Chapter Text
Click.
The flash went off and Gi-hun held his last pose a second longer, just in case. Chin up. One hand on his hip, the other cheekily sliding under the lapel of his suit, the ridiculous flower-covered straw hat on his head. His neck ached. His back definitely ached. The velvet jacket was way too hot under the studio lights, but he could tell the shot had landed. He knew his angles. Knew when it worked.
And then, from behind the camera:
“That’s it!” Il-nam called out, already stepping away like he’d single-handedly ended the shoot with the power of his voice. “Perfect. We’re done. Thank God. I’m starving.”
Someone clapped. The crew started moving. Gi-hun didn’t.
“I think you mean thank Gi-hun, ” he muttered, dropping his arms and rolling his shoulders.
Il-nam scoffed. “I said thank God, didn’t I?”
Gi-hun turned just in time to catch Il-nam grinning like the smug old bastard he was. He looked exactly the same as always—silver hair, black turtleneck, camera still hanging from his neck even though he hadn’t touched it in ten minutes.
“You’ve still got it,” Il-nam said, walking up to him like he was about to deliver a sermon. “Seriously. I’ve worked with everyone. Every boy, every idol, all the imported pretty faces. None of them can hold a candle to you.”
Gi-hun raised a brow. “Is this where you ask me to sign your camera?”
“No. This is where I remind you that you’re still my favorite subject, pretty boy.”
Gi-hun groaned, his cheeks rosy. “I’m fifty-two. Don’t you think it’s time you stop calling me that?”
Il-nam waved that off with a dramatic flick of the hand. “Fifty-two, read it in reverse and it becomes twenty-five. You look more twenty-five than fifty-two, pretty boy .”
“And you’ve been old since I met you.”
“Still got better skin than you.”
Gi-hun let out a breath of a laugh. The stylists were already starting to peel him out of the velvet jacket, someone else reaching up to gently lift the hat off his head. His scalp felt instantly cooler.
He looked around. Light still bouncing off reflective panels, crew packing up equipment, the dull hum of a set winding down. He knew this feeling well. The afterglow of a good shoot, the slight ache in his jaw from holding a brooding scowl for too long, the buzz of being treated like a rock star by everyone on set, the quiet dread of opening Instagram in the car home.
“Seriously, though,” Il-nam said, voice softer now, “don’t disappear on me again. I’ve got that Seongapdo concept coming up next month and I want you. Not some young idol who only knows how to stare into the void.”
Gi-hun smiled. “If I haven’t expired of old age by then.”
“You won’t. You can’t,” Il-nam said, patting him on the back like a father checking for bones. “The camera still loves you. Besides, I’m almost thirty years older than you, you don’t get to pop off before me.”
Before Gi-hun could reply, someone stepped into his space and offered him a cold water bottle.
“Excuse me,” the guy said—low voice, polite, eyes not quite meeting his. Definitely not a regular. White button down, clipboard, slightly flushed cheeks like he’d just run from somewhere.
Gi-hun looked up.
Pretty face. Surprisingly muscular arms that strained the seams of the shirt sleeves. Serious expression. The kind of guy who probably hated being called handsome, which was exactly why someone should.
He took the bottle. “Thanks.”
Their fingers brushed, briefly. Nothing significant. Just… enough to notice.
The assistant nodded and stepped back into the crowd before Gi-hun could place him properly.
He stood there a moment longer, sipping the water. Watching the guy disappear behind a stack of reflectors. Just another name on a clipboard. But—
Christ. His back was broad. And those arms. That face. That little “excuse me.”
Ugh.
Gi-hun slipped off set before the lighting team could pull him into another conversation. In the changing room, he peeled off the rest of the look, washed the contour and foundation off his face, ran a towel through his hair, and took a single quick selfie in the mirror. Just to check. No filter. Lines were showing today. His jaw looked a little softer. He’d fix it in post. Or not. Sometimes it was better to look… real.
