Chapter Text
It is eight in the morning on a clear and chilly Monday, and today is the day Wen Junhui loses his job.
He’s kind of made peace with it—had the whole weekend to do so, really—but that doesn’t stop the cold sweat that lines his forehead, the clamminess that sticks on his palms, and it definitely doesn’t stop the way his knee keeps bouncing erratically under his desk. For the first time in his three years at Pledis House, he’s shown up to work barefaced; not even concealer to hide his awful eyebags. Fuck, he hasn’t even booted up his computer. What’s the point, anyway? He’s not going to be here for much longer.
“Stop that,” Chan hisses at him from the workstation on his left, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I can practically hear you overthinking from over here.”
“Oh, really? Sorry if I’m currently very preoccupied by my impending lack of employment and the very real chance of getting blacklisted from every fashion house on this side of the city!” Junhui snipes back, and then promptly feels bad about it, because Chan was just pointing out the obvious.
Luckily, his fellow designer doesn’t seem to take offense; instead, he just grimaces slightly and tries to soothe Junhui’s nerves. “Look, Jun-hyung, I’m sure you can argue your case. It was an accident, what happened at the show on Friday, and if it weren’t you it literally would’ve been somebody else.”
“I spilled purple galaxy wine on Kang Seungho’s pearl-white, virgin ewe wool suit getup seconds before he had to go up for his walk,” Junhui says dully. Mental images from the backstage flash before his eyes and the screams of everyone who had the misfortune of witnessing his sin echoes in his head unprompted; he’s been re-living the most horrible and stressful minute of his life for the past forty-eight hours and counting. “And then, in the most misguided, blindsided attempt to fix the stain, I poured the rest of the glass all over his front to ‘create a matching pattern’, further destroying the outfit he was in. Tell me to my face that I’m not about to get my ass roasted on a stick over this, Chan. Honestly.”
“But the audience loved the look,” Chan insists, whipping out his tablet. “Look! There’s at least four different major fashion platforms talking about the ‘strange but electrifying new take on the stuffy, repetitive styles of party suits’ and the way it’s a ‘social commentary on the indulgences of the eccentric and the free-spirited’. Their words, not mine! And if you don’t believe me, even celebrities are all talking about it. Look! Choi Mingi actually tweeted about you!”
Had it been literally any other situation, Junhui would’ve flipped at the words Choi Mingi tweeted about you, but alas. Unemployment kind of puts a serious damper on things.
“They’re talking out of their ass,” Junhui groans, burying his face into his hands. “And that doesn’t matter; Kang is inside the Director’s office right now. They’ve been talking for almost two hours. It’s only a matter of time.”
“No need to be so pessimistic—”
There’s a bang coming from the upper half-level of the office, and the handful of workers in the open space all jump at the sound. Junhui immediately slouches low in his seat, giving Chan a panicked look. Then, footsteps stomping across the hall, furious ranting, and the ding of the elevator arriving. Junhui slides lower into his cubicle until his chin is roughly level with his knees, trying to hide behind his screens, and gazes forlornly up at Chan as if to say told you so.
The elevator doors open and close, finally taking away the infuriated model, his truly impressive tirage, and his entourage of managers and bodyguards. Junhui finally dares to peek over the armrest of his seat.
“Is he gone?”
Chan peers around one of the columns, and grimaces. “Looks like it, but, uh, brace yourself. Director Jung is coming.”
Junhui slaps his palm over his mouth and whimpers into it, willing himself not to cry. Gods, not Director Jung himself. His boss is such a sadist, to fire him in front of everyone in the office.
The clack of heeled boots stops shy of his cubicle, and Director Jung sighs from behind him.
“Junhui. Are you trying to hide?”
“No sir!” Junhui cries, whipping around to sit upright in his seat, barely stopping himself from saluting. In his peripherals, Chan winces and discreetly covers his eyes with his hand. He swallows, throat as dry as a desert.
“Please make it quick,” he whispers, barely able to keep the imploring tone from his voice. Disgraced as he may be, and probably eternally jobless from this point onwards forever, Junhui still has some semblance of pride. Or maybe that’s just Minghao’s voice of reason beating his self-depreciation into bits with a stick at the back of his mind.
Director Jung just arches a neatly-penciled brow and folds his arms across the rather sleek sports jacket he’s donning today.
“Well, if you’re not hiding, then get up, please. And bring your supplies.”
Junhui trembles.
