Chapter Text
Today’s schedule was packed: final fittings and the first official photoshoot.
The costume team had been working tirelessly in the days—fitting, tailoring, adjusting down to the last hemline. They weren’t just styling actors; they were crafting visual storytelling. Every outfit had to reflect the characters’ personalities and their world, from textures to color palettes.
Mingyu cycled through a range of looks: off-duty engineer in crisp casuals, sleek business casual (with and without a tie), and full on-site safety gear. Somehow, he made ear protection look like expensive headphones and turned safety glasses into a high-fashion accessory. Life was unfair like that.
Dokyeom’s wardrobe leaned softer. According to Haon’s character profile, his casual wear was the kind that looked effortless but cost more than rent. His business looks had personality—warm tones, relaxed layers, sleeves always slightly rolled up, like he was halfway through solving something brilliant. On-site, he wore a reflective vest, a hard hat, he managed to wear a cooling towel around his neck like it was part of the outfit.
The production team had transformed the studio into a temporary runway—light rigs set up, cameras flashing, clothing racks neatly lined up. These photos would go toward promotional material, press kits, visual continuity… maybe even a visual book to woo future sponsors. It never hurt to have extras in the vault.
They started with the side couples.
The second pair gave off bubbly rom-com vibes—playful, easy, slightly chaotic. The third pair were softer, almost domestic, like a touch of sweetness to balance the show’s stormier moments. Their chemistry was all warm glances and unspoken understanding, every other frame looking like a fabric softener ad.
Then it was time for the main couple.
Mingyu and Dokyeom stepped onto the set—perfectly styled, wardrobe-approved, looking effortlessly like they belonged in a prime-time drama poster.
“Damn,” one of the younger stylists muttered, earning a few quiet laughs.
Even the crew couldn't hide their surprise. The height difference. The way Mingyu’s charcoal suit contrasted with Dokyeom’s warm-toned palette. The quiet tension they radiated just by standing near each other—it worked.
Seungcheol leaned against the wall near the monitors, arms folded. Jeonghan stood beside him, flipping through a small notepad without looking up. They’d been exchanging quiet commentary for a while, speaking without eye contact to avoid drawing attention.
The stylist had just finished adjusting Mingyu’s collar when one of the costume assistants handed Dokyeom a pair of vintage glasses. He blinked behind the lenses, looking somewhere between CEO and university TA.
“He’s such a cutie,” Seungcheol muttered.
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Seungcheol gestured vaguely around his own face. “You know—his face. Just objectively.”
Jeonghan scribbled something down, smirk tugging at his lips. “I know. That’s why it had to be him. But... I think we’ll go without the glasses.”
Then the real chemistry started showing.
Mingyu reached out to fix a strand of Dokyeom’s bangs back into place—it had slipped after they took their hard hats for the shot. His fingers were gentle, eyes focused.
Dokyeom looked up but didn’t flinch, at least not visibly. He’d trained himself not to—he knew how to breathe through contact, to register the gesture as friendly. And he was good at that. He was professional.
Still, some of the female cast members squeal behind their palms, shoving each other in mock panic like they’d just witnessed a slow-burn fanfic moment in real time.
“Guess we already have fans,” Mingyu whispered, leaning in close.
“I think we had them the second the cast list leaked,” Dokyeom whispered back.
“You think that was a mistake?”
“No,” he smiled. “I think it was very intentional.”
The camera caught the moment—tilted heads, shared glance, the close proximity. From a distance, it looked intimate. Unstaged. Like two people quietly falling into place.
“I’m very glad Director Park suggested the intimacy coordinator,” Jeonghan remarked, still watching the monitor. “I don’t regret the money I spent at all.”
“I heard from Mingyu you hired one of the best?”
Jeonghan finally looked up, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I always settle for the best.”
His tone was smug, but his smiled said otherwise. It softened when his eyes met Seungcheol’s.
After the couple shots, they moved on to individual portraits—each actor posed with props tied to their characters. Mingyu held a rolled-up blueprint and a level ruler; Dokyeom had a miniature model of a building and a sketchpad.
There were outtakes, of course. At one point, Dokyeom accidentally knocked over the model, Mingyu jumped at the chance to playfully scold him.
“Haon-ssi, please be more careful!”
Dokyeom turned to his co-star with exaggerated puppy eyes. “Jia-yah, help.”
The actress jumped in, mock-whispering as she helped him picked up the props. “Why did he have to yell?”
Laughter filled the studio.
It was light, it was fun—and it made the crew fall a little more in love with the show.
During the group shots, Mingyu slung an arm over Dokyeom’s shoulder—and leaned his full weight onto him like a dramatic child. Dokyeom stumbled, barely catching them both upright.
