synopsis : you get the most beautiful text from an unknown number accidentally. that's it.
pairing : martin x f!reader ♡ contains : reader being hungry ♤ warning : shipping mars x ju for fun
a/n : i saw the first screenshot on instagram and felt like that's something martin would do and immediately got to making this lmao. probably one of my last posts before the most cruel heartbreaking hiatus cuz of my studies 🥲 genuinely disappointed in myself for not being able to finish mean boys and rock you like a hurricane in time. but this ain't the end, trust me. i'll try to update irregularly 🫡
SYNOPSIS : Your boyfriend takes you on a date to a drive-in movie, but you can hardly focus when he’s sat right next to you, watching you the entire time.
W.C : 5.0k
CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, lots of back to the future references (the best movie oat), established relationship, overprotective father, flirting, clichés, physical affection, confessions, pouting, kissing, fluff
PLAYLIST : Earth angel (will you be mine?) - Marvin Berry, The Starlighters; Waiting for a girl like you - Foreigner; Human nature - Michael Jackson; Take my breath away - Berlin; Don't you (forget about me) - Simple Minds; Every breath you take - The Police; Take on me - a-ha;
"I want you back by 10:30 sharp!" Your father's voice booms from the doorway, his finger pointed up at the sky like he's making a decree. You have your back to him, one foot already on the porch step, but you can feel the weight of his stare. "Not a minute later!"
"I know, I know." You mumble, turning briefly to kiss him goodbye on the cheek before heading down your porch steps, your sneakers soft on the concrete, the night air cool against your face.
"And you!" Your father's sharp voice follows you down the drive and you watch your boyfriend immediately straighten up under his pointed gaze. He's standing at the end of the path with a small bunch of flowers in his hand, trying very hard to look like he's never broken a rule in his life—like he didn’t once sneak you out in the middle of the night to go ‘God knows’ where for ‘God knows’ how long, as your father had described. “No funny business! You’re lucky after that stunt you pulled last time.”
Your face goes red hot, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks. "That was ages ago, Dad."
”Yes, sir.” Seonghyeon gave a small nod, and your dad held his gaze for a beat longer before grunting and stepping back inside. The door closes with a solid click. The porch light stays on, casting a pale yellow glow across the front steps, a reminder that someone is watching.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walk the rest of the way down the drive.
Seonghyeon was holding the flowers out before you even reached him. Store bought roses, you noticed, mixed with something white. You'd told him to stop stealing the cornflowers from Mrs. Park's garden after she'd gone on a neighbourhood-wide threatening spree, standing on her front porch with her hands on her hips, announcing to anyone within earshot that she would find out who kept stealing her flowers and she would 'deal with them'. You'd laughed about it at the time, but Seonghyeon had gone pale. He hadn't stolen anything since.
“Hi.” You say, taking the flowers, your finger’s briefly touching his.
"Hi, baby." He smiles, and his head tilts slightly as his eyes scan your face. You'd dressed up tonight, just a little: a nice dress from the back of your wardrobe that you never wear, and a cardigan that isn’t your mother’s for once. A small layer of make-up, too, just enough to cover the tiredness under your eyes. You didn't realise any of it made his heart beat faster, but you can see it now, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a second too long.
"You know you don't have to bring me flowers every time," you say, looking down at the roses. They're nice. Proper. The kind of flowers a girl's father might approve of. But something about them feels less like him, less like the boy who flicked your forehead daily and threw rocks at windows and handed you bent stems tied with kitchen string like they were made of gold.
He shrugs, easy, but there's something underneath it. "What kind of boyfriend wouldn't get his girlfriend flowers?"
You look up at him, at the way the porch light catches the edge of his jaw, at the small smile playing at his lips, and you realise he's nervous. Actually nervous. Like he's still trying to impress you, like nine months together hasn't made him any less scared of messing this up.
"They're nice," you say quietly. "Thank you."
His smile widens, just a little, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. "You're welcome."
He lingers there for a moment longer than necessary, warm against your skin, and then he drops his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket like he's trying to play it cool. Like you can't see the way his ears have gone pink at the tips.
"You look really nice," he says, quieter this time, as though he's not sure he should say it out loud.
You feel your face warm and look down at the flowers, turning them in your hands. The paper crinkles softly. "We should go. Before my dad changes his mind and comes back out here."
Seonghyeon glances toward the front door, and the memory of the last time your dad caught you trying to sneak back in flickers through his mind.
"Good point," he says, and moves to open the passenger door. "After you."
You climb in, settling onto the worn vinyl seat, and he closes the door behind you. You set the flowers carefully on your lap, arranging them so they won't get crushed, and watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield.
He moves easy, one hand trailing along the hood as he passes. The streetlight catches his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and you catch yourself staring, looking away before he catches you.
He slides into the driver's seat, and the car dips slightly under his weight. The door closes, and suddenly the world shrinks to just the two of you, the dark, and the low rumble of the engine.
"Can't believe your dad let you use his car again," you comment, watching him reach for the radio dial.
"Used my charm." He doesn't look at you, just clicks his seatbelt into place with a quiet snap after finding the station he wanted. "Seems to work. It won you over too, didn't it?"
"You're so annoying." You roll your eyes, but you're already pulling your own seatbelt across your chest, the metal latch clicking into place. He watches you do it; his eyes tracking your hands, your shoulders, the way your hair falls across your face. You feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.
"What?" you say.
"Nothing." He turns back to the wheel, starts to pull away from the curb. "Just looking."
"You're always looking."
"Hard not to."
You shove his arm. He laughs, low and warm, and the car rolls forward into the night.
The radio crackles through the speakers, searching for a signal before it lands on one of the local stations, the one you know Seonghyeon adores because it plays nothing but love songs from dusk until dawn. The instrumental of 'Waiting for a Girl Like You' by Foreigner fills the silence, the song familiar and soft, the same one he'd put on a mixtape for you months ago. The one you'd played so many times the tape started to wear thin.
He reaches over and turns it down, just enough that it sits underneath everything else: a quiet heartbeat beneath the sound of the engine and the rush of air through the cracked windows.
Streetlights pass overhead in rhythm, painting the inside of the car in orange and shadow, orange and shadow. You watch his profile for a while: the way his jaw moves when he swallows, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel in time with the song, the way his hair falls across his forehead and he doesn't push it back because he knows you'll do it for him later.
"You're staring," he says, his eyes still on the road.
"I'm looking out the window."
"My face is not a window."
