The Private Proposal
A few days after the new proposal photoshoot ended, a separate message arrived for Minjun. It was from one of the older members—the man who had always called Eunju his sister-in-law.
Minjun stared at the words for a long time. Sensitive to post on the bulletin board. He knew exactly what that meant.
Eunju watched his face from the other side of the dining table.
“What is it?”
Minjun couldn’t answer right away.
“There are a few photos that would be awkward to release publicly.”
“How awkward?”
He couldn’t turn the phone toward her. From that hesitation alone, Eunju already understood.
“Let me see them with you,” she said. “Don’t look alone.”
Minjun nodded and opened the images.
The first photograph captured Eunju sitting on the bench. The side slit of her skirt had fallen open deeper than expected. She had only shifted her legs for the briefest moment, yet the camera had seized that exact instant. Light slipping along her inner thigh, the faint edge of her underwear barely visible beneath the hem. It wasn’t overtly explicit, but it was impossible to ignore.
Eunju swallowed.
“So… it showed after all.”
Minjun had no reply.
The next image showed her leaning forward with her arms on the table, body slightly bent. The neckline of her knit top had drooped, and beneath the thin fabric the delicate contour of her breast was caught between light and shadow. At the time, Eunju hadn’t realized she was revealing that much. She had simply followed directions, resting her arms and turning her head. But the lens had seen differently. The men’s eyes had seen differently. In that fleeting second, they had captured an exposure she herself had not been aware of.
Eunju could not look away from the screen.
“Men really are…” Her voice slipped out, very small. “Terrifying.”
She called them terrifying, yet her tone held no pure disgust. They had waited on instinct—for the moment a skirt parted, for fabric to cling to skin, for the instant a woman let down her guard without realizing it. And they had preserved those moments in the name of photography.
Minjun’s fingers refused to swipe to the next image. They had gone rigid.
Eunju looked at him.
“Oppa.”
“Yeah.”
“If these people say they’ll delete them, will they really delete them?”
Minjun could not answer immediately. It was a question that left no room for lies. The photos had already been taken. The files had already passed through their cameras and computers. They could ask for deletion. They might receive confirmation that the files were gone. But there was no way to verify it. In the end, trust was all they had. And both of them knew how fragile that trust truly was.
Minjun spoke quietly.
“There’s no way to check.”
Eunju nodded.
“Of course not.”
“Still, if we tell them not to post them, we have no choice but to believe they won’t.”
“We’d only be pretending to believe.”
Minjun had nothing to say.
Eunju looked at the photos again. She felt uneasy—clearly, deeply uneasy. The knowledge that the edge of her underwear and the faint outline beneath thin knit remained inside someone else’s files. The certainty that even if she asked for deletion, she would never truly know whether they had been erased. Yet alongside the anxiety came another sensation: the awareness that her body had been captured before the men’s instincts. The realization that they had skillfully found the gaps she thought she had hidden. It was shameful, yet somewhere it stirred her pride.
She could not close the screen.
Minjun began to type a reply, then stopped. Eunju spoke.
“Tell him to delete them.”
He nodded. But she quickly added, “And ask him to send the files to us.”
Minjun looked at her. Eunju’s face was flushed as she stared down at the screen.
“I don’t like them staying with someone else.”
After a brief pause, she continued in an even softer voice.
“But… I don’t like not being able to see them, either.”
Minjun swallowed. Eunju was not rejecting the photographs. She was choosing. Some would be deleted. Others would be kept for only the two of them to see.
He sent the reply.
“Hyung, releasing them publicly would be difficult, so please delete them if possible. However, it would be good if you could send both the originals and the edited versions only to us.”
Minjun paused after reading the message. Completely private. Small group. Clearer concept. The words were gentle, but the intention was unmistakable. It meant going deeper than before. It meant wanting to photograph more intimate images of Eunju and Minjun from the start, with their explicit permission.
Eunju read his expression and asked, “What else did he say?”
After a long moment, Minjun answered.
“He’s suggesting a completely private concept shoot next time, with just a few people.”
Eunju said nothing. Her fingertips pressed hard against the edge of the phone.
“This concept…” Her voice had grown slightly hoarse. “It would be more revealing than this time, wouldn’t it?”
Minjun lowered his head, then lifted it again.
“Probably.”
Eunju studied his face. This time she looked not at the photos but at him, for a long time.
“What about you, oppa?”
“What about me?”
“Do you want to do it?”
Minjun could not answer immediately. The silence stretched. Eunju knew he was struggling not to lie.
He exhaled slowly.
“I know it’s a heavy suggestion.”
“Yes.”