“You think you’re tiny, huh?” he whined, half-joking.
The cast burst into laughter, their characters slipping away for a moment.
Mingyu quickly straightened up and gave a playful bow in every direction, like a guilty contestant on a variety show. He looked utterly silly—and totally unbothered.
Someone from the lighting team whispered to a friend, “They really feel like friends.”
“Yeah,” their friend replied. “Makes me want to work with them. They seem... fun to be around.”
*
Jeonghan had called Dokyeom last night—said he’d arranged a meeting with Jihoon, the show’s exclusive music supervisor.
And today was the day.
Dokyeom was nervous—really nervous.
Sharing his work with someone unfamiliar with his style was hard enough. But sharing it with another musician—especially one with serious credentials—was another level of terrifying. He’d always worked alone. His heart was soft, and honest criticism had the power to keep him awake for nights.
But, surprisingly, Jihoon was... nice.
Kind, even. Easy to talk to, especially since they were both equally passionate about music.
It turned out Jihoon was a composer himself, working under the name Woozi—an alias Dokyeom had definitely heard before.
Relief washed over him as Jihoon complimented his work here and there.
He was incredibly helpful and a total genius, giving thoughtful feedback—especially on melody structure, which was Dokyeom’s weak point—and even offered a few simple adjustments that immediately made the songs feel more complete.
It was like having a second pair of ears that understood both music and emotion.
By the end of the day, everyone seemed happy with the progress. Jihoon offered useful tips and friendly advice, not a single word feeling harsh or dismissive.
“I can’t wait to show this to Director Park,” Jeonghan said, visibly thrilled.
His excitement was genuine—the kind that made Dokyeom’s chest feel a little lighter.
Dokyeom had handed over a few demos to Jihoon, confident the older man would know how to match the right voices to the right songs.
But he kept two tracks back—unfinished ones that he wasn’t quite ready to let go of. He hdd grown a little too attached to them. So he took them home, hoping to finish them in his own time.
Still, he felt lighter walking out of Jihoon’s studio.
His schedule was packed lately, but at least this was one thing he could cross off with a quiet sense of pride.
*
The promo had already started rolling, even though filming was barely halfway done—maybe thirty percent wrapped at best. Securing ideal locations, moving a massive crew across the country—it all took time, money, and a ridiculous amount of energy.
Dokyeom dropped into the makeup chair beside Mingyu, who was nearly finished with his touch-ups.
“Did you sleep at all?” Mingyu asked, glancing over.
“I tried,” Dokyeom replied, voice flat with exhaustion.
“You looked terrible.”
“Thank you.” He knew Mingyu was teasing, but he was too exhausted to fire anything back.
Still, there were small wins. The first trailer had dropped last week and was already getting a good kind of attention. The background track—one he’d written and sung himself—had struck a chord. Hearing people respond to it, seeing his name next to the title, his face on the screen… it gave him a flicker of confidence.
But that pride was short-lived—and probably not all that healthy. Because yesterday, he’d been pulled into a surprise music video shoot—an urgent request thrown right into the middle of an already packed schedule. Which meant the only rest he got was a nap in the van on the way to set.
No wonder Mingyu said he looked terrible.
And today, they were filming on-site again, this time in an unfinished market town under the unforgiving sun. Dokyeom hated the heat. He was a studio creature, built for air-conditioning and dim lights. The tent overhead didn’t seem to do much; the sun was already stabbing his eyes.
He felt like he was going to go blind.
He was exhausted—couldn’t tell if it was the heat, the lack of sleep, the stress, or the creeping anxiety that came from caring too much. Whatever it was, he’d pushed himself too hard.
Lately, he had been pouring his heart and soul into finishing that one song—the one meant to play during a key emotional build-up in the story. The one he had pinned all his hope on.
But no matter how hard he tried, it wasn’t good enough. He took everyone’s advice, adapted, changed, rewrote, experimented. And yet, the more changes he made, the less it felt like him. It ended up feeling like he was singing in someone else’s voice—like hiring a ghostwriter to write your own story.
It just didn’t feel right.
He even bought a copy of Red Lines and read through it, studying it in his spare time, hoping he’d stumble across the missing piece. A moment. A sentence.
Something.
Time-consuming projects always drained him. And when stress hit, it got harder to think clearly, harder to feel anything useful.
At some point, Mingyu had disappeared. Dokyeom barely noticed—he might’ve dozed off for a moment while the stylist worked on his hair.
Then Mingyu returned, carrying two cups of iced coffee: an Americano for himself, mocha for Dokyeom.
He didn’t even remember telling Mingyu his coffee order.
“You said you like chocolate drinks,” Mingyu said casually. “So I figured you’d like mocha. I also asked for extra ice cream—it’s hot like hell today.”