By the time he slid into the backseat of his car, Seoul was dipped in that late-evening blue. The golden hour was gone, but the city was still glowing.
He pulled out his phone.
Opened Instagram.
Picked a behind-the-scenes pic from earlier—one where he was half-laughing, hat slightly off-center—and posted it with a lazy caption:
"Done 😘 Not bad for 52, uh?”
Comments started rolling in within seconds. Heart emojis. Fire. “Still daddy as hell.” Same as always.
He scrolled. Liked a few. Paused. Scrolled some more.
And then—
"This is stunning. The lighting, the texture, the mood—honestly, a masterclass. T’was a pleasure and a honour to be on set today and see you doing what you do best up close.
(Also the velvet? Rude.)"
Username: @ih_photo
Black-and-white profile photo. Moody. Self-shot.
Gi-hun tapped on the handle.
Oh God. Him. What were the chances?
Water bottle guy.
Clipboard. White shirt. Rolled-up sleeves. Sinewy arms. Thick biceps. Broad back. That voice. That face.
His name was in his bio: “Hwang In-ho. Photographer, model. Always inspired by @the_real_Seong-Gihun”
Gi-hun’s thumb hovered.
The comment wasn’t flirty, not really. It was professional. Polite. Just a hint of wit. He could like it, anyone could like it.
Except it wasn’t anyone , was it?
It was a man. A young man. A handsome man.
And Gi-hun was... Too eager? Too obvious? Too dangerous?
He glanced over his shoulder, even though he was alone in the backseat. Old habits.
Then he sighed.
Fuck it.
He liked the comment.
Hours later the lights in the penthouse were low, so low they looked like candles flickering like they were trying to seduce someone. The place smelled like bergamot and vetiver, and Gi-hun was wrapped in a black bathrobe with nothing underneath, sprawled sideways on the couch, phone in one hand, half-empty soju bottle in the other.
He should’ve been asleep.
Instead, he was doing this again.
Scrolling.
He opened Instagram. No hesitation. Vanity was a hell of a drug, and he was too old to pretend he wasn’t addicted.
His own face stared back at him, still damp from the shower, no filter, no smoothing, no tweaking. Every line on display. Every bit of evidence that he was 52 and still trying to look like a goddamn sex symbol.
He pouted, just a bit and snapped a picture. Captioned it: “Feeling honest tonight.”
Almost instantly: hearts, flames, thirst. The comments were a blur of worship and delusion.
“Serve, king.”
“You’re so real for this.”
“Still got it, Mr. Model Daddy.”
“Do you age backwards or is that just unfair?”
“I want you die worshiping that jawline.”
Gi-hun rolled his eyes and smiled into his glass. Predictable. Shallow. Comforting. Like eating junk food in bed.
Then—
One comment stopped him cold.
"This is beyond gorgeous, Gi-hun; you’re even more handsome when you’re natural. What I wouldn’t give to photograph you one day."
Username: @ih_photo
His eyes narrowed. Him again.
Gi-hun tapped the handle again, quickly, before he could overthink it.
A few hundred posts. Nothing flashy. He started scrolling.
And oh. Oh, ssibal.
It wasn’t a thirst trap account—not in the traditional sense. It was worse . It was tasteful. Understated. Torture disguised as restraint.
Shirtless self-portraits in soft lighting. Veiny hands in motion. Mouth half-lit. Collarbones under crumpled white sheets. Grainy mirror shots in jeans that hung low on the hips, like he didn’t mean for them to. Beautiful chocolate eyes that never quite looked into the camera.
Every photo whispered: you’re not supposed to be looking… but you are, aren’t you?
Gi-hun’s first impression of him was wrong: the boy was gorgeous, knew it and wasn’t shy about flaunting it.
Gi-hun scrolled deeper, slower now. Almost reverent. He was way past the point of pretending it was casual curiosity. He was invested. He wanted to see it all.
And then he went back to it, the most recent post.
