In Charcoal & Honey
author’s note: hi 🤍 this is my very first time posting a fic on here, so please be gentle with me. i’ve had these scenes living in my head for a while and finally decided to let them exist outside of it. this is a soft, cozy painter!hyunjin one-shot—fluffy, romantic, a little teasing, very sunlit.
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction written for fun. it’s an AU and does not reflect real life. i do not know the people i write about; all characters, scenes, and dialogue are imagined. hyunjin is portrayed as a fictional character in this story.
fic info: painter!hyunjin x fem!oc • established relationship • fluffy + romantic banter • modelling/sketching scene • one-shot
warnings: none / mild suggestive flirting (no explicit content)
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The afternoon light in Hyunjin’s studio never behaved like ordinary light. It spilled through the tall window in warm ribbons, nosy as a gossip, pausing on every canvas like it was inspecting the evidence of his obsession: unfinished faces, half-born landscapes, brushstrokes that looked like confessions he hadn’t said out loud yet. It made the dust glitter for the sole purpose of being dramatic. It softened the hard edges of the room until even the mess felt curated, like chaos had been styled on purpose. Some days it was kind—golden and forgiving, turning his paint stained floorboards into something that belonged in a museum brochure. Other days it was cruel, sharp enough to expose every smudge, every flaw, every tremble in your patience. Today it was doing both. It warmed your knees where you sat on the stupidly high stool. It kissed the curve of Hyunjin’s hand as he drew, turning charcoal into shadow, shadow into meaning. It lingered at his cheekbone like it had a crush. And it painted you into the scene without asking permission, like you were just another element in his composition.
You were currently being asked to exist like an idea instead of a person—very, very still, right in the center of that theatrical beam.
“Hold it,” Hyunjin said softly.
Not hold it like an order barked across a room. Hold it like he was afraid the moment might bruise if you handled it wrong. Like your posture was a fragile sentence and he was halfway through writing it.
You kept your chin angled the way he’d set it, one knee drawn up, elbow resting there like a thoughtful pause. You tried to make stillness look effortless, like you hadn’t been balancing on a stool designed by someone who hated comfort.
“I am holding it,” you replied, the words threaded through a smile that was slowly turning into a test of character. “I’m holding it so hard I might start levitating.”
His mouth barely moved—an almost-smile, a ghost of amusement—but he didn’t lift his eyes from the paper.
“Don’t,” he murmured. “If you levitate, I’ll have to redraw the shadows.”
You exhaled a laugh through your nose, careful not to shift. “God forbid we inconvenience the shadows.”
This time his gaze flicked up, quick and precise, like the snap of a camera shutter. It landed on you, held for half a second, then returned to the page—checking, measuring, memorizing. The kind of looking that made you feel both seen and pinned, like a butterfly he’d never hurt on purpose but still insisted on keeping.
He didn’t look up again after that. He fell back into that quiet concentration where the world narrowed to line and proportion and the small, stubborn truth he was trying to coax out of charcoal. His head tilted slightly, hair slipping into his eyes the way it always did when he got absorbed—as if his thoughts were too loud for gravity to manage properly. Charcoal dust smudged the side of his finger. His lips stayed parted, not trying to be pretty, just… occupied. Like his brain was doing something delicate and his body was holding its breath to let it happen.
You knew that look.
You were dating it.
And you loved it—unfairly, embarrassingly—because it meant he was there, fully there, in that rare place where he wasn’t performing or joking or protecting himself with distance. Just Hyunjin, earnest and intent, translating what he felt into something that could exist outside his chest.
But love didn’t stop your thighs from burning.
A minute passed. Then another. The light shifted a fraction across the floor, as if even the sun was getting impatient with your posture.
You swallowed, keeping your face composed. “Hyunjin.”
“Mm?” he answered, but it wasn’t really an answer. It was a placeholder sound, a gentle tether to prove he’d heard you.
“How much longer?”
His charcoal paused mid-stroke. He didn’t look up yet. You could hear him thinking—hear the mental measuring tape snapping into place.
“A little,” he said finally.
You narrowed your eyes at the back of his sketchbook. “That’s not a unit of time.”
This time he did look up, slow and careful, as if lifting his gaze too fast might startle you out of the pose. “Do you want an estimate,” he asked, “or do you want the truth?”
“The truth,” you said immediately, because you always said that, even when you couldn’t handle it.
He considered you for a beat, eyes moving over your face like he was checking the light on your cheekbones, the tilt of your mouth. Then he said, almost apologetically, “I don’t know. Because every time I think I’m done, I notice something else.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. “Something else like… what?”