“I know it’s dangerous, too.”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t want it, I will never do it.”
Eunju remained silent.
Minjun continued with difficulty.
“But to be honest…” His voice dropped lower. “Watching you stand in front of their lenses that day… I was shaken more than I expected.”
Eunju’s face burned.
“They were looking at you.”
Minjun clenched and unclenched his fist.
“They wore polite expressions for the camera, spoke courteously, but in the end they were waiting to see how far you would open up. I watched, knowing that.”
Eunju drew a shallow breath.
“Honestly, it scared me,” Minjun said. “But at the same time…”
He stopped, then refused to look away.
“It excited me.”
Eunju lowered her gaze. His confession was not crude, yet it left nowhere to hide.
“It felt like you were laid out like prey before those male lenses.” Minjun’s voice trembled. “But you didn’t run. You looked at me. You endured, knowing I was watching.”
“……”
“That… drove me insane.”
Eunju could not speak.
Minjun lowered his head.
“This proposal is the same.” He spoke with effort. “My mind is terrified. I know it means your photos will become even more intimate.”
“……”
“But deep inside, I’m imagining your most private places being recorded by those lenses.”
Eunju’s hand shook faintly.
“It’s so embarrassing and frightening, yet…” Minjun looked at her. “To be honest, I want it.”
The room fell silent.
Eunju looked at the photos on the screen once more—the thighs caught between skirt folds, the faint outline beneath thin knit, the relentless lenses that had seized those moments. And beside her sat the husband who had just confessed he wanted even deeper scenes.
She let out a slow breath.
“Don’t reply yet.”
Minjun nodded at once.
“All right.”
Eunju was quiet for a moment, then added, almost in a whisper.
“Not tonight.”
Minjun’s hand froze. Eunju did not close the photos. She knew what she had just said. She did not take it back.
That night, Eunju could not set her phone down for a long time. Minjun sent no reply either. The phone lying face-down on the table made no sound, yet it seemed to pulse between them, blinking with unspoken possibility.
Eventually Eunju spoke first.
“Oppa, about what that man said earlier.”
Minjun lifted his head.
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t replied yet, have you?”
“I haven’t.”
Eunju hesitated. She had thought telling him to refuse would feel easy. The words refused to come. The image of herself in those photographs still lingered—the line of her leg caught in the skirt slit, the faint shadow beneath the fabric when she leaned forward, the lenses that had captured moments even she had not noticed.
“Ask him,” she said softly, “what kind of concept he has in mind.”
Minjun looked at her.
“Just ask?”
“Yes.”
She averted her eyes. “I’m not saying we’ll do it.”
“I know.”
Minjun picked up his phone. His fingertips were stiff. Watching them, Eunju unconsciously held her breath.
He typed slowly.
Hyung, I’m curious exactly what you mean by the completely private concept shoot you mentioned. I think we need to know the intended level of exposure and the direction for wardrobe first.
After he pressed send, neither of them spoke for a long time. The reply did not come immediately. The short wait felt endless. Eunju picked up her water glass, then set it down again. She tried not to look at the phone but kept glancing back. Minjun did the same. They pretended otherwise, yet both waited for the same small screen.
Eunju read the message slowly. Every word was gentle—natural light, thin fabrics, feminine lines, silhouette, comfortable level. Yet she understood the direction those soft phrases created. The session would begin with her clothed, but eventually clothing would become an obstacle. Saying “covered with fabric” could also mean fabric replacing clothes. Mentioning shoulder and back lines coming alive also meant that much more skin would be revealed.
She asked quietly, “Covering with fabric…”
Minjun looked at her. She could not finish the sentence.
He finished it for her. “It could mean instead of clothes.”
Eunju pressed her lips together. The air in the room grew heavier.
“Then in the end,” she said, eyes on the screen, “it’s moving toward revealing more than before.”
Minjun did not answer at once. This time, too, he offered no denial. Eunju did not dislike the silence. It was better than a lie. Because there was no lie, the implication became painfully clear.
Eunju tried to feel reassured by the words. If uncomfortable, stop. No external release. Only for the two of you. They sounded sweet, like a fence around danger. Yet Minjun’s expression darkened further.
“Why?” she asked.
He set the phone down.
“Eunju, this isn’t simply a matter of going and stopping if you don’t like it.”
She looked at him.
“Why not?”
“Once a photo is taken, it doesn’t end there.” His voice was low. “Even if they say they’ll delete it, there’s no way to confirm they actually did. We can’t know if copies were made, or who they might have been sent to. Later, we might never find out.”
Eunju stayed silent.
He continued. “It was the same with the last set of photos. If we ask them to delete, we can only believe they did. We can’t verify it.”