Black and white again. In-ho in low-rise jeans and a loose black tank, muscles oiled up just enough to glisten. The lighting hit his shoulder and collarbones like sculpture. His mouth was relaxed, one corner pulled slightly higher than the other.
Gi-hun zoomed in.
That lip.
Just a little uneven. Crooked in a way that made him want to bite it.
His thumb hovered over the “Follow Back” button. Like a siren, it was calling him. He sat there, staring.
He could hear the blood in his ears. The quiet hum of the air purifier. The faint clink of his knee when he shifted.
This was a terrible idea. It was a terrible, terrible idea. The worst idea ever.
He tapped and followed In-ho back.
And then immediately threw the phone face-down like it had bitten him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was he doing?
He picked the phone back up. Checked if In-ho had posted anything new in the last twenty seconds.
He hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t.
Gi-hun had fully lost the plot.
He exhaled hard through his nose and took another shot of soju straight from the bottle. The buzz was warm and sharp behind his eyes. He let his head fall back against the cushions, robe slipping further open.
And then, like a child who couldn’t help himself, he tapped on In-ho’s profile picture and went through his stories.
There were five.
The first one was a photo of a croissant, a cappuccino sitting next to it. He had captioned it with “Feeling European today”. Gi-hun blinked. No context. Just… vibes.
The second story was worse.
A behind-the-scenes snap from today’s shoot, of Gi-hun. Taken from the side. His jawline sharp, his eyes cast downward, mid-laugh at something out of frame. The lighting was good. The angle was even better. He looked hot .
There were sparkles over it. Actual glitter stickers. The caption read:
“Just. Look at him. Please. Be serious. Is it even legal to look that edible?”
Gi-hun choked on his drink.
The third was a ten-second video, black and white again. In-ho in his apartment, shirtless, a towel slung low around his hips. He was holding a toothbrush but barely pretending to use it, mostly just filming himself in the mirror, sleepy-eyed, arm flexed like it wasn’t on purpose. No music. Just a lazy “goodnight” scribbled in cursive across the bottom.
The fourth was another picture of Gi-hun, from an old photoshoot session. The caption wasn’t even that thirsty, just a “Seong Gi-hun. What a legend, what an icon. My favourite model. You guys have no idea how obsessed i am with him.
And then the last story.
Jesus. Christ.
The fith story was a selfie. No filter. Just In-ho’s face. Wet hair. Bare shoulders. The tiniest drop of water catching on his collarbone. Head tilted, lip bitten. Nothing pornographic. Nothing overt. And yet—
Gi-hun actually felt the pulse in his neck.
He hesitated.
And then, before he could think better of it, he took a screenshot.
The shame was immediate.
He locked his phone and hurled it to the other end of the couch like it had personally shamed him.
What the fuck was he doing ?
Morning sunlight sliced through the blinds like it had something to prove.
Gi-hun blinked blearily at his phone, squinting past the crust of bad sleep and worse decisions. His mouth tasted like soju and shame. He didn’t even remember falling asleep still in his robe.
He opened Instagram on reflex, thumb already twitching toward the search bar.
@ih_photo was right there. First post in the feed section and first account in the stories lineup.
Gi-hun groaned. He felt like the universe was laughing at him.
“Fucking idiot,” he muttered to no one.
The comments were coming in lazily. Not the wildfire of thirst that Gi-hun was accustomed to, but a steady stream of genuine warmth:
“God, you’re so handsome, In-ho.”
“Classic you—always lighting up the frame.”
“Can’t believe how effortlessly cool you are.”
“Keep shining, friend.”
“Looking great, as always.”
“No one captures you like you do.”
They were simple. Kind. Familiar.
No heart emojis. No fire. Just honest words from people who knew him.
Gi-hun stared at the screen. It felt like peeking into a room where everyone actually liked each other.
Gi-hun stared harder, He shouldn’t comment. He knew he shouldn’t comment. He was fifty-two. He was a public figure. He was not some teenager trying to get noticed by a boy with a camera and too thick biceps.
But—
The lighting really was excellent.