Director Jung doesn’t wait; just turns on his heel and clacks away, leaving Junhui to scramble and grab all the things on his desk—gods he had a lot of stuff on his desk, he should’ve brought an extra grocery bag for all this—shit! Would they let him come back and get the rest of his things? His Sumiko Gurashi figurines are still everywhere—
“Junhui,” Director Jung calls, not even looking back, and Junhui just grabs his bag and shovels everything within arm’s reach inside. Chan watches him frantically plough all his fountain pens and notebooks and snacks in with a sad look.
“I’ll bring anything you can’t pack right now,” his friend promises, and Junhui’s lower lip wobbles.
“Thanks, Channie, you’re the best.”
“You better hurry,” Chan tilts his chin towards the elevators, where Director Jung is waiting by the doors. The numbers are ticking to their floor, and Junhui gulps before sprinting across the bullpen, desperately trying to ignore the rubberneckers and gossip-wannabes whispering about his last moments.
The elevator doors open. Director Jung steps inside, and Junhui follows on shaky legs.
The doors close, and that’s when the day goes from bad to strange.
Director Jung pulls out a keycard from one of his many mysterious pockets and slides it into the slot under the panel. All of the buttons from the regular offices levels grey out, and a select six at the very top light up in a bright, green tone. It’s the penthouse level, Junhui realizes with a start. This is where the super private, super fancy boardrooms are, reserved for the most VIP of guests and visitors. It’s a terribly odd choice to fire someone in—nobody from his floor has ever even witnessed one of these fabled boardrooms.
The Director jabs the third button, right in the middle, and retrieves the keycard as the elevator whirs to life and brings them smoothly upstairs. Delicate piano music trills in the background.
Junhui stares at the Director.
“W-Where are we going?”
“To a meeting,” Director Jung says plainly. His cool grey eyes look Junhui up and down for a second, and he hums contemplatively. “We’re going to see a client who’s interested in your work.”
Junhui’s jaw unhinges. “A client? Who’s interested in my work?”
“That is what I said, yes.”
“Am I—I am not being fired right now?”
Director Jung arches the other eyebrow. Damn, Junhui wishes he could do that.
“When did I ever say you were going to be fired?”
“I—you—well, I assumed,” Junhui sputters. “After what happened at the, um, Belle House Show on Friday…”
“Mm,” Director Jung nods sagely. “Kang Seungho did indeed voice his extended dissatisfaction with the accident, despite the fact that your actions directly resulted in the best PR and walk he’s had in years. I really ought to send him an invoice for monetary compensation one of my designers provided him, but I fear it might trigger some rather severe stress-related health effects on him.”
“An invoice,” Junhui repeats faintly.
“Well, fortunately for you, and rather unluckily for Kang, you aren’t getting fired, no matter how hard he tries to grind those tacky heels of his in the ground. In fact, we’re just about to meet another model, one who expressed a rather keen interest in your designs.” The elevator dings softly as they arrive at their floor, and Director Jung gives Junhui one of his looks. “Do try to keep it together, Junhui.”
“What do you mean?” Junhui asks desperately, and the doors slide open to reveal a short, glamorously decorated hallway, a set of fancy double doors, and beyond that—
“Oh, hello!”
A cheerful, neon-blond man in a casually-styled grey suit walks forward from the other end of the board room. St. Mars’ latest brunch fashion line, Junhui notes appreciatively through his frantic confusion, though the jewellery is anything but casual. The man dons big, spiralling silver earrings, chunky metal necklaces, and a rather ostentatious bedazzled tiger stripe belt threaded through the belt loops, with the head of a roaring tiger as the statement buckle piece. He’s so bold and eye-catching as a person that Junhui almost misses the other man standing beside him—and then does a very obvious double-take once he realizes who it is.
“I’m Kwon Soonyoung, talent manager at Open Front Agencies,” Soonyoung says. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Wen Junhui. Director Jung, thank you so very much for entertaining us on such short notice.”
“Nonsense,” Director Jung says smoothly, discreetly latching onto the back of Junhui’s jacket and steering him forward on wobbly legs. “It’s not every day New Seoul’s most famous model requests our audience, the pleasure is all ours.”
New Seoul’s most famous model—that’s putting it very lightly, Junhui thinks weakly as Soonyoung pumps his arm up and down in the most energetic handshake he’s ever experienced. Despite getting his arm shaken out of its socket, all his attention is inevitably caught on the model beside Soonyoung.
Jeon Wonwoo is twenty-seven, a scarce month younger than Junhui himself, and is probably the hottest commodity in the city and the biggest name in the current fashion industry. His face is nothing short of a godlike sculpture—a strong nose, chiseled jaw, beautiful lips—and his walks are legendary. His aura is, allegedly, unmatched. Blessed with the ability to pull off any hair colour and the well-maintained body of a Renaissance statue, there’s almost nothing Wonwoo hasn’t modeled for at least once. Cologne, sunglasses, clothes, shoes, watches, jewellery, furniture, the latest lines of smart-vehicles—you name it, he’s done it.
Surprisingly, though, Wonwoo is the direct contrast of his bubbly manager. Dressed down in dark blue jeans and a synthetic-fabric crewneck, he’d probably be completely unnoticeable on the street if it weren’t for his incredible height. That, and the handsome Tag Heuer Carrera strapped to his wrist—black matte ceramic, and not quite matching the rest of his outfit, so probably just a personal choice rather than a statement piece. If Junhui didn’t know either of them, he’d have guessed Soonyoung was the model.
Wonwoo steps forward and extends his hand. Junhui takes it with trembling fingers, feeling the warmth in Wonwoo’s palm, and they shake once.
“N-Nice to meet you,” he manages to croak.
Wonwoo just inclines his head politely.
“Gentlemen, please take a seat,” Director Jung says, gesturing to the many leather-bound chairs spaced perfectly around the polished table. “It is my understanding that you have an interest in Junhui’s work after the, ah, incident that occurred at the show last Friday?”
“Yes,” Soonyoung says, glancing at Wonwoo, who simply nods again. “A very bold, very risky move—but wholly and undisputedly daring! And the reviews that poured in for Seungho-sshi afterwards were incredible! When Wonu saw what happened, he insisted I find out the story behind that spontaneously re-designed suit.” He winks at Junhui, who just blanches. “Needless to say, as soon as I found out who you were and where you worked, we made an appointment right away.”
“I see,” Director Jung says, looking between the model and the manager. “And you were impressed by Junhui’s work at Pledis House.”
“Very much so,” Soonyoung proclaims, leaning back in his seat, and oh, gods, Junhui can’t sit here and pretend like he can take this anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” he bursts out, catching everyone’s attention. “There must be some kind of a mistake, or misunderstanding, or—or you haven’t heard the full story. Kang Seungho’s suit, and the wine, and that look —it was all because of an accident I caused backstage seconds before he had to walk out. There’s not—there isn’t—it’s not because of some incredible stroke of genius or whatever the tabloids are reporthing. It was just a serious mess up on my part, and that’s...that’s the truth.”
He slumps back into his chair after the outburst, wind out of his sails. Maybe if he were ballsier, had more guts, he could’ve swung this whole situation into his favour, bragged about how it was all absolutely planned out and all because of his incredible brain, but—Junhui’s not a liar. And that whole situation was, all in all, just a colossal fuck up. There’s no way he can dig himself out of that one.
“Well, accidents happen all the time,” Soonyoung says contemplatively, drumming his fingertips on the table after a moment of surprised silence. “I can’t even begin to recount how many meltdowns and actual fistfights I’ve witnessed and had to help break up backstage. But as someone famous or whatever once said, the show must go on! We can all point fingers and lament the disasters that strike, but rolling with the punches—that’s not something anyone can do. Besides, that whole debacle scored Seungho the most un-illegal content about him in the news since like, forever. I think you did him a favour more than anything else, seriously.”
Director Jung huffs out a small laugh, and Soonyoung grins, catching Junhui’s eye. There’s a sparkle in them, and his smile is surprisingly kind. “And I wouldn’t be so quick to write yourself off just yet! We didn’t come all this way just to talk about Friday night. Do you mind if we take a look at some of your work?”
“Huh? I mean—yeah—er, yes, of course,” Junhui stammers. He scrambles to untangle the straps of his backpack from his arms, and roots frantically through it. Approximately half his shit spills out of the open top, sending everything from his pens to his snacks to his half-empty bottles of sparkling water rolling out onto the conference table. Embarrassment like no other flushes his face and forehead, making him feel like he’d just spent a whole day under the sun with no hat. A crumpled wrapped for Lotteria’s new spicy fried chicken burger bounces cheerfully on top of his stuff.
Director Jung closes his eyes and exhales delicately. Jeon Wonwoo’s expression doesn’t change in the slightest. Kwon Soonyoung, on the other hand, looks positively tickled.
“Doreamon’s pocket, huh?” he jokes, and Junhui blushes even more.
“Here,” he mumbles instead, selecting his most recent sketchbook from his pile, holding it nervously out to the manager and the model. If they’re surprised to see a physical book rather than a tablet or holographic design pod, neither men comment on it; Soonyoung accepts the book with a nod of his head and careful hands, flips it open to a random page, and holds it out for Wonwoo to see as well.
For fifteen dead-silent minutes, Junhui sits and sweats in the expensive leather boardroom chair, watching the two men opposite him slowly take in his sketches, his fancies, his half-finished designs and frantically sketched dreams—visions that roll endlessly through his mind like a spool of film, barely caught and translated onto thick sketching paper. There are a lot of 3am creations in there, Junhui realizes belatedly, bits and pieces of everything that he’s certain he’d drawn in a fever dream.
Soonyoung turns the page, and the way both his and Wonwoo’s eyebrows jump tells Junhui they came across the sketches he drew of Bǎobǎo, Minghao’s calico cat, in neo-punk streetwear, though calling his drawing a cat would probably be an insult to feines all over the world. Look—clothes, he can draw fine, but cats...it’s just different. And they have four legs!
The page turns, and Junhui lets out a tiny breath of relief.
“I’m liking what I saw so far!” Soonyoung exclaims after a nerve-wracking amount of time. “If it’s alright with you, Junhui, and Director, would you mind if we conducted a test?”
“A test?” Junhui repeats, feeling panic well up again.
“It’s nothing crazy, don’t worry!” Soonyoung laughs, as if this whole situation isn’t beyond insane as it is. “Just something for us to help take a peek into your brain and style, so to speak.”
“Er—” Junhui glances at the Director, who nods, as if to say you better show them what you got, Junhui.
“Perfect!” Soonyoung cheers, and sticks his fingers into his mouth to let loose a shrill whistle.
The double doors on the other end of the room burst open; five attendants march inside in uniform order, rolling with them rack after rack of clothes at breakneck speeds. Junhui’s jaw drops as he stares at the array of shirts, tank tops, jackets, coats, pants, jeans, boots, shoes, and accessories that come pouring out from a seemingly endless pit behind the doors. There’s even an entire selection composed entirely of Hong Jisoo fits—his trademark gorgeous billowing sleeves, patterned scarves, delicately beaded bracelets and necklaces. Distantly, almost hysterically, Junhui remembers the most useless trivia fact that Wonwoo and Jisoo’s moms are friends.
“The test is simple,” Soonyoung says cheerfully once the dust has settled, gesturing to a model’s literal wet dream of quite everything. “We would like to see what you’d dress Wonwoo in. Help yourself to anything!”
“Um,” Junhui gapes, looking around. Where does he even start? “Is there, uh, a theme you want to go with, or a season you have in mind…?”
“Mmm…” Soonyoung taps his chin, lower lip jutted out. He shrugs his shoulders, and turns to Wonwoo with an inquisitive tilt of his head.
Wonwoo glances at the racks of clothing, and then looks at Junhui. His eyes give nothing away, even though he gives Junhui the very odd sensation that he’s being x-rayed. His eyebrows are quite handsomely shaped, Junhui couldn’t help but notice—and oh, his eyes . Angular and sharp, cool and calculating, eyelids dusted with a rust-coloured shadow that somehow manages to achieve a curiously velvet-like texture. It only adds to the depths of his already deep gaze, and accentuates the length of his nose and the high of his cheekbones.
Junhui swallows, making his throat bob, and Wonwoo’s eyes dart down to his neck for the briefest of seconds.
“Summer,” he announces. His voice is unsurprisingly deep, but it’s shockingly and unexpectedly soft. Junhui swears he can feel the timbre of the words reverberate in his chest.
Summer. Okay, he can work with that. Summer is a fun choice; a season of opportunity. There’s a lot he could go for, and the usuals pop up in the reservoirs of his brain: lights and cottons, fresh linen and sandals. Strappy things, loose things, sleeveless bits and big, blingy accessories—retro-fit sunglasses in highlighter shades is rumoured to be the next big rage.
Junhui swallows, sticks his pen behind his ear, and rolls up his sleeves before getting right into the racks of clothes.
He doesn’t ask—just runs his fingertips across the different fabrics, pulls at the belts and strings and lace that decorate the pieces, turns over the jewellery and earrings that sit in plush cushion-lined boxes. He has the attendants pull articles of clothing out and hold it up for him, pull sleeves inside-out and twists pant legs in different directions. The room is silent save for his shaky instructions to the attendants, and Junhui would probably feel a lot more self-conscious if he weren’t already somewhat lost in his summertime daydreams.
Summers for him were rickety rotating fans, threadbare tank tops and a sputtering aircon unit. Dusty rural roads in the countryside, fizzy soda and melting chocolate snacks. Minghao’s body starfishing on the floor of the apartment next to him, silver hair slayed out like a halo around his head, sticking their bare feet in the streams and watching the sunset from the edge of their balcony. Ocean waves and blinding sunshine come to mind, sticky popsicles melting over his fingers, firepits and toasted marshmallows and scorching heat. Sweaty hands laced together, endless road trips with friends, the wind in one’s hair and the feeling of infinite joy.
Junhui turns over the smooth fabric of the t-shirt in his palms, thinking, considering. None of this feels right. None of this feels as it should. He can’t quite explain it, but…
He glances over his shoulder at Wonwoo, and looks at him, really looks at him. The lightly styled wave of his cropped hair, the shade of foundation that might be a bit lighter than his actual skin tone, and the dark-cherry tint on his lips. He’s probably pretty athletic, given his solid build, and Junhui imagines bringing Wonwoo with him to the beach, to the drive-in theatres, or the bubble tea shack down by the beach. If he handed the pairing code of the electric car to Wonwoo, what kind of music would he put on? Would he yell at Junhui if Junhui pushed him into the ocean, and then try to get him back? Would he complain of blisters on his toes from the flip flops after a long way of wandering around the city, shoulders tanned red and gold and eyes shining from a whole day of sun? Would it be fun to hang out with him?
Wonwoo blinks and stares back at him, and for a moment, his stoic expression shifts slightly to one of...curiosity. Of interest.
Junhui comes back to himself with a start and turns around, cheeks warming faintly. He flips the shirt once more in his hands before handing it back to the attendant, murmuring a quiet thank you. He’s got an idea, but it’s crazy. He knows it’s crazy, has no doubt that if this were to backfire, it’ll backfire on him hard. And he might actually end up unemployed afterwards.
But, if it works out…
“I’ve decided,” he announces shakily, turning back to the others. The Director and Soonyoung both look a little surprised, but Wonwoo is already watching him intently. His mouth is set into a rather stern line. Junhui steels what’s left of his poor, frazzled nerves, and says:
“Nothing,” Junhui declares. “I won’t dress Wonwoo in anything.”
Soonyoung’s jaw unhinges, ever so slightly. Even the Director gawks at him in momentary shock before he catches himself, schooling his expression back into one of composed surprise.
Wonwoo’s brows lift, before they furrow slightly.
“You don’t want me to wear anything?” He repeats slowly. “Nothing at all?”
“Yes,” Junhui says, and then turns his words over again in his head before he nearly shrieks. “Wait—wait! WAIT! Not literally nothing, like, just not anything from the selection here—not nothing! I meant I wouldn’t choose anything from this selection here, not that you’ll be naked—that’s not what I meant!”
Oh, gods, this day is slowly turning from a disaster into a literal nightmare. As he blushes and flounders, Soonyoung instantly explodes into uproarious laughter, his shoulders shaking as he tips backwards against the chairs.
“Heavens,” the manager chokes out, slapping a hand onto Wonwoo’s back with staggering force. “Wonu, Wonu, please, we gotta hire him, this is the fucking funniest thing I’ve experienced all year—Junnie, gods, can I please call you Junnie? Junnie, if you keep this up, I’m gonna blow my gut laughing.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better at all, Kwon-sshi,” Junhui whispers miserably, covering his face with both hands.
“Why don’t you explain your choice then, Junhui?” Director Jung swoops in, tactfully re-directing them back on track. Outwardly, he’s calm, but his eyes are screaming what the fucking hell are you doing? Junhui clings to the question like a drowning man.
“I mean to say, there’s nothing here that I think would represent my idea of summer and Jeon Wonwoo well.”
“There’s at least a dozen racks for you to choose from,” Director Jung points out with a frown. “And from there, nothing at all?”
“Nothing,” Junhui shakes his head firmly. “Nothing from my vision, at the very least. Everything here, it’s beautiful, undeniably so, but it’s not what I think would work.”
“And what would you choose?” Wonwoo asks. He, thankfully, does not look offended by Junhui’s foot-in-mouth moment at all. In fact, he looks almost intrigued.