You laugh, soft, and turn to face forward, watching the neighbourhood slip by. Houses become fewer, trees become thicker, and the lights of the city grow smaller in the rearview mirror until they're nothing but a warm glow on the horizon.
The car pulls into the drive-in just as the sky finishes its fade from blue to black. Rows of cars are already scattered across the lot, facing the massive screen that looms at the far end, pale and blank and waiting. Headlights cut through the dark as people find their spots, and somewhere in the distance, someone's radio is playing something you can't quite make out.
Seonghyeon finds a spot near the back, far enough from the other cars that you have your own space, close enough that you can still see the screen clearly. He backs in smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder. The car settles into place, and he kills the engine.
The silence that follows is sudden. Heavy. The radio hums quietly, still tuned to the right frequency, the movie's audio not quite started yet. Just static, soft and waiting.
He doesn't move. Just sits there, one hand still on the wheel, the other moving to rest on the console between you. His thumb traces slow circles on the vinyl.
You look at him. His face is half-lit from the dashboard, half in shadow, and his eyes are on the screen, but he's not really watching it. You can tell by the way his jaw is set, the way his breathing is slow and deliberate.
"What?" you ask.
He turns to look at you. "Nothing."
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you pretend you're not thinking about something."
He smiles, just slightly, and reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Maybe I'm just thinking about you," he says.
"That's so corny."
"You love it."
Before you can respond, the movie crackles to life, Seonghyeon quickly reaching over to switch off the radio entirely as you adjust into your seat. The speakers on the post beside the car hum with static for a moment, then clear, the familiar Universal logo appearing on the massive screen in front of you.
Back to the Future.
You've seen it before—twice, maybe three times—but you don't mind. You settle back into the seat, tucking your legs up beneath you, the flowers now resting on the dashboard between you.
Seonghyeon shifts beside you, one arm draping against the headrest of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He's not looking at the screen. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady.
"Marty's late again," you say, nodding toward the screen.
"Mm."
"You're not watching."
"I'm watching you watch it."
You turn to look at him. His face is soft in the glow from the screen, the light shifting with each scene, painting him in blues and whites and the occasional flash of colour. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.
"You're so weird," you say.
"You're just noticing?"
You laugh, quiet, and reach into the bag of snacks you brought: crisps, chocolate, two bottles of Coke that are already going warm. You pull out the chocolate, break off a piece, and hold it up to his mouth.
He looks at it. Then at you. Then opens his mouth just enough for you to feed it to him, his lips brushing your fingers as he takes it.
"Good?" you ask.
He chews slowly, watching you the whole time. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Yeah."
You break off another piece for yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating. On the screen, Marty McFly is skateboarding, weaving through traffic, late for school. You've seen this part before. You know what happens next. But somehow, with his arm around your shoulder and his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve, it feels different.
"You're staring," you say.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady, like a hand cupping your cheek. He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours and his breath warm on your cheek.
"So?" he says.
You turn to face him properly, ready with a retort, and find him closer than you expected. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and you can see the moment his gaze drops to your mouth.
"Seonghyeon—"
He kisses you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you feel it everywhere: the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your scalp, the way he tilts your head just slightly to deepen the kiss.
You forget what you were going to say. You forget the movie. You forget the other cars, the other people, the whole world outside this small space. There's just him. His mouth on yours. The quiet sound he makes when your fingers curl into the front of his jacket to pull him closer. The way his thumb traces the curve of your jaw like he's memorising the shape of you.
His lips are warm, familiar, and they move against yours with an ease that comes from months of practice. But despite all of that, it still feels new. Still feels like the first time, a little. Still makes your chest ache in the best way.
He tastes like chocolate and something else, something that's just him, and it's the taste of someone you know better than anyone. You want to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in the dark of the car with the movie playing forgotten and the whole world reduced to the space between his lips and yours
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow. The movie plays on, forgotten: someone on screen is shouting about plutonium, about the future, about something that doesn't matter. Someone laughs somewhere in the distance, and a car door closes, and the speakers crackle with static, but none of it matters. None of it exists.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi."
He smiles. That smile. The one that won you over from the very beginning.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Was that distracting you from the movie?"
You shove his chest, but there's no force behind it. Your hand lingers there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "You're impossible."
"You say that." He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and soft, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin. "But you still haven’t gotten rid of me."
You settle back against him, your head finding its usual spot against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like it belongs there, his thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric of your dress. On the screen, Marty plays guitar, too loud, too fast, and Doc Brown's lab fills with smoke and light.
You watch it, but you're not really watching it. You're watching the way Seonghyeon’s chest rises and falls. You're watching the way the light from the screen catches his profile. You're watching the way his thumb moves, slow and steady, like it's keeping time with something only he can hear.
"Hey," he says quietly.
"Mm?"
"I'm glad you came."
You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. His skin is warm and you feel the muscle twitch under your lips when you do it, before turning back to continue watching, his arm tightening around you.
The movie eventually reaches one of your favourite scenes, of which you have many: the one where Marty's dad is trying to ask out Marty’s mother, stumbling over every word, face flushed, hands trembling.
‘Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.’
You feel Seonghyeon shift beside you, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusts his position. His arm, which had been draped loosely around your shoulders, tightens just slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb, which had been tracing idle patterns on your sleeve, stills.
You glance at him. He's not watching the screen. He's watching you.
"What?" You whisper, not wanting to break the quiet of the moment.
"Nothing." His voice is low, almost lost beneath the dialogue from the movie. "Just... you like this scene? You’re smiling."
You nod, turning back to the screen. "It's sweet. He's so nervous, but he tries anyway. Even though he thinks he's going to mess it up."
‘I’m George, George McFly. You’re density. I mean, your destiny.’
You don't even realise it, but your lips form a small pout when listening to him speak on screen: the way he stumbles over the words, the way his voice cracks just slightly and he can barely even get a word out.
Seonghyeon makes a quiet sound beside you and you feel his thumb start moving again, tracing slow circles on your shoulder.
"You look cute pulling that face," you hear him say.
You turn to look at him. His hand reaches up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb gently touches the corner of your mouth. The pad of his finger is warm, slightly rough, and it lingers there for a moment, tracing the curve of your lip where it's still pressed into that small pout.
"What face?" you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, muffled slightly by his thumb.
"This one." He presses his finger against your bottom lip, just barely, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch, wanting to smile. "The one where you're all soft and focused and you don't even know I'm looking at you."
You don’t know what to say, the feeling of his thumb on your lip ridding you of any logical thought.