His fingers moved before his brain could catch up.
“I hesitate to say it, but this is very cute. Also? This is technically excellent. Soft light, smart depth. I’m impressed.”
He hit send.
Then immediately closed the app like it had personally humiliated him.
He stood up, disgusted with himself. Threw the phone onto the kitchen counter like it was diseased. What was wrong with him? He had no idea what he was doing.
He refused to open Instagram again. So here scrolled Twitter. Watched a compilation of funny cat videos on TikTok.
An hour passed.
He cracked. Reopened Instagram.
@ih_photo had replied to his comment.
“Oh my God. Thank you. Seriously. This means so much coming from you. I’m floored. Also, cute??? You flatter me.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Gi-hun’s mouth.
It was already working.
He was getting ready for another Photoshoot that evening when he caught himself again in the mirror.
That damn smile, the kind you don’t expect to see staring back at you in a sterile dressing room. It wasn’t the polished, professional smile, but a soft, messy one. The kind that sneaks up when you’re alone, when no one’s watching. Like you’ve just heard a secret that’s too good not to keep.
Gi-hun blinked and tried to will it away, but the corners of his mouth twitched like they had their own agenda. He shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced around the room. Empty. He was safe.
The mirror caught him again, full-on, caught-in-the-act grin. He scowled and dragged his expression back to neutral just as the door creaked open.
Sae-byeok, his personal assistant, peeked in, her bright eyes twinkling with mischief. Early twenties, a little rebellious but sharp as a tack.
“So?” she said, stepping inside with that teasing grin. “You’ve been glowing all afternoon. What’s the secret? New friend ? Fan mail? A really good sandwich?”
Gi-hun rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile lingering on his lips. “Nothing. Just the lighting.”
Sae-byeok smirked like she didn’t buy it for a second. “Yeah, sure. That’s what they all say.”
He dropped the white shirt over one shoulder, tugging awkwardly at a cuff like it was a noose.
“Look, it’s nothing. I’m just in a good mood,” he said, trying to sound casual.
Sae-byeok laughed softly, arms crossed. “Just some good mood, huh? You’re glowing like you’re on something.”
Gi-hun groaned. “Stop.”
She pushed the door open wider and took a step in, the smirk never leaving her face.
“I’m serious. You’re glowing. Like you’ve got a secret. Spill it.”
He shook his head, but the smile slipped back, softer this time.
“Okay. Maybe I do.”
Sae-byeok raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, that’s new. Care to elaborate or am I supposed to guess?”
Gi-hun glanced down at his phone lying on the table, screen dark.
He almost told her. Almost. But he wasn’t ready.
Instead, he shrugged.
“Just… a message.”
“From who?”
“Someone.”
She sighed, clearly amused. “Well, if it makes you glow, spill. I won’t tell anyone.”
He considered lying but didn’t have the energy. And he has trusted her with worse, he knew that she would take to the grave whatever he would tell her.
“Fine. It’s from some photographer. Young. Keeps posting photos of himself. More of the…shirtless, artsy kind. And he think I’m hot.”
Sae-byeok smirked knowingly. “Ohhhh. Dangerous.”
“Yeah. Dangerous and stupid. I like the attention from a pretty little thing, but don’t worry, I’m not going to act on it.”
She smirked. “If you’re expecting me to tell you to be careful, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” And with that, she left him alone in the dressing room.
Gi-hun shoved his hands in his pockets and paced a little, the nervous energy bubbling under his skin.
Sitting back down, he picked up the shirt and his thumb hovered over his phone like it was baited.
Should I reply? Delete? Pretend I never saw it?
Gi-hun sighed, defeated, but the faint glow in his chest brightened.
He picked up the phone and started typing, fingers trembling slightly.
Then stopped.
What the hell am I doing?
He locked the screen and stared at his reflection. That damn smile. He touched the corner of his mouth.
If I were braver. If I were younger. If I were different…
He exhaled and started buttoning the shirt. Time to put the mask back on.