pulling his shirt closed and violently buttoning it, his fingers clumsy with adrenaline.
"The test is concluded. The stock is too sensitive. We need to shoot with a tighter aperture and use a diffusion filter," Jihun rattled off, grabbing his clipboard and thermometer, desperate to inject technical jargon back into the contaminated atmosphere.
"Nonsense," Minho replied, calmly turning off the camera. "The film stock is perfect. It registered your every exquisite, agonizing physical lie, Jihun. The sensor loves your skin."
"I'm leaving. I have to process this data," Jihun insisted, already at the heavy metal door.
"Wait," Minho called out. "One last technical check. I found this in the café last night, in the wreckage of our storyboarding session."
Minho walked to the metal table and picked up Jihun's glasses. They were the expensive, frameless kind, perfectly clean and resting on a small, velvet cloth.
"You won't be able to drive without these," Minho said, holding them out.
Jihun paused. He needed his glasses. He took a hesitant step back, automatically stopping at the one-meter mark.
"You can put them on the table," Jihun said stiffly.
Minho tilted his head, a wry, mischievous look in his eyes. "But where's the fun in that? The Rule of Absolute Distance applies, Jihun. I'm not coming closer. You have to break the rule to get what you need."
It was a standoff. Jihun needed his vision, his clarity, the physical tool that allowed him to see the world in controlled, sharp focus. Minho was holding it hostage.
Jihun gritted his teeth. This man was a professional anarchist.
Taking a deep breath, Jihun lowered his head, forcing his body into a stiff, awkward bend. He reached out, his arm crossing the imaginary one-meter line. His fingers brushed Minho's hand as he snatched the glasses.
The moment Jihun's fingertips grazed Minho's warm skin, Minho moved. Not forward, but down and to the side, maintaining the letter of the distance rule while breaking its spirit. Minho swiftly brought his hand up and gently tapped Jihun's still-buttoned chest—precisely where the tension was most acute.
"Next time, DP," Minho murmured, his eyes locking onto Jihun's, burning with promise. "Next time, we're shooting in 4K, full frame. No lenses, no loupes. Just the raw footage."
Jihun straightened up, his heart pounding in his ears, already feeling the hot, desperate ache of anticipation and fear. He shoved his glasses onto his face, the world snapping back into sharp, unforgiving clarity. He turned, wrenched the heavy door open, and fled, leaving Minho alone in the perfect, high-contrast lighting of the black box studio.
The film was going to be an unmitigated disaster—or a masterpiece. Jihun could no longer tell the difference. All he knew was that he was losing the war against the man who knew the precise f-stop of his desire.