Work Text:
The plane was flying when Seonghwa finally unlocked his phone.
He had avoided social media all day, it was just an article, just an interview about Petit Coussin’s debut… nothing serious, right?
Wrong.
He opened the article absent-mindedly, scrolling without thinking.
Beautiful photos of Hongjoong on set. The focused gaze. The shy laugh.
And then, there it was.
A short paragraph.
An apparently casual question:
“And who sent the coffee truck on filming day?”
The answer came right below it, clean, sharp, unmistakable:
“My wife sent it (Park Seonghwa).”
Seonghwa read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Each time his brain processed one word at a time, as if reading them all together could be dangerous:
My.
Wife.
Park.
Seonghwa.
He pressed the tablet against his chest and shut his eyes.
“No. No. NO.”
The stylist beside him looked up, confused.
“Everything okay?”
“Oh yes.” Seonghwa answered way too fast. “Just… emotional turbulence.”
The stylist frowned.
Seonghwa turned away and whispered into his neck pillow:
“Why does he write things like that? I’m going to die.”
But the worst part, the truly fatal part, was what that word did to him.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t embarrassment.
It was… heat.
That kind of warmth that starts in the chest and spreads downward, soft, dangerous, impossible to restrain.
He muttered to himself, voice barely there:
“I’m not his wife.”
Pause.
He was officially losing his sanity at 30,000 feet.
✦ ✧ ✦
The hotel corridor was silent, only the muffled hum of the air conditioner and the click of Seonghwa’s heels echoing.
He still felt the weight of the interview in his chest.
The words burned like embers under his skin:
My wife. Park Seonghwa.
He had read it maybe thirty times on the plane.
The “my wife” had ruined him, in the most delicious, humiliating way.
But the fact that Hongjoong was referring to him as someone beside him at that level, publicly
that set him on fire slowly.
And then, on his feed, a sentence from the coffee truck banner was highlighted again:
“The next model has to be me, please. There’s no other option.”
To this day he didn’t know where he found the courage to put something like that on the truck, when he had never managed to say it directly to Hongjoong.
He got lost for a second in the image of walking last at Hongjoong’s collection, closing the show and it made butterflies burst in his stomach and a smile pull at his lips before he could stop it.
The elevator opened and
there he was.
Hongjoong.
Leaning against the hallway wall, long coat, hands in pockets, warm lobby light tracing shadows across his face.
He lifted his eyes the moment Seonghwa stepped out.
That calm, certain gaze that made everything else feel irrelevant.
“You read it.”
Not a question.
Seonghwa crossed his arms, as if that could hold his racing heart in place.
“You can’t say things like that.”
Hongjoong tilted his head.
“Why not?”
“Because—” Seonghwa blinked, searching for dignity, “there was no warning.”
“You wanted a warning?”
Hongjoong took a slow step closer.
“Or just time to pretend you didn’t like it?”
Seonghwa’s breath faltered, treacherously loud in the empty corridor.
“I… didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
He hated how soft his voice came out.
He hated even more how true it sounded.
The corner of Hongjoong’s mouth lifted.
“So the issue wasn’t what I said.”
Another step. Closer.
“It was that I didn’t tell you first.”
Seonghwa looked away, but there was nowhere to run.
“Joong…”
“I said it because I meant it,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice low like he was reading straight from Seonghwa’s heart.
“And because I’m done pretending you aren’t special to me.”
Seonghwa almost laughed. Almost cried.
He did neither, just breathed, trying not to melt.
“You have to stop saying things like that in public.”
“Then you’d rather I say them in private?”
Seonghwa blinked slowly, feeling the weight behind the question.
And the sweet danger beneath it.
“… Yes.”
Hongjoong stepped in until he was close enough to share his breath.
“Then come inside,” he whispered.
“And I’ll say it.”
The room key flashed green when Hongjoong tapped it.
Seonghwa held his breath.
The door clicked open.
Silence inside.
Large bed, curtains drawn, warm golden light too bright to be romantic, but somehow it was.
Hongjoong walked in first.
Then turned back, waiting, patient in a way that made it harder to breathe.
Seonghwa hovered at the threshold, heart in his throat.
He could turn back.
He could run.
Or he could cross the line they both knew had been there for a long time.
He stepped forward.
Hongjoong smiled small, real, a little nervous.
Not the untouchable designer.
Just… Joong.
“I called you that,” he began, breath steadying, “because when I picture someone next to me, it’s you.”