“You used to do it before we started dating too.” You watch him smile softly, the memories of the two of you sitting next to each other in class flashing through his mind.
“I always knew you were looking at me.” You finally say.
His thumb stills from its tiny movements, and his eyes bore into yours, like he was trying to read if you were bluffing or not. “So why didn’t you do anything?”
“Because,” you shrug, turning back to face the screen, the movie flashing through. “I wanted to see if you were brave enough to ask me out yourself. Even if you stumbled over every word like George McFly, I still would have given you a chance.”
He's quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on.
Then he laughs, a breath of a sound that you feel more than hear.
“I was so nervous.” He finally says, glancing down at his lap briefly. "I was so scared I was going to mess it up. That I'd say the wrong thing, or freeze, or—" He stops, swallows. "That you would say no. But not saying anything would have been worse. Not knowing would have been worse."
You turn to him, blinking in surprise. "Seonghyeon," you say slowly. "You asked me out behind the bleachers."
"I know."
"You kissed me before I could even finish saying 'yes'."
"I know that too." He's smiling now, small and almost shy, like he's remembering it the same way you are. The way he'd been standing there when you rounded the corner, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair messy from practice. The way he'd looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
"You were so confident," you say.
He laughs and shakes his head, "I was terrified." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. "I just didn't want you to know."
The pout quickly returns to your face as you watch him, your heart sinking at the thought of you making your confident boyfriend so nervous. All this time, you'd thought he was calm, collected, completely sure of himself. But he'd been scared. He'd been terrified. And he'd done it anyway.
You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough from the faintest hint of stubble, and you feel the small exhale he lets out: a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then you settle back onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck fitting perfectly against your temple.
His arm tightens around you immediately, like he was waiting for you to come back, like the few seconds you were gone were seconds too long. His hand moves to settle on your waist, fingers spread wide, and you feel the warmth of him seep through your dress.
"Hey," he says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.
"Mm?”
"You're not allowed to feel bad about that."
"I'm not feeling bad."
"You're pouting again."
You press your lips together, trying to stop. It doesn't work. "I'm not."
"You are." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I can feel it."
You're quiet for a moment, watching the movie without really seeing it. All you can think about is him. About the boy who stood behind the bleachers with his heart in his throat and asked you out anyway.
"I would have said yes," you say softly. "Even if you'd stumbled. Even if you'd forgotten every word. Even if you'd just stood there looking at me like an idiot. I still would have said yes."
His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel his cheek press against the top of your head.
"I know," he says, and his voice is thick, barely above a whisper. "I know that now."
The movie plays on. The night settles around you, dark and warm. And you stay there, tucked against his side, his heart beating under your ear, steady and real.
"You were worth the nerves," he says after a while.
You tilt your head up, looking at him. His face is soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.
"Yeah?" you ask.
"Yeah." He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. "You always have been."
You smile, and he smiles back, and then you both turn back to the screen, the lights flickering against both your faces.
The scene changes, the clock tower fades, and suddenly the screen is filled with the soft glow of the dance. Streamers hang from the ceiling in shades of blue and silver, and the band is playing something slow.
‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine?’
"My favourite part," you murmur, not even realising you've said it out loud.
"Yeah?" His voice is low, close to your ear.
"Mm. When George finally kisses her. When he stops being scared and just... does it."
On screen, George is dancing with Lorraine on the dance floor, his face set with determination, his hands trembling whilst the music swells.
‘My darling dear, love you all the time’
You feel Seonghyeon's hand slide from your waist to your chin, tilting your face up toward his and this thumb starts brushing your cheek. His eyes are dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you.
"What?" you whisper.
He glances at the screen, where George is leaning in, where Lorraine is waiting, where everything is about to change. Then he looks back at you.
“I was terrified of our first kiss too…” He whispers, barely audible over the movie, “but not enough to stop me from trying.”
Your heart stutters.
On screen, George kisses Lorraine. The music swells. The audience cheers. And in the darkness of the car, with the glow of the movie painting everything in soft blues and silver, Seonghyeon leans in and kisses you.
It's soft. Slow. His hand moves to cup the back of your head, sifting through the strands of your hair. You tilt your head slightly and feel his breath catch against your lips, a small sound that he swallows before it can escape.
His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he's anchoring himself to you. His thumb traces the curve of your skull, slow and absent, and you shiver despite the warmth of the car, despite the heat of his body pressed against yours. The leather of his jacket is cool under your hands where you've gripped the collar, and you feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, through his shirt, through the space where your chest presses against his.
‘I'm just a fool,’
The song drifts through the speakers, soft and distant, barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat, over the quiet exhale of his breath, over the soft slide of his lips against yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world—like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Like this moment, right here, is exactly where he's supposed to be.
His hand on your waist shifts, fingers spreading wide against your hip, and he pulls you closer until there's no space left between you, until your ribs are aligned with his despite the gearshift’s attempts to separate you, until you can feel every breath he takes.
When he finally pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he's having to remind himself to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow, your breath mingling with his in the small space between you.
‘A fool in love with you’
"See?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the fading song. "Not so scary after all."
You laugh, soft and breathless, the sound strange and bright in the darkness of the car and he just watches you with that look. The one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes everything else fall away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, something that looks like awe and wonder, like he can't quite believe you're real.
You lean in and kiss him again.
This time, it's slower. Sweeter. His lips part under yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, like your mouth was made to fit against his. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious and it makes your stomach flutter.
The movie continues. George wins the girl, and Marty makes it back to the future… or present, or was it—it doesn't really matter. Not when his thumb is tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you. Not when his breath is warm against your lips, slow and steady, matching yours without either of you trying. Not when the world outside this car has shrunk to nothing, faded to static, disappeared entirely.
On screen, the DeLorean disappears in a flash of light and fire, the movie ending in a cliff hanger. Someone shouts. Someone cheers. The credits begin to roll, music swelling, names scrolling up the screen in white text.
Neither of you notice.
His forehead presses against yours again, and his eyes are closed, and his hand is still cupping your face like you're something worth holding onto. You watch him for a moment: how his lips are still slightly parted whilst his chest rises and falls beneath your palm where your hand rests against his heart.
"Seonghyeon," you whisper.
He opens his eyes. They're dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you. "Yeah?"
"The movie's over."
He glances at the screen, then back at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. "So?"
"So..." You smile, and you feel his thumb brush the corner of your mouth, catching the curve of it. "Aren't you going to take me home?"
He's quiet for a moment. The credits keep rolling, the music keeps playing, and somewhere behind you, car engines are starting up, headlights flickering on, people beginning to leave.