The statement was too realistic. Eunju grew colder. The version of herself in those images suddenly carried new weight—the skin caught in the skirt slit, the faint outline beneath thin knit. The knowledge that such images could remain somewhere forever if someone chose not to delete them.
She said softly, “Then we simply don’t do it.”
Minjun did not nod at once. That hesitation touched her. She looked at him.
“Do you want to do it, oppa?”
He avoided her eyes, but not for long.
“I do have the desire,” he admitted at last.
Eunju held her breath.
Minjun looked down at his hands.
“Watching you stand in front of their lenses that day shook me deeply. I realized that even while they spoke politely, they were waiting to see how far you would reveal yourself. You knew it too. Yet you didn’t run.”
Eunju’s face burned. The words were not a reproach, yet her body flinched.
“You looked like prey placed before them.” His voice sank lower. “Before those male lenses. But at every moment you looked at me. You endured while confirming I was watching.”
Eunju could not speak.
Minjun exhaled with difficulty.
“It scared me. And to be honest… it excited me.”
The room fell quiet.
He added quickly, “That’s why I’m more afraid. Because I have those feelings, I have to be even more careful. I can’t entrust your safety to blind trust just because of my own desires.”
Eunju studied his face for a long time. Minjun did not hide his desire, yet he refused to use it as an excuse to push her. That restraint shook her more than anything.
“Deep down,” he continued with effort, “I imagine those lenses finding your lines even when you’re hidden behind fabric. I imagine your most intimate places being recorded as photographs. It’s so embarrassing and frightening, yet at the same time… I want it.”
Eunju lowered her head. His confession was explicit but never vulgar. He was not boasting about his desire; he was guarding himself against it.
After a long pause she asked, “Then what should we do?”
Minjun did not answer immediately. He had not settled on a final decision either, but he seemed to have drawn certain lines in his mind.
“If we do it, we cannot simply trust and proceed,” he said. “We need a contract.”
Eunju looked up.
“A contract?”
“Yes.” His voice grew firmer. “In writing, before the shoot. Absolute prohibition of any upload, transmission, sharing, backup, or portfolio use without your prior consent. We specify management of originals and edited files, immediate deletion upon request, and full civil and criminal liability plus damages for any violation.”
Eunju stared at him, slightly stunned.
“Do we really need to go that far?”
“We do.” Minjun answered without hesitation. “This is not a game. They are your photographs. Your body.”
At those words, Eunju closed her mouth.
He continued. “We must also define the shooting boundaries in advance. We cannot gradually increase exposure because the mood on set feels right. If they ask for anything beyond the line you permitted, it ends immediately. Even mid-shoot, if you say stop, it stops on the spot.”
Listening to him, Eunju felt a strange emotion. Minjun wanted to place her before those lenses, yet he was also holding her more tightly than anyone else. He wanted to send her, yet refused to let go.
She looked down at the phone. The other man’s messages remained soft—natural light, thin fabric, silhouette, comfortable line. Now she understood those words did not guarantee safety. They might slowly blur the lines instead. Yet her heart did not close completely.
“If he agrees to the contract?” she asked.
Minjun met her eyes. She could not look away.
“Then… we can consider it.”
Minjun remained silent for a long time. In that silence Eunju realized how dangerous her words had been. She did not retract them.
He slowly picked up the phone.
“I’ll send the conditions.”
Eunju nodded.
1. No upload, transmission, sharing, backup, or portfolio use of any images without Eunju’s explicit prior written consent.
2. Shooting range, wardrobe, and level of exposure must be agreed upon in advance and cannot be exceeded.
3. If Eunju expresses any wish to stop at any time during the shoot, filming must cease immediately.
4. Management, storage, deletion, and usage rights for originals and edited files shall be stipulated in a written contract.
5. Any violation will result in full civil and criminal liability as well as compensation for damages.
After he sent the message, the room grew quiet again. This time the reply did not come quickly. Eunju could not tell whether she hoped the silence meant rejection or acceptance. Rejection would make everything easier. If the other man withdrew, saying it was too much, she could simply nod as though nothing had happened. Yet at the same time, the thought of that door closing felt faintly disappointing.
Minjun remained silent as well. Even after setting the phone down, he could not tear his eyes from the screen.
A short while later, the reply arrived.
Eunju read the words and stopped breathing. One excuse had vanished. The reason to say it was too dangerous had grown smaller. The other man had not retreated. Instead, he had accepted every condition.
She looked at Minjun. He was already looking at her. Both of them understood.
From now on, the men were no longer pushing the story forward. It had become a question of how far Eunju would choose to walk on her own.