When had he said that? He couldn’t recall—but it was true.
Well… that was thoughtful.
“Thank you,” Dokyeom said, offering a tired but genuine smile.
“Anytime.” Mingyu smiled back, warm and sincere.
Was his voice always that deep?
Heat crept up Dokyeom’s neck and ears. He took a sip to hide his reaction and quickly changed the topic.
“It’s good. Where’d you get this, by the way?”
“My fan sent us a food truck,” Mingyu replied, grinning proudly.
Dokyeom caught the stylist smiling at them through the mirror with a soft ‘aww’ expression.
Then Mingyu muttered something under his breath, but it made Dokyeom stop in his tracks.
“You can’t rush the magic—it takes everyone.”
He didn’t even say it like it was meant to be profound—he just said it while watching the crew shuffle around in the heat.
It sounded like something Taehyeok might say.
And just like that, a light switched on.
Dokyeom turned to Mingyu slowly, blinking in surprise.
“Can you sing?”
Mingyu froze, caught mid-sip. “U—uh, I mean. I can try?”
Dokyeom held his gaze,, already imagining the possibilities.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe his voice alone couldn't carry the weight of what the song needed to say.
Maybe it didn’t need to be polished. Maybe it just needed to be real.
*
Dokyeom had invited Mingyu over to his studio on their day off, feeling a mix of gratitude and apology.
Funny thing was—after knowing an working with each other for about a month , they still hadn’t exchanged numbers until it really mattered.
Sure, they followed each other on social media. That was basically part of the job description.
But they’d never really talked outside of work—not even a single DM.
Swapping phone numbers felt…oddly personal—like something people did when they were actually close.
And Dokyeom wasn’t totally convinced they were there yet.
Mingyu showed up in his casual clothes, a little more polished than what he usually wore to the set.
At first, things felt a little strange—somehow, it was easier to breathe around each other on set than in this small, quiet space.
But eventually, they found the middle ground.
Mingyu settled in as the demo played softly, eyes tracking the lyrics printed on the paper in his hand, nodding along to the rhythm.
One more thing he had noticed about Dokyeom was his old-school habit—he preferred paper, printer, and pen over tablets or screens.
The title was If It Means Choosing You — a slow, contemporary pop blend with smooth R&B and a just a touch of jazz.
Dokyeom’s voice was gentle and sincere, threading raw honesty through every note.
Mingyu wasn’t sure where his own voice could fit without disrupting the delicate mood Dokyeom had carefully crafted.
“Which part do you want me to sing?” he asked once the song faded.
Dokyeom held out his hand, quietly asking for the paper. He wrote down their names under the parts and highlighted a few key words for Mingyu before handing it back.
[Verse 1] - Mingyu
We started on opposite sides of the line
Words like numbers, always too aligned
But you crash into me like color in the dark
Now I can’t pretend I don’t feel the spark
[Pre-Chorus]
Your voice, a quiet thunder
My heart, pulling under
The rules we wrote begin to tear
[Chorus]
Red between us, burning slow
A warning we were meant to know
But I crossed it, eyes wide shut
Call it fate or call it cut
Red between us, bright and wrong
But I’ve been standing here too long
On this edge where love could fall
And lose it all…
[Verse 2] - Mingyu
You argue like art, I resist like math
But every sharp word hides a softer path
And I hate how I notice the tremble in your laugh
Even when I shouldn’t look back
[Pre-Chorus]
We fight in lines and sketches
But your heat still leaves impressions
Where logic ends, you’re still there
[Chorus]
Red between us, burning slow
A warning we were meant to know
But I crossed it, eyes wide shut
Call it fate or call it cut
Red between us, bright and wrong
But I’ve been standing here too long
On this edge where love could fall
And lose it all…
[Bridge] - Mingyu
You were never in the plan
But I wrote you in with trembling hands
Even if this breaks us down
I’d still choose the red, not the safe ground
[Final Chorus] - Mingyu & Dokyeom
Red between us, burning slow
A line that says “don’t get too close”
But I crossed it, heart first flight
Drawn to you like flame to night
Red between us, loud and true
And I’d still choose it…
If it means choosing you
Mingyu swallowed hard when he saw the notes on the paper.
“Can I listen again?” he asked nervously—far from his usual confident self.
As the music played, he focused more deeply on the part he was ment to sing. And the more he listened, the more he felt the story unfold—the tension, the warmth, the risk—coming alive, more vivid in his mind.
But beneath that growing connection, he felt the weight of pressure settling in.
Dokyeom stayed close, guiding him through the melody, helping him find the right tone and timing.
When it was time, Mingyu stood up and made his way to the recording booth, leaving behind half of his confidence on the couch where he’d been sitting just moments before.