"No," he says finally.
You blink. "No?"
"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Not yet."
"Seonghyeon, I have a curfew."
"I know."
"My dad will kill you."
"I know that too." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's that smile again—the one that's gotten him into trouble more times than you can count, the one that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "But I'm not ready to take you home yet."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You should argue. You should remind him of the last time you were late, of the way your dad had stood on the porch with his arms crossed, of the five weeks Seonghyeon hadn't been allowed within thirty feet of your house.
But he's looking at you like that, and his hand is warm on your face, and the night is dark and soft and full of something that feels like possibility.
"Five more minutes," you say.
His smile widens. "Ten."
"Seven."
"Deal."
He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, settling against his chest. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.
The credits finish. The screen goes dark. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio he had turned on after the credits finished and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.
"Baby," he says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"You’re my density."
You tilt your head up, look at him. His face is soft in the darkness, his eyes steady on yours like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.
"And you’re mine," you say.
And you stay there, tangled up together, watching the empty screen, not watching anything at all. The night stretches on around you, dark and endless, and the world feels very far away.
Seven minutes, you think. But you know, even as you think it, that you're not going to remind him when the time's up.
SYNOPSIS :: Following your campers locking you and Seonghyeon in a closet together, you try to pretend he doesn't exist, but Seonghyeon and your two cabins of relentless matchmakers have other plans.
W.C :: 4.6k
CONTAINS :: campcounselor!seonghyeon, a spinoff of mr and mrs camp counselor, the campers are menaces, stubborn reader, crack, fluff, angst if you squint, the love bomb, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Tongue tied - grouplove; It’s not living (if it’s not with you) - the 1975; Slide away - Oasis; You are the right one - Sports
It had been exactly one day since the storage closet incident that saw you and Seonghyeon finally confess that there was something between you both.
When the two of you were freed from the makeshift prison you had attempted to give the campers a thorough talking to. Really, you had.
You'd marched them all to the main lodge, mustered your most authoritative counselor voice, and launched into a speech about boundaries, respect, and the importance of not locking people in confined spaces.
They'd stood there in a ragged semicircle, faces arranged in expressions of performative contrition—and then one of them had pointed at your hair and whispered, "It's still there."
Another had started giggling, then another.
Within thirty seconds, the entire group had devolved into helpless laughter, tears streaming down their faces as they pointed at the glitter still stubbornly clinging to your part, your temples, the collar of your counselor polo, all the while you tried to maintain your composure.
Then you'd glanced at Seonghyeon, who had somehow gotten it worse: his entire left shoulder sparkled like a disco ball, and there was a particularly stubborn cluster of purple flakes stuck to his eyebrow, and you'd lost it too.
The "talking to" had devolved into all of you laughing so hard the camp director had come outside to check if someone was dying.
Safe to say, you deemed the whole thing a wash and the lecture was officially canceled. The campers had won yet again.
And so, in your own stubborn and unrelenting methods of punishment , you refused to allow the campers to see you interact with Seonghyeon at all in the hopes that eventually the campers would stop being so persistent.
It was petty, sure, but seeing their faces: the way their eyes would light up whenever you so much as glanced in his direction, and they'd scramble for that ridiculous notebook, then they'd start narrating your every move like you were characters in their personal drama—it all made you want to scream.
So you'd decided: no interaction, no eye contact, no accidental hand brushes, no standing within ten feet of each other. No anything that could be documented, analysed, or turned into another entry in Operation Summer Romance.
You were going to starve them of content.
It was a brilliant plan. Foolproof. Diabolical, even.
It lasted approximately one day before collapsing.
You had started the morning off strong, positioning yourself on the complete opposite end of the counselor’s dining table to Seonghyeon, as far away from him as physically possible.
The campers noticed immediately, and you watched their faces drop, eyes darting between the two of you.
"Why is she sitting so far away?"
"Is she... avoiding him?"
"Why would she avoid him? They were literally trapped in a closet together yesterday."
"Maybe she's embarrassed."
"Maybe he did something wrong."
"He wouldn't do anything wrong. He's perfect."
"Nobody's perfect."
"He is. He's perfect for her."
You stabbed your oatmeal with unnecessary force.
Seonghyeon, at the opposite end of the table, was pointedly not looking at you. You could tell he was trying not to look at you. His eyes kept drifting in your direction, then snapping away, like he was fighting a physical urge.
It was kind of adorable, but you weren't going to think about that.
The whispers continued as breakfast finished up, it was only natural for them to speculate anyways, they had quite literally witnessed you two fall into each other laughing upon your release from the closet. The sudden switch up from "they're obviously in love" to "she won't even look at him" was jarring, even for the most dedicated investigators, especially considering both you and Seonghyeon still had the remnants of glitter dusted across you, so what could have possibly happened in that short time period?
You could feel their confusion radiating from the other side of the dining hall like a physical force.
Eventually you pushed your bowl away, your oatmeal a lost cause.
Standing up, you collected your tray and turned to your campers, who were still huddled together, watching you with the intensity of hawk-eyed detectives.
"Clean up," you said firmly. "We have archery in twenty minutes. I don't want to hear any excuses about being late."
Your campers exchanged glances. They clearly wanted to ask more questions and demand answers, but something in your tone made them hold their tongues for now.
You walked toward the tray return, keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead. You could feel Seonghyeon's eyes on you from across the room, the weight of his attention like a physical presence, warm and steady and impossible to ignore.
You didn't look back, you refused to.
That afternoon you were walking back from the archery range when you saw him coming the other way, flanked by his campers. The path was narrow, there was nowhere to go, and you were going to have to pass him.
You squared your shoulders and lifted your chin, prepared to walk past him like he was a stranger, a complete non-entity, someone you'd never met in your entire life—
"Counselor Y/N."
His voice stopped you in your tracks.
You turned to see his campers watching with barely contained glee. Your campers were watching from a distance, having somehow materialised out of thin air the moment they sensed an impending interaction.
"Yes?" You said, keeping your voice flat.
Seonghyeon smiled that soft, private smile that was only ever for you. "You have something in your hair."
"Really."
"Really."
"Let me guess, glitter?"
"Purple."
You reached up. Your fingers brushed against a cluster of stubborn sparkles still clinging to your part. You tried to pull them out, but they were completely stuck despite your insistence.
One of Seonghyeon’s campers squealed quietly, barely able to contain her excitement as she watched Seonghyeon’s smile turn even fonder than it already had been, "He's going to help her."