“Something fun,” Junhui replies honestly, and against all odds, the smallest of smiles pulls at the corner of Wonwoo’s lips. He looks pleasantly pleased.
Fuck, he’s so handsome. Try as he might, Junhui can’t stop the burning blush that encompasses his whole face at the sight. Just let him melt into the floor before he makes an even bigger fool of himself, please.
“I’d like to see what you’d come up with. Two weeks from now, at Open Front, please come by with the summer outfit you’d think would work for me. Would be fun for me,” Wonwoo says quietly. He looks at Director Jung. “If that’s alright?”
“I have no qualms,” Director Jung replies. As if he would turn down New Seoul’s ‘it’ model requesting one of his designer’s works. “Junhui?”
“It—It would be an honour,” Junhui barely manages, and something akin to satisfaction flits across Wonwoo’s face.
“Excellent!” Soonyoung says brightly, whipping out his phone. “I’ll make all the necessary arrangements, and I’ll discuss schedules and NDAs with you, Director. Which of your many lovely assistants should I get in touch with after that? I know you have about an army of them.”
“Junhui, you can go back downstairs first,” Director Jung says. “I’ll provide you with further briefing later.”
“R-Right,” Junhui nods, and hastens to bow. As he straightens, grabbing his bag and trying to discreetly shove all of his junk back into its confines, Wonwoo walks over and holds out the sketchbook. Junhui takes it; their fingertips brush, ever-so slightly.
“I look forward to working with you, Wen Junhui,” Wonwoo says, low and quiet, just for Junhui to hear.
Heart in his throat, Junhui squeezes his sketchbook and replies in what he hopes is a professional, steady voice, “Me too, Jeon-sshi. I look forward to our collaboration.”
Wonwoo exhales in a way that might have been an amused laugh. “We’re the same age. Call me Wonwoo.”
“W-Wonwoo.”
The model nods politely to him once more. This close, and under the warm glow of the ceiling lights, his eyes are practically smouldering. “Until next time, Junhui.”
The descent back down into the bullpen feels like yet another detached, fever dream.
Junhui walks out of the lift in a daze, clutching his sketchbook to his chest with his bag hanging off one of his shoulders. People stare at him, not even bothering to hide their stunned expressions as he stumbles back to his desk and all but collapses into his chair, fumbling through his bag and slowly putting his things back in order.
Footsteps sound from behind him, and a second later Chan whirls into his cubicle, looking wide-eyed at Junhui.
“Jun-hyung! What’re you doing here, I thought you and the Director went downstairs—Jun-hyung? Are you alright?”
“Channie, I need you to pinch me very hard right now,” Junhui says faintly, and then immediately shrieks when Chan digs his nails into his forearm and pinches hard. No less than ten heads swivel their way. “OW! Okay, not that hard!”
“But you just said.” Chan protests. “Nevermind it, then, what’s going on, Jun-hyung? Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”
“Oh, trust me,” Junhui says cryptically, slamming the last of his sketchbook out on his desk and flipping it open to a fresh, blank page. A wild, frenzied feeling bubbles up inside of him, and he’s seized by the sudden and frantic desire to just start designing. “A ghost is the more believable scenario between what happened to me upstairs.”
“Upstairs? Wait, you went upstairs? What on earth are you talking about? What on earth happened to you?”
“Later,” Junhui hisses, pushing Chan back towards his desk, eyeing the busybodies that are undoubtedly listening in on their conversation. Chan pouts, but complies. A second later, Junhui’s phone pings.
drinks, tonight, at bitterwood’s
and u better tell me everything!!
also are u still employed or not?!
Junhui snorts, fires back a yes im still employed crazy right?! before staring down at his sketchbook.
He’s going to put together a summer outfit for Jeon Wonwoo. The Jeon Wonwoo, the face of New Seoul, the nation’s most sought-after bachelor, and all-round hunk of a man. Who, apparently, specifically asked to see Junhui’s work and is going out of his way to hire him. Who pushed for a sudden meeting just to meet Junhui and pick his brain. Who knows that he and Junhui are the same goddamn age.
Junhui swallows, and twirls his pen between his fingers. His brain is currently split into two; one side gunning it down creativity aisle with all the possibilities he could put together for Wonwoo, while the other side is—well. It’s just been screaming non-stop ever since Wonwoo shook his hand in that board room. Both halves are, presently, going into complete overdrive.
And Junhui has a feeling the craziness has only just begun.