*
Dokyeom’s patience was wearing thinner as the hour ticked by.
“Can you sing that part again?” he asked, trying to keep his tone even.
Mingyu groaned. “I can’t. It’s too high.”
“Try.”
“I’m not a singer, bro.” Mingyu said, voice caught somewhere between grumpy and whiny.
Dokyeom exhaled through his nose. “This is how I feel when you’re bossing me around on set. But I gave you my respect. I didn’t complain.”
“Really? Was that respect,” Mingyu raised a brow. “or just because we weren’t alone?” He added, “I wasn’t bossing you—I was helping. You’re the one bossing me now.”
“Same difference,” Dokyeom shrugged. “Wasn’t trying to be mean though.” His voice softened slightly.
“I know,” Mingyu muttered, then added with a sheepish smile, “Just… be patient with me. Or at least change the key.” 1st sentence sounded like pleading but another sounded like mocking
“Try again,” Dokyeom said, folding his arms. “Then I’ll think about it.”
Mingyu let out a dramatic sigh, then gave it another shot. Dokyeom listened carefully, biting back a frown—then finally adjusted the track. Changing the lyrics was too painful—he loved this song too much for that.
“Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”
The words sounded sharp, but his voice had softened. Mingyu noticed.
“Why the rush?” he asked, glancing over. “You got somewhere to be?”
“A boxing camp,” Dokyeom replied flatly. “I need to punch something.”
“Wow.” Mingyu’s face lit up, eyes wide with excitement. “Can I come?”
Dokyeom rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. He didn’t know when he started getting weak for those eyes.
“Then you better get this right.”
“Sir, yes sir!”
*
They ended up at the boxing camp anyway.
The place smelled like sweat and rubber, the air thick with leftover adrenaline and distant grunts echoing from the ring. The rhythmic thuds of gloves hitting bags filled the room like a heartbeat, grounding and intense.
Somehow, Soonyoung let it slip that Dokyeom once came in and punched the heavy bag like a man possessed.
But he stopped Mingyu with a smile that was all customer-service sweetness. “I’m sorry, have you registered? This place is for members only.”
“He’s just gonna watch,” Dokyeom said quickly, already rummaging through his gym bag.
“What? No.” Mingyu shot him a glare, then turned back to Soonyoung with an easy grin. “I’m gonna box.”
Before Dokyeom could argue, both Mingyu and Soonyoung had disappeared toward the front desk.
Dokyeom sighed, then went through his usual warm-up before settling into a rhythm—throwing sharp, focused punches at the bag.
Mingyu dropped onto a nearby bench, elbows on his knees as he watched, quietly observing Dokyeom.
There was something raw in the way he moved—like this wasn’t just a workout, but a release.
Mingyu had never taken him for the confrontational type. He definitely hadn’t expected Dokyeom to throw a punch like that.
Thought he was all bark—didn’t know he could bite.
All this time, Mingyu thought he had Dokyeom figured out—turns out, he was barely scratching the surface.
Dokyeom paused mid-swing, he felt a stare burning into the side of his head. He turned.
“Aren’t you gonna box?”
“Soonyoung-hyung is finding me some gloves,” Mingyu said casually.
Right on cue, Soonyoung returned with brand-new gloves in hand. “Here, Mingyu-ah. On the house.”
Dokyeom squinted. “Since when did you two get that close?”
“Now,” they answered in unison, throwing an arm around each other’s shoulders like grade school besties.
Disgusting.
“When two extroverts meet,” Soonyoung said, beaming, “you just know.”
Mingyu nodded.
Dokyeom instantly regretted every brain cell that thought bringing Mingyu here was a good idea. His life was about to get significantly more annoying.
*
After they wrapped up and packed their gear, they stepped outside into the cool night air.
The streets were quiet, the breeze crisp against their damp skin.
“Can I walk you to the studio?” Mingyu asked.
“You don’t have to,” Dokyeom replied, shaking his head politely.
“But my car’s parked there,” Mingyu said flatly—like a punchline, though he failed to hold back a laugh at the end.
Dokyeom narrowed his eyes, muttering through clenched teeth,“Have you ever been punched in the face?”
“Nope. Never.” Mingyu tilted his head, mock-innocent. “But if you ask nicely, I might let you.”
“Really? Can I?” Dokyeom raised his brows with faux sweetness. “Please?” he added, hands clasped in an exaggerated cute gesture.
Mingyu leaned in, smug grin tugging at his lip, offering the side of his face like an open invitation. “You can try.”
Dokyeom turned and walked ahead, quickening his pace—partly to hide the weird flutter in his chest.
“Hey, wait up!”
🎬 💞