"He's going to touch her hair." Another responded, swinging the arm of the camper beside them in uncontrolled glee.
Seonghyeon stepped closer, his hand already reaching out towards you. "Do you want—"
"I've got it," you said quickly, far too quickly. "I'm fine. Thank you."
You turned and walked away, continuing your trek down towards the camp. Behind you, the campers gasped. "She walked away!"
"He looks so confused." Your camper whispered behind her hand, watching Seonghyeon carefully from a distance. The crowd of kids surrounded him like concerned bodyguards, all of them tracking his every micro-expression following the... rejection, if you could even call it that.
"He looks hurt."
"She hurt his feelings."
One of the younger campers pouted dramatically, her lower lip wobbling as if she'd personally been rejected. "Why would she do that? They were so happy yesterday."
"Maybe she's playing hard to get."
"What do we do? We can’t let this stand." Seonghyeon’s camper declared, shaking his head dramatically.
"We'll fix it, somehow."
“How???”
What every single one of them failed to notice, in their mass whispers of shock and concern, was the smirk that now rested on Seonghyeon's lips as he watched you go.
He had worked out almost immediately what you were doing. The moment you'd sat at the opposite end of the breakfast table, refused to make eye contact, and now walked away from him on the path—he'd seen right through it.
You weren't rejecting him.
You were testing him, or rather, you were testing yourself. You were trying to prove that you could resist him, that you could keep things professional, that the campers hadn't already won.
It was absolutely adorable, and also completely, utterly futile.
He watched you disappear around the bend, your shoulders still squared with your chin still lifted and your hair still glittering with purple sparkles that caught the afternoon light like tiny stars. You were trying so hard to be strong, distant, and untouchable.
But he knew you.
He'd known you for three summers. He'd watched you comfort homesick campers at midnight and laugh so hard at a camper's joke that you'd snorted juice out of your nose.
He'd even watched you fall in love with him—just as he'd fallen in love with you.
This little performance of yours wasn't going to last, he'd make sure of it.
"You know," he said, not turning around to face his campers, "she's very stubborn."
"Yeah, we noticed."
"She's SOOOOO stubborn."
"Stubborn enough to walk away from true love."
Seonghyeon chuckled. "She's also very determined. Once she decides on something, she doesn't give up easily."
"Is that supposed to be a good thing?"
"It is when she's determined about the right things." A camper pointed out.
"And right now, she's determined about the wrong thing."
"Don't worry," Seonghyeon said, finally turning to face his campers. His smirk had softened into something warmer and more certain. "She'll come around."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know her." He tucked his hands into his pockets, already planning his next move. "And because I'm very, very patient."
"Patient for what?"
"For her."
The campers exchanged glances. Then, slowly, their expressions shifted from despair to hope, realising they had maybe underestimated their counselor.
That evening, you found yourself back in the boys' cabin.
It wasn't by choice, exactly. The glitter situation in the storage closet had become a genuine hazard—campers were tracking purple sparkles everywhere, and you'd drawn the short straw when it came to cleanup duty. So there you were, knee-deep in craft supplies, trying to contain the chaos that your campers had unleashed.
The irony was not lost on you.
You were just reaching for a particularly stubborn cluster of glitter that had somehow migrated to the ceiling when you heard footsteps behind you: the soft tread of sneakers on wooden floorboards that were familiar and unmistakable.
"I'm not talking to you," you said without turning around.
"I didn't say anything," Seonghyeon replied.
"Your presence is saying plenty."
"My presence?"
"Yes. It's very... present."
He laughed warmly, making your stomach flip. You'd heard that laugh a hundred times before, but somehow it still managed to catch you off guard and make your heart do that annoying little skip it had been doing for three summers now.
You refused to acknowledge it.
"I was just passing by," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "I didn't realise you'd be in here."
"Liar."
"Excuse me?"
"You're a terrible liar, Seonghyeon. You always have been." You finally turned to face him, still holding the glitter container like a shield. "You knew I'd be here. One of your campers told you, didn't they?"
He had the decency to look slightly caught out. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit you'd noticed years ago, one that he only ever did around you.
"Maybe," he admitted.
"Maybe?"
"Okay, yes. Jungwoo mentioned it during free period. He said you were 'on a glitter crusade' and that I should 'seize the opportunity.'"
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "They're coaching you now?"
"They're very invested."
"They're meddling."
"They prefer the term 'facilitating.'"
"Seonghyeon."
"Y/N."
You stared at each other across the small cabin. The evening light slanted through the windows, catching the glitter dust still floating in the air like tiny purple stars. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Somewhere further away, campers shouted and laughed and continued their endless chaos.
But in here, it was just the two of you.
"I'm doing this for a reason," you said.
"Which is?"
"The campers. They're watching us all the time, and if we give them any more material, they're going to—" You gestured vaguely. "—do something. I don't know what. Something worse than the closet."
"Worse than the closet?"
"Yes. They're creative and unhinged. They have that stupid notebook, for god’s sake."
Seonghyeon took a step toward you. "So your solution is to pretend I don't exist?"
"It's a temporary measure."
"For how long?"
"Until they lose interest."
He raised an eyebrow. "They're not going to lose interest."
"They will eventually."
"Y/N. They've been watching us for weeks. They locked us in a closet. They have a Venn diagram." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of colour in his eyes. "They're not losing interest."
You swallowed. "So what do you suggest?"
He reached up, very slowly, very deliberately, and brushed a cluster of purple glitter from your hair, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I suggest we stop pretending," he said quietly. "They already know. Everyone already knows. The only people who don't seem to know are us."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.
You opened your mouth to respond, deflect, argue, do anything other than admit that he was right, and then you heard it.
A soft gasp from behind you. Barely audible, but unmistakable.
Your eyes widened. You started to turn to see who was there and had been watching, ready to question how long they'd been listening—
But Seonghyeon's hands were suddenly on your cheeks, cupping your face, gently but firmly holding you still. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, warm and steady, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"Don't turn around," he murmured.
"Seonghyeon."
"Don't."
"Seonghyeon, I—"
"Just look at me." His voice was soft, almost pleading. "Please. Just look at me."
You wanted to argue and pull away to see who was at the window and put an end to whatever scheme the campers had cooked up this time.
But his hands were so warm, his eyes were so steady, and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the world, like nothing else mattered, like the campers could be watching or not and it wouldn't change a single thing—made it impossible to move.
"Seonghyeon," you said again, and this time your voice came out as a warning, low and threatening. The kind of voice you used when campers were about to do something stupid.
