The morning confrontation in Minho's loft was supposed to be a catalyst—a deliberate, calculated risk by Jihun to force Minho out of his self-imposed, guilt-ridden professionalism. Jihun had hoped for a spark, a dangerous, reckless look in Minho's eyes that would confirm the chaos he craved was still alive.
What he got was a flawless technical review.
Minho was a fortress of rational thought, his massive drafting table acting as a neutral zone. He did not greet Jihun with intimacy or apology, only with the chillingly formal "DP Lee." His focus was entirely on the discarded film project.
"Your analysis is correct from a technical standpoint," Minho stated, tapping the page with his pen. "The final scene achieves a perfect visual metaphor of resolution. However, the emotional narrative does not earn that ending."
He presented his solution: a subtle, two-line insert shot designed to deliberately undermine the visual perfection of Jihun's work, turning control into a sign of the protagonist's emotional repression.
Minho had processed Jihun's heartfelt plea for a fight, not as a cry for connection, but as a solvable cinematic problem. He had delivered a brilliant, emotionally detached patch.
The disappointment hit Jihun with the force of a physical blow. Minho was treating Jihun's deepest emotional wound as a simple workflow issue. He sees the problem. He sees the solution. He just refuses to see me.
"It's insufficient," Jihun stated, the word sharp, his composure cracking.
"Insufficient?" Minho looked genuinely perplexed. "This flawlessly executes the thematic contradiction you raised."
"It's safe," Jihun spat out, pushing his chair back. "It's cowardly. It's what I would do. I want the risk! I want the Minho who wasn't afraid to break the rules and risk everything for the truth!"
Minho pushed back from the table, his own patience snapping. "I gave you the risk! I shattered you! You were crying in the rain, Jihun, and I felt like a criminal for touching you. You made it excruciatingly clear that you want Absolute Technical Compliance. I am holding the line you drew!"
"I didn't ask you to become a stranger!" Jihun yelled, abandoning all formality, his pacing furious. "The distance, the compliance—it's a shield! I hate that I look forward to your ridiculous suggestions! I hate that when you leaned over me yesterday, I couldn't focus the lens because I was suffocating on the scent of your stupid cologne!"
He stopped, chest heaving. The sheer, raw, unedited truth hung in the air: He loved Minho.
But the love was instantly paralyzed by a crippling fear. If he allowed Minho's reckless, chaotic brilliance into his life, the carefully constructed edifice of his perfect career and identity would collapse. He couldn't risk the vulnerability. He couldn't face the loss of control.
He channeled the agonizing conflict into cold cruelty. "You confuse my professional standards with emotional weakness," Jihun trembled. "I came here to talk about the film. You turned it into a cheap theatrical drama."
Minho's face hardened, wounded frustration mixing with genuine confusion. "I turned it into the truth! I don't know what you want, Jihun! I don't know how to exist in your orbit without causing an extinction event!"
Jihun couldn't articulate the love, the desire, or the debilitating fear. He grabbed his binder, slamming it shut. "The meeting is over," he said, his voice regaining its terrifying professional flatness. "I will review your insert idea and send my notes digitally. Do not contact me outside of work hours, Director Ryu."
He fled, leaving Minho standing in the empty loft, baffled and devastated by the man who demanded an honest fight only to run the moment the truth was revealed.
Minho spent the evening sending unanswered messages, the guilt and confusion mounting. He had tried to be the man Jihun demanded—disciplined, distant, respectful—and Jihun had rejected the safety. He was drinking whiskey alone when the doorbell buzzed, sharp and insistent.
It was Jihun.
He was a disastrous, desperate sight. Without his coat, his pristine white shirt was utterly ruined, soaked through by rain and clinging to his body. His hair was slicked to his forehead, and his eyes were glassy, holding a desperate, reckless fire that terrified Minho.
"Jihun! What the hell happened? I've been calling you—" Minho began, catching him as he swayed dangerously in the doorway.
Jihun stopped, mumbling incoherently, and began fumbling with his wet shirt buttons.
"Hot," Jihun slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. "So hot. Can't breathe. F/stop too wide."
Minho immediately reached out, his hand hovering, intending to pull the shirt back over him. "Jihun, you're drenched. You're shaking. We need to get you warm."
Jihun swatted his hand away and, with clumsy desperation, ripped the remainder of the buttons, shrugging the soaked garment off. He stood before Minho in only a thin, saturated grey undershirt and his trousers. The dampness had turned the thin fabric into a skin-tight film, revealing the contours of his chest and torso beneath. Minho's breath hitched, the sight of Jihun's vulnerability—the sheer, raw exposure of his body encased in the clinging, wet shroud—hitting him with the force of a physical blow.
Minho gripped the edge of the wooden table, determined not to cross the line. "I'm not touching you. I'm getting a blanket."
Jihun was past rules. Driven by a primal, drunken need, he fumbled with his belt. "Heavy. Everything too heavy."
He discarded his trousers and boxers with aggressive, clumsy movements, kicking the wet piles away.
Jihun stood completely naked in the harsh, sterile loft light. His skin, usually pale and immaculate, was covered in vivid goosebumps, trembling from the cold and the shock of the alcohol. He was utterly exposed, stripped of every emotional and physical defense.
Minho felt a primal, desperate need to cover and protect him, warring with the searing, painful attraction the sight evoked. He fought his body's violent response, closing his eyes for a split second, whispering, I will not violate him. I will not. He remembered the devastation of Jihun's tears in the rain, and the guilt became an insurmountable barrier.
Jihun swayed, eyes burning with desperate need, and closed the final distance between them. "I need… the focus to be clear. But it's all… blur. You made it blur."
He lunged forward, grabbing the lapels of Minho's sweater and pulling him down into a searing, desperate kiss. It was aggressive, fueled by alcohol and months of repressed desire. Jihun's mouth attacked Minho's, pushing, consuming, trying to find release in the only person who had ever made him feel unsafe and alive.
Minho instantly tasted the desperation and the liquor. The contact, though brief, was overwhelming, pushing his own control to the absolute limit. He remembered the betrayal in Jihun's eyes when he tore his shirt. With a powerful surge of agonizing self-restraint, Minho placed his hands firmly on Jihun's shaking shoulders and pushed him back, gently but decisively.
The contact broke. Jihun, robbed of his support and utterly exhausted, collapsed instantly. His eyes fluttered shut, and he dropped into a heavy, instantaneous unconsciousness, crumpling to the cold concrete floor.
Minho stared down at the man lying naked and shivering at his feet, his jaw tight with contained emotion.
"You drive me crazy, Lee Jihun," Minho whispered, his voice rough. "I don't know if you want me to save you or destroy you."
Practicality took over. Minho acted with agonizing tenderness, lifting Jihun and retrieving a large, soft towel. With the detached care of a doctor, he wiped Jihun's cold, pale body completely dry—his chest, his arms, his legs, his hair. He wrapped Jihun securely in the towel and lifted him, the man completely dead weight in his arms.
Minho carried him into the bedroom and placed his exposed body gently onto the center of the bed. He pulled the thickest, warmest comforter all the way up to Jihun's chin, cocooning him securely.
Minho stood at the foot of the bed, watching Jihun sleep—perfectly still, perfectly covered, and finally safe from the chaos he both hated and desperately needed. Minho knew then, with devastating clarity, that his retreat into professional distance had been a total failure. Jihun didn't want the perfect stranger; he wanted the director who would break his world, but with the tenderness Minho had just shown.
The challenge was no longer about the film. It was about how to love Lee Jihun without destroying his sense of self. Minho turned, walking away to retrieve the piles of wet clothes, the scent of the evening's storm and alcohol clinging to his hands, knowing the hardest scene of their lives would be the one they woke up to.