Growing up as the daughter of a world-famous fashion designer meant a lot of things.
Backstage passes. Runway after runway. And celebrities—countless celebrities. Actors, models, singers, socialites. You’d seen them all.
But there was one person your father treated differently. More carefully. More proudly.
Hyunjin Hwang.
The “muse,” as your father jokingly called him. The boy who made clothes come alive. The face that could sell out an entire collection with a single photoshoot.
At first, you didn’t believe it—that he would just show up in your living room like it was normal. But then it happened again. And again. Sometimes for fittings, sometimes for dinner, sometimes just because your father wanted an opinion from his favorite model.
He was polite, quiet, observant. He spoke rarely, but when he did, people listened. And when he looked at you… you felt it.
Those eyes. Sharp, but dreamy. Soft, but intense.
His beauty was unreal—the kind that made even the lights in your home seem to dim around him.
And yet, he had this gentleness—a calm, thoughtful presence.
That evening,
dinner had been warm and relaxed, just you, your father, and Hyunjin. It felt normal by now—like he belonged there.
When the plates were finished, your father stood.
“Could you take Hyunjin’s measurements for me?” he asked. “I need to grab some fabrics from the warehouse.”
You nodded casually, as if your pulse wasn’t racing. Hyunjin simply stood, following you with long, graceful steps.
You both entered your father’s workroom—the warm lamp light glowing against the shelves of fabrics and sketches pinned everywhere.
Hyunjin didn’t speak. He simply slipped off his shirt.
His back was drawn like art—lines, shadows, soft muscle definition. His chest rose and fell deeply, calmly. The curve of his neck, the sharpness of his collarbones, the slight tension in his shoulders from hours of practice and schedules.
He stood still, waiting.
You cleared your throat softly and lifted the measuring tape.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was warm, familiar—the kind of silence that only happens when two people understand each other without needing words.
You stepped close.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his arm as you measured the length from shoulder to wrist. He inhaled—slow, steady—but you caught the shift.
Then his voice, low and calm:
“Your hands are cold.”
You froze.
He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking. Just… observing. Softly.
“Sorry,” you mumbled.
He shook his head gently.
“It’s fine,” he said, eyes lifting to meet yours. “I don’t mind.”
You moved to his chest next, pressing the tape across his collarbone. You felt the warmth of his skin—warmer than the room, warmer than your own hands. His breath brushed the top of your head.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact when you looked up to check the alignment.
If anything, he looked at you like you were the one being studied.
“You’ve gotten better at this,” he murmured.
You blinked. “At what?”
“Fittings,” he said simply. “But maybe it’s because… I trust you.”
Your heart jumped. You almost dropped the tape.
He noticed—you knew he noticed—because a small smile tugged at the edge of his lips. Barely there. But real.
You went to measure his waist, kneeling slightly. He lowered his head to watch you, eyes soft, curious.
And then, quietly—almost too quietly:
“You always look different in here.” A pause. “More… focused. It suits you.”
You stood slowly, feeling your cheeks warm.
The silence returned—soft, pleasant—until your father’s footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Hyunjin took the shirt from the chair, slipping it on with practiced elegance.
Not rushed. Not flustered. Just… present.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a gentle murmur meant for you alone. “And… if you ever need a muse of your own…” His eyes held yours. “You know where to find me.”