He just tilted his head, his expression entirely innocent. His eyelashes fluttered and he smiled so softly you felt your heart clench.
"Yes?" He asked, his voice dripping with false sweetness.
You stared at him and he stared back, completely unrepentant.
Despite everything surrounding you at this moment, you felt the fight drain out of you.
You sighed, a long, defeated exhale that seemed to come from somewhere deep in your soul. "You're impossible," you said.
"I know."
"This is exactly what they want."
"I know."
"And you're just... going to give it to them?"
He smiled, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks. "I'm not doing it for them," he said quietly. "I'm doing it for us."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Seonghyeon..."
"Y/N." His forehead touched yours. "I've been waiting for three summers. I've been patient. I've been professional. I've been careful." He let out a soft breath. "I'm tired of being careful."
"You're tired of being careful?"
"I'm tired of pretending I don't want to kiss you every time you laugh at one of my jokes, and watching you walk away and not following. I'm tired of—" He stopped, his voice catching slightly. "I'm tired of loving you from a distance."
Your breath caught. "Seonghyeon..."
"I know the campers are watching." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I know they're going to make this into a whole thing and we're never going to hear the end of it." He smiled, soft and warm. "But I don't care."
"They’re going to actually plan our wedding."
"I figured."
"Seonghyeon."
"Y/N."
He was so close. His hands were on your face, his forehead was against yours, and somewhere behind you, through the window, a dozen campers were watching with bated breath.
But in this moment none of it mattered.
"You're not worried?" You whispered.
"Not even a little," he whispered back, his lips curving into a smile.
And then, before you could overthink it, you surged forward and kissed him.
His lips were warm, slightly chapped from the summer sun, the way they always were this time of year, and you'd noticed that detail a hundred times before without ever admitting it to yourself. You'd noticed the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking, the way he licked them before he smiled, the way they curved around words that made you laugh.
But you'd never let yourself imagine what they'd feel like against yours.
Now you knew.
His hands were still cupping your face, and as you kissed him, his thumbs traced slow, reverent circles across your cheekbones. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that it made your chest ache with something you couldn't quite name.
You felt his breath hitch against your lips—a soft, surprised sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands then slid from your cheeks into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, pulling you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.
Which, you realised with a jolt, he had.
Three summers. Three years of stolen glances and accidental touches and breakfast cleanup shifts, three years of watching you from across the dining hall, of finding excuses to be near you, of loving you from a distance.
And now, finally, finally, you were here.
The kiss deepened, and you felt his body press against yours—warm and solid and real. His chest against your chest, his hands in your hair, his lips moving against yours with a slowness that felt almost deliberate.
You reached up, your fingers finding the collar of his counselor polo. You tugged him closer, and he made a soft sound against your lips—a sound that was half laugh, half sigh, entirely content.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips parted slightly.
"Y/N," he whispered, and your name sounded softer on his lips now.
"I'm here," you whispered back.
He opened his eyes. They were bright, warm, filled with something that made your heart stutter in your chest. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he said.
"I know."
"You know?"
"You signed up for breakfast cleanup on your off days for three summers, Seonghyeon. I wasn't oblivious." You smiled, your fingers still tangled in his collar. "I was just..."
"Scared?"
"Patient."
"You're not patient. You're stubborn."
"Same thing."
He laughed and pressed his forehead more firmly against yours. "I love you," he said quietly. "I've loved you for three summers, and I'm tired of pretending I don't."
"I know."
"Say it back."
"Seonghyeon."
"Say it back," he repeated, and his voice was soft but insistent. "Please."
You looked at him, seeing his warm eyes and his soft smile and the single purple glitter flake still clinging to his eyebrow. He was the man who had been waiting for you for three summers, who had signed up for shifts he didn't need and duties he didn't want, who had loved you from a distance and never once given up.
"I love you too," you said.
His smile was the brightest thing you'd ever seen. "Say it again."
"I love you too."
"Again."
"Seonghyeon."
"Again."
You laughed, pulling him closer. "I love you. I love you. I love you." You pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth. "Is that enough?"
"Not even close," he murmured, and then he was kissing you again: deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world.
Behind you, the campers erupted.
“THEY’RE KISSING!!!” One shouted as the two campers beside her screamed and covered their eyes, trying to erase the sight from their memories.
“WE DID IT!”
“OPERATION SUMMER ROMANCE IS COMPLETE!”
You felt Seonghyeon smile into the kiss as the campers voices filtered in through the cracks of the window, the sun shhining bright onto the grounds. Maybe it was time to give in and accept that the campers were victorious, though if it meant you got to kiss Seonghyeon more often, you weren’t going to complain.
EXTRA ::
The sun hung low and golden over the lake, casting long shadows across the water as the final afternoon of camp drew to a close. The air was thick with the scent of pine and sunscreen and the bittersweet weight of endings. Summer was almost over, the campers would leave tomorrow, the cabins would empty, the laughter would fade into memory.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
You stood at the edge of the dock, the wooden boards warm beneath your bare feet. The water lapped gently against the pilings, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. Beside you, Seonghyeon's hand was warm in yours, his fingers laced through yours like they'd always been there.
The campers were gathered on the shore, a chaotic cluster of cabin shirts and sunburned noses and glitter-covered notebooks. They'd been watching you both all week—following you around like ducklings, documenting your every interaction, adding to their ever-growing collection of evidence that you were now, officially, a couple.
"Are you ready?" Seonghyeon asked softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the campers' chatter.
You turned to look at him. The golden light caught the edges of his face, illuminating the warmth in his eyes, the soft curve of his smile. "Ready for what?" You asked, though you already knew.
He smiled gently. "To make a memory."
Your heart swelled in your chest. "I've already made enough memories with you to last a lifetime."
"Then make one more."
The campers on shore were growing restless. You could hear their whispers and excited murmurs. "They're holding hands."
"They're always holding hands now."
"It's so romantic."
"It's so gross."
"Shush!! It’s beautiful."
You laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. Seonghyeon's hand squeezed yours, and you turned to face him fully. "Together?" You asked.
"Together," he confirmed.
And then you jumped.
The water was cold and shocking and perfect. It closed over your heads like a curtain, muffling the sounds of the world above. For a moment, there was nothing but the weight of the water around you, the pressure of Seonghyeon's hand still gripping yours, the strange, suspended feeling of falling without falling.
You then kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.
The air was warm against your wet skin. The sun was bright in your eyes. The campers were screaming from the shore, their voices a chaotic chorus of excitement and disbelief.
But you barely heard them because Seonghyeon was there, treading water beside you, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes bright and laughing. Water droplets clung to his lashes like tiny diamonds and his smile was the widest you'd ever seen it.
"You're crazy," you said, laughing.
"You're the one who jumped with me."
"I didn't say I wasn't crazy too."
He laughed heartily and pulled you closer. His hands found your waist beneath the water, steadying you, anchoring you to him. "I love you," he said, and the words came easy now, as natural as breathing.
You smiled, water dripping from your chin. "I love you too."
He kissed you.
His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt your feet leave the bottom of the lake. You floated together, suspended in the golden water, the world reduced to the warmth of his lips and the steady beat of his heart against yours.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed.
"Best summer ever," he murmured.
"Best summer ever," you agreed.
From the shore, the campers had lost their collective minds.
"THEY KISSED IN THE WATER!"
"THAT WAS SO ROMANTIC!"
"WE DID THIS! WE'RE MATCHMAKING GENIUSES!"
"WE'RE LEGENDS!"
Then, without warning, the first camper jumped.
A splash followed by a shriek and a burst of laughter, then another, and another.
Within seconds, the air was filled with flying bodies and screaming children and the unmistakable chaos of two cabins' worth of campers launching themselves into the lake with absolutely no regard for safety or dignity or the fact that they were all still wearing their clothes.
"CANNONBALL!" One shouted before they hit the water, you quickly turned your face away to avoid the spray of water from hitting your eye.
You watched in horror and delight as the chaos unfolded around you. Campers splashed and shrieked and laughed, their voices echoing across the lake like the sound of pure, unfiltered joy.
And then, as the realisation hit you—
"WHERE ARE YOUR LIFE JACKETS?!" You shouted, your counselor instincts overriding everything else.
A camper paddled past you, grinning. "Relax, Counselor! We're in the shallow end!"
"The shallow end is still deep enough to drown!"
"We're fine!"
"You're not fine! You're going to drown!"
"I can swim!"
"That’s not the point!"
Seonghyeon laughed beside you, his arm still wrapped around your waist. "They're not going to listen."
"Seonghyeon."
"Just let them have this."
"Someone's going to injure themself!"
"Well at least they would be having fun whilst doing so."
You turned to stare at him. "Did you just joke about campers getting injured?"
He grinned, water still dripping from his chin. "I'm very funny."
You splashed him in response.
The water caught him square in the face, and his head snapped back with a startled laugh. For a moment, he just froze: jaw dropped, eyes wide, water streaming down his cheeks like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
Then he turned to you, and his grin turned wicked. "Oh, it's on."
Before you could react, his hand came down in a sweeping arc, sending a wall of water directly into your face. You sputtered, gasping, as the lake water invaded your mouth and nose.
It quickly devolved into the two of you splashing water at each other relentlessly, wide grins on both your faces: your hands churning the surface into a frenzy, his laughter echoing across the lake as he dodged and retaliated. Water flew in every direction, catching the golden sunlight like scattered diamonds.
One of your campers shouted: "WATER FIGHT!"
It then became an all-out war. A free-for-all, even.
Campers descended from every direction, shrieking and laughing, their bodies cutting through the water like torpedoes. You couldn't tell who was an ally or an enemy anymore—only that you were aiming to stop swallowing so much water. Hands splashed from every angle, faces appeared and disappeared in the chaos, the lake had become a battlefield of pure, unfiltered joy.
You spun in circles, trying to defend yourself, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them and they were everywhere: behind you, beside you, in front of you. Water filled your eyes, your nose, your mouth. You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, you caught a glimpse of Seonghyeon. He was surrounded by at least five campers, all of them splashing him relentlessly, and he was laughing so brightly his cheeks were turning red. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt clung to his chest, and you realised truly that you'd never loved him more.
The sun shone brightly above, its rays gleaming against the rocking water. The lake sparkled like a sea of scattered stars, each ripple catching the light and throwing it back toward the sky. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of summer. The sounds of laughter and splashing echoed across the water like music.
In the middle of it all, surrounded by chaos and campers and the golden light of the setting sun, you found yourself thinking that this was it. This was the moment you'd remember forever.
The summer you fell in love.
The summer the campers won.
The summer that changed everything for the better.
SYNOPSIS :: After a stupid fight that was blown way out of proportion, Seonghyeon turns up at your window with a mixtape and a dream. (TAGLIST)
W.C :: 8.2k
CONTAINS :: 80s!seonghyeon, angst with comfort, argument, resolution, yearning seonghyeon, stubborn reader, established relationship, kissing, cliché’s
PLAYLIST :: Baby come back - Player; Out of touch - Daryl Hall & John Oates; Under the milky way - The Church; With or without you - U2; Listen to your heart - Roxette; Right here waiting - Richard Marx
You and Seonghyeon had fought. Badly.
It wasn't supposed to blow up like that, that was the worst part. If it had been something big that was worth the screaming, silence, and days of not speaking, maybe it would've made sense. But it wasn't big. It was small and stupid, the kind of thing that shouldn't have mattered, except it did, because it was never just about the one thing.
He'd forgotten. Again.
A study date. You had a biology test coming up, and he'd promised to help. You'd waited for him in the library for an hour, watching the door, watching the clock, watching the light shift from gold to grey. He never showed.
You found him at the arcade.
"I'm sorry," he said when he saw you. "It slipped my mind."
"It slipped your mind."
"Yeah. I'll make it up to you."
"You always say that."
"Because I always mean it."
"Then why does it keep happening?"
He shrugged.
That was what did it. Not the forgetting or the lateness. The shrug. His shoulders going up and down like it didn't matter, and your time didn't matter, and you hadn't sat in that library for an hour and a half watching the door like an idiot. Like you weren't worth remembering.
"Forget it," you said.
"Come on, don't be like that—"
"Like what? Upset? Sorry for expecting my boyfriend to show up when he says he will."
"I said I was sorry."
"And I said forget it."
You turned around and walked out. The arcade door swung shut behind you, cutting off the noise, and suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet. The evening air hit your face, cool and damp, and you realised your hands were shaking.
He called your name once. Twice. His voice was muffled through the glass, distant, like he was calling from underwater.
You didn't look back.
That was three days ago.
The first day, you were furious.
The kind of furious that felt good, felt right, felt like armor. You wore it everywhere: to class, to lunch, to bed. You rehearsed speeches in your head while you brushed your teeth, while you walked to class, while you lay in bed with the lights off. Sharp, cutting things, all the words you should have said at the arcade but had been too hurt to think of in the moment.
You don't get to make me feel like I'm asking for too much.
I'm not crazy for wanting you to show up.
I deserve someone who remembers.
You told yourself you were right and he was wrong. You told yourself you didn't need him. You almost believed it.
The second day, you were stubborn.
The anger had cooled overnight and settled into something harder that felt more deliberate. You weren't shouting anymore, not even in your head. You were just... done. Done explaining. Done hoping. Done waiting for him to change.
You walked past him in the hallway like he wasn't there. He said your name. You kept walking, your eyes fixed straight ahead, your bag heavy on your shoulder. He fell into step beside you, his hands in his pockets, his voice careful like he was approaching something that might bite.
"Can we talk?"
"No."
"Just for a minute—"
"I said no."
You turned down another hallway by the science wing and he didn't follow. Good. You didn't want him to follow. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to hear his excuses or his apologies or his promises to do better. You'd heard them all before, and they'd never stuck. They were like water off a raincoat: shed easily, leaving nothing behind.
At lunch, Mina asked where he was. You said you didn't know. She gave you a look—the kind that meant she knew you were lying but wasn't going to call you on it. She passed you a fry instead. You ate it. It tasted like cardboard.
That night, the phone rang constantly. You didn't pick it up.
The third day, you were still stubborn.
But it was heavier now. It had become a weight you had to carry. Your shoulders ached. Your eyes burned from lack of sleep.
You saw him again between second and third period as he was standing by your locker, waiting. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wall like he was trying to make himself smaller. His hair was a mess—unwashed, sticking up in the back—and there were dark circles under his eyes that matched your own. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.
You didn't care. You told yourself you didn't care.
"Hey," he said.
You walked past him and spun your lock. The combination felt wrong under your fingers, too many turns and too much fumbling on your part. You could feel him standing behind you, the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, the space between you feeling like a physical thing, thick and heavy.
"Can you just—please. Just listen for a second."
You didn't answer. Your lock clicked open and you reached in to grab your book, though not really paying much attention to which one your hand latched onto.
"I messed up. I know I messed up. I should've been there. I should've called. I—"
You turned and walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the tile. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you heard him behind you. Heard his footsteps, faster than yours, closing the gap.
He caught up in three steps. His hand reached forward to hold your elbow, but he stopped himself beforehand, unsure on if he was allowed to touch you anymore.
You shook your head, refusing to meet his eye. "Stop trying to talk to me."
"Then stop walking away from me."
"Then stop following me."
"I'm trying to apologise."
"I don't care."
The words hung in the air and you still didn't look at his face. You couldn't. Because you knew if you looked at his face, you'd see the hurt there, and the hurt would make you falter, and you couldn't afford to falter. Not yet.
He stopped walking and you kept going. You could feel him watching you, could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, heavy and sad. You chose to not look back.
But your hands were shaking. And your eyes were burning. And when you turned the corner and disappeared from his view, you had to stop for a second, lean against the lockers, and breathe.
He tried again at lunch.
You were sitting with Mina and Martin at your usual table by the window, your tray sitting in front of you, untouched except for the few bites you'd forced down to make Mina stop giving you that look. You were pushing a piece of broccoli around your plate, mashing it into the plastic with the tines of your fork, not really seeing it.
You saw him approach before they did. The familiar jacket with that familiar walk, and that easy swagger he didn't even know he had, except today it wasn't easy. Today his shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his whole body folded in on itself like he was trying to take up less space. The familiar way he ran his hand through his hair when he was nervous, messing it up even more than it already was.
"Incoming," Martin said, nodding toward Seonghyeon. He didn't sound surprised, none of them were surprised anymore.
You didn't look up. Just stabbed a piece of vegetable with your fork and put it in your mouth. It tasted like nothing, everything had tasted like nothing for days.
"Hey," Seonghyeon said. He was standing at the end of your table, his hands in his pockets, his weight shifting from foot to foot like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stand still. His voice was careful, quiet, the way you'd talk to a stray cat you didn't want to scare off. "Can we talk?"
"No."
"Just for a minute."
"I'm eating."
You weren't eating. You were pushing food around your plate. The broccoli had turned into mush, and the chicken was getting cold, and everyone at the table knew you hadn't taken more than three bites. But he didn't call you out on it, he just stood there, looking at you and waiting.
Mina shot you a look from across the table—her way of saying just talk to him, please, for the love of God, just talk to him—and you ignored her. Your jaw tightened. Your fingers tightened around your fork.
"Please," he said. His voice cracked on the word, just slightly, and you hated the way it made your chest ache.
You picked up your tray and stood up. The plastic was cold against your palms, and you could feel everyone's eyes on you: Mina's worried glance, Martin's careful neutrality, the other kids in the cafeteria staring and whispering like you were a show they'd paid to see.
"I'm done," you said. You didn't look at him. You couldn't.
You walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, your tray balanced on your palm. You could feel his eyes on your back, heavy and sad, but you didn't turn around.
He didn't follow this time.
He tried again after school.
You were walking toward the front entrance, your bag slung over your shoulder, your headphones on, connected to a mixtape you had made. You'd turned the volume up loud enough that you couldn't hear anything else. Loud enough that you almost didn't hear him calling your name.
Almost.
He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. You stopped walking and pulled the headphone off your ears.
"What?"
"Can you please just—"
"No."
"You won't even let me explain?"
"There's nothing to explain. You forgot. You didn't show up. You shrugged. End of story."
"I know. I know I messed up. But it's not—it's not the end of the story. It doesn't have to be."
You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in three days. He looked tired: dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual, his jacket rumpled like he'd been sleeping in it.
You didn't care.
"Move," you said.
"Not until you listen."
"Move, Seonghyeon."
"No."
You stepped around him. He reached for your arm. You pulled away.
"Don't touch me."
"Then stop ignoring me."
"I don't have to stop anything. You're the one who messed up. You're the one who should be trying to fix it."
"I am trying. You won't let me."
"You're not trying hard enough."
You walked away. He didn't follow.
That night, he called.
Your phone rang at 8pm. Then 8:30. Then 9. You let it ring. You watched it from your bed as the receiver shook in its cradle.
Your mother poked her head in. "Are you going to get that?"
"No."
"It might be important."
"It's not."
She looked at you for a long moment and you could see her trying to decide whether to push.
"Okay," she eventually said, still eyeing you suspiciously. "Dinner's in an hour."
She closed the door, