The top floor of the estate’s west wing had been transformed three weeks after Ji-won’s return from Maui.
It wasn't a secret. His brothers, in their typical overbearing fashion, had personally overseen the renovation the moment they discovered his interest in painting. Min-jun had hired an architectural firm to knock out the northern wall and install arched glass skylights, Ji-ho had implemented a climate-controlled ventilation system to safely clear the fumes of turpentine and oils, and Do-hyun had spent an absurd sum importing an entire gallery-grade easel setup from Florence.
Yet despite their eager involvement, they rarely intruded on the space. They knew Ji-won needed room to breathe, so the top floor remained his quiet sanctuary—a sun-drenched room smelling of linseed oil, fresh turpentine, and heavy cotton canvas.
Ji-won stood before a solid oak easel holding a half-finished oil painting, wearing an oversized sweater smeared with deep indigo, cadmium yellow, and burnt umber. His phone rested on a small wooden stool beside his paintbrushes, buzzing softly with a new notification.
[Maui Survivors Club (and the Turtle)]
Leo: JI-WON! Maya is currently trying to convince me that watercolor is superior to oil paint because of 'spontaneity'. Please tell her that oils have historical prestige!
Maya: WATERCOLOR REQUIRES DECISIVENESS, LEO! YOU CAN'T HIDE YOUR MISTAKES BEHIND THICK LAYERS OF PAINT LIKE A COWARD!
Do-hyun: [Custom Sea Turtle Sticker: DRAMATIC ARTISTIC DISPUTE!]
A soft laugh bubbled up from Ji-won’s chest as his thumb quickly flew across the screen.
Ji-won: Oils give you time to think and adjust. Watercolors force you to live with every stroke. They're just different philosophies.
Leo: SEE?! JI-WON IS A PHILOSOPHER ARTIST! THANK YOU, KING!
Maya: He literally validated BOTH of us, Leo, you illiterate turtle.
Ji-won set his phone back down, his smile lingering as he picked up a thin round brush. Painting was the one space where the overwhelming weight of his second life felt completely light. On campus, his brothers' impenetrable wall of security made him an intimidating ghost to his classmates, but here, surrounded by canvases, Ji-won belonged entirely to himself.
While his brothers had built the studio, only his mother truly understood what he painted. Mrs. Kang was the one who quietly managed the wing’s private elevator access, ensuring that when Ji-won was working, even his hyper-vigilant brothers wouldn't disturb his focus under the guise of dropping off snacks or checking his posture.
The faint chime of the private elevator arriving at the west wing landing made Ji-won pause mid-stroke.
He turned around, expecting to see his mother bringing her morning tea. Instead, the rich scent that drifted into the room was crisp rain, expensive leather, and sandalwood.
Ji-won’t breath hitched. The paintbrush rested loosely in his fingers.
Standing just inside the sunlit studio, draped in a dark charcoal overcoat with a heavy wooden package tucked under his arm, was Lu Sheng.
Ji-won blinked in utter disbelief, his eyes darting toward the empty elevator hallway behind him. "How... how did you get up to the west wing? Min-jun Hyung set up security checkpoints on the main driveway!"
"Your mother provided the private keycard bypass for the west wing elevator," Lu Sheng replied smoothly, his deep, velvety voice echoing off the glass skylights. His dark eyes swept over the room, taking in the grand easel Do-hyun had bought, the scattered paint tubes, and finally landing on Ji-won’s paint-stained sweater. A quiet, breathtaking warmth filled his expression. "She suggested I deliver this personally, provided I leave before your brothers finish their executive strategy meeting downstairs."
Lu Sheng stepped forward, setting the heavy package down on a low mahogany table. It was a custom-built, French-imported sketching box made of polished walnut, complete with rare pigment jars and handcrafted sable brushes.
"You... brought me art supplies?" Ji-won murmured, his pulse thumping a rapid rhythm against his ribs.
"Your mother mentioned that while your brothers built you a studio, you were still looking for the perfect pigments to match your vision," Lu Sheng said softly, closing the space between them until he stood just beside the easel. He looked down at the canvas—a rich, sweeping landscape of a sunlit shoreline that looked remarkably like the beaches of Maui, framed by dark, stormy waves coming in from the ocean.
Lu Sheng stood in silence for a long moment, staring at the brushstrokes with deep, uncompromising respect.
"You didn't just capture the light," Lu Sheng murmured, his voice dropping into a quiet, intimate register. "You captured the storm trying to break it."
Ji-won’s throat tightened, a warm flush creeping up his neck. "It's... just something I'm trying to finish."
"It isn't just a painting, Ji-won-ah," Lu Sheng turned his gaze onto Ji-won, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unyielding sincerity that held no demand, only admiration. "It is your voice. And it is stunning."
Lu Sheng reached out slowly, his warm thumb gently reaching up to wipe a tiny smudge of dark blue paint from Ji-won’s cheekbone. The fleeting touch sent a sharp, electric spark trailing straight down Ji-won's spine.
"I am not here to intrude on your sanctuary," Lu Sheng murmured, stepping back respectfully, his hands sliding back into his coat pockets. "Your mother made it clear that if I overstayed my welcome by even three minutes, she would personally inform Min-jun that I was standing in your studio."
A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped Ji-won’s lips. "She definitely would."
Lu Sheng offered a small, handsome curve of his lips—a look so genuinely warm it made Ji-won’s heart skip an unfamiliar beat. "Then I will take my leave. Keep the brushes, Ji-won-ah. Paint your storm. And when you are ready to let someone see the rest of your world... I will be waiting."
Lu Sheng turned and walked calmly back toward the private elevator, his footsteps fading down the corridor as quietly as he had arrived.
Ji-won stood alone in the sunlit studio, holding his palette tightly against his chest. He looked at the walnut paint box on the table, then back at his canvas, feeling a strange, wonderful warmth settling deep within his bones.