His gaze dropped to the page again, but his voice stayed gentle. “Like the way your mouth does that when you’re trying not to complain.”
You froze—emotionally, not physically—caught in the exact crime he’d named.
“I’m not trying not to complain,” you said, offended on principle.
“Mm.” His eyes flicked up again, and the small smile finally made it all the way to his mouth. “You’re doing a good job.”
You held the pose and tried to look dignified, which was difficult when you were suddenly aware he could read you like this—could see the precise shape of your endurance, the exact angle of your sulk.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused quietly.
He sighed, the faintest sound—like a page turning. “I’m not enjoying you being uncomfortable.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But,” he admitted, so softly it almost melted into the scratch of charcoal, “I like when you do what I ask.”
Your stomach flipped so abruptly you almost lost the pose.
You blinked, buying yourself time with stillness. “Hyunjin.”
He didn’t look up, but you saw the pink rise in the tops of his ears like he’d betrayed himself.
“What,” he said, voice too casual for a man who’d just said that.
“You can’t just say things like that while I’m forced to be a statue.”
His lips twitched again. “Why not?”
“Because then I have to sit here,” you said, careful and low, “thinking about it.”
He finally looked up fully, and it was the kind of eye contact that made the room feel smaller. Not intense in a performative way. Intimate. Like he’d reached for you without moving his hands.
A quiet beat settled between you—charged and sweet and unbearably domestic, like the studio itself had leaned in to listen.
Then your leg trembled, betraying you, and the stool creaked.
Hyunjin’s eyes darted to it instantly, reflexive, protective. “Hey—”
“I didn’t move on purpose,” you protested, whispering like the light might scold you. “My muscles are revolting.”
He stood without thinking, crossing the room in two strides. He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell him—clean soap, faint paint, something warm and familiar that made your tiredness feel safe.
His hands came up, not touching you yet, hovering like he was asking permission with his palms.
“Are you okay?” he asked, quieter now. It wasn’t about the drawing anymore. It was about you.
You swallowed, suddenly less dramatic. “I’m fine. I’m just… tired.”
His eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache. He nodded once like he understood that kind of tired. Then he reached up and brushed his knuckles gently against your knee—barely there, a grounding touch.
“We can pause,” he said.
You stared at him. “But your project—”
“I’ll survive,” he said, voice firm in that tender way he got when he was deciding to take care of you. “I’m not sacrificing you to the midterm gods.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, relieved and small.
He leaned in, forehead almost to yours, close enough that your breath mingled. “You’ve been perfect,” he murmured. “I just need… one more look.”
“One more look?” you echoed.
He glanced at your face—not the pose, not the lines. You. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Because I keep thinking I’ve got you, and then I realize I’m missing the part that matters.”
Your throat tightened. “What part is that?”
Hyunjin’s mouth curved, soft in a way that looked almost reluctant—like he didn’t want to get distracted, but you were you.
He lifted his gaze properly then. The sunlight had shifted, catching your eyes head-on, and for a second you could feel it too—warm on your face, bright in your vision.
“That,” he said quietly.
You frowned. “That what?”
He exhaled a small laugh through his nose, like he was annoyed at himself for noticing. “Your eyes do this stupid thing when the light hits. They look… brighter. Like they’re holding it.”
You stilled, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how his voice dropped when he wasn’t performing for anyone.
“And I keep trying to get it right,” he added, glancing down at the page like he was blaming the paper for not cooperating. “But it keeps turning into something else.”
Your chest gave a small, inconvenient lurch. The stool creaked as you shifted without thinking, your legs finally protesting.
“Come here,” he said, and before you could make another joke to save yourself, he kissed you—slow and brief and gentle, like an apology wrapped in affection.
When he pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours.
“Better?” he asked.
You nodded, breath a little unsteady. “Better.”
“Good,” he murmured, and his thumb brushed your hip like a promise. “Because I really do want to finish.”
“And I really do want you to finish,” you said, then paused, realizing how that sounded.
Hyunjin’s eyes widened a fraction.
You stared at him, deadpan. “The drawing. I meant the drawing.”
He gave a breathy laugh, shoulders loosening. “Sure.”
“Hyunjin.”
“I’m kidding,” he said, but his smile was dangerous in the softest way. “Mostly.”
He stepped back toward the easel, but he didn’t fully let you go—his fingers stayed hooked lightly around yours as if he needed the contact to keep the room anchored.
“Five minutes,” he said, and this time it sounded like a promise made to both of you.
You huffed a laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I’m lucky you love me,” he corrected, and the way he said it was so casual it felt intimate anyway.
You squeezed his hand once, a silent yes, and let the afternoon light keep painting you into his world.
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