Seonghwa swallowed hard.
The world shrank into that room.
Hongjoong looked away for a moment, like suddenly shy or searching for words.
Confused, Seonghwa lifted his chin gently with a hand.
“What happened?”
“The drawing is still waiting,” Hongjoong finally murmured, laughter soft like confession.
“What drawing?” Seonghwa asked.
“I didn’t say it in the interview… but I’ve already imagined an outfit for you. For another collection.. it was the first thing that came to mind. All my creativity just, rushed at once.”
“And when I do my first real runway…”
His eyes glimmered, modest but certain.
“I want you closing it. My final look. My final moment.”
And that’s when it hit.
Not a joke.
Not a tease.
A promise.
A future with him in it.
Seonghwa felt something tighten, expand, burst gently in his chest.
“You… really want me as your model,” he breathed, almost soundless.
Hongjoong answered instantly:
“I can’t imagine that dream without you.”
The words hit hard.
Too hard.
Seonghwa shut the door with a trembling hand, not from fear, but certainty.
“Okay,” he whispered, pressing his back to the wood to steady himself.
“Say it. In private.”
Hongjoong took one step.
Then another.
Until they were close enough to share the same breath.
Fingers touched Seonghwa’s face, light, seeking permission without asking.
“You are my place,” Hongjoong said.
Simple. Direct.
Devastating.
Seonghwa didn’t think. He pulled Hongjoong in by the collar and kissed him.
Soft at first, like they were afraid to wake the moment, like it could dissolve if they breathed too hard.
A careful brush of lips.
A question wrapped in warmth.
Hongjoong froze for half a heartbeat, then melted.
His hand lifted instinctively to Seonghwa’s jaw, thumb brushing skin like he was memorizing the shape, the warmth, the existence of him.
And then the kiss deepened, slow expanding into slow, like a sunrise taking its time.
No rush.
No confusion.
Just two people who had been circling gravity for too long finally stepping into it.
Seonghwa felt him smile into the kiss, that tiny, barely-there curve you only feel, not see and a laugh escaped against Hongjoong’s lips, breathless and disbelieving.
Like this is real? you’re real? we’re really doing this?
Hongjoong’s fingers curled at the back of Seonghwa’s neck, gentle but certain, grounding him as if afraid he might float away.
Seonghwa’s hands, once trembling, found the frame of Hongjoong’s shoulders and held him like holding an answer.
They kissed again, and again, smaller touches, little pulls, lips brushing like they didn’t know how to stop now that they had started.
A rhythm found itself between them, soft and sure, hearts stumbling in the same beat.
Between breaths, their foreheads bumped; Seonghwa exhaled a quiet, shaky sound, something like relief, something like wonder and Hongjoong whispered his name, not urgent, not desperate, just grateful.
When they broke for air, foreheads still touching, smiles loose and foolish, Hongjoong whispered:
“Now you read it the right way.”
Seonghwa let out a breathy laugh, voice ruined by emotion.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“Only with love,” Hongjoong murmured, thumb brushing his chin.
“And couture.”
Seonghwa smiled, surrendered.
“Show me the drawing.”
Hongjoong blinked, then walked to the nightstand and picked up a sketchbook.
He sat beside him again and opened to a marked page.
Stars.
A gown drawn like a translucent night sky, constellations embroidered, starlight following his silhouette.
Elegant. Celestial. Intimate.
It was him.
Seen.
Imagined.
Chosen.
Seonghwa brought a hand to his mouth.
The air grew thick, too beautiful to hold.
“Joong…” he breathed.
His eyes shone like that paper had pulled an entire wave of emotion he wasn’t prepared for.
“It’s… me,” he whispered, voice breaking.
“You drew me.”
“I always draw you,” Hongjoong said softly.
“I just never showed you.”
Seonghwa let his fingers glide over the constellations on the page, like he could feel the stars beneath his touch.
And then, voice trembling with sincerity:
“I never thought someone would dream me like this.”
Hongjoong smiled slow, tender, sure:
“I dream all of you.”
Seonghwa closed his eyes, breathing deep.
When he opened them again, there was a new light in them, not just affection, but reverence.
“I’m staying,” he said.
Not a small promise.
A choice.
Hongjoong laughed softly, relieved and glowing, and leaned his forehead against his.
Door closed.
Lights low.
Two hearts learning rhythm together.
No cameras.
No stage.
Just them.
As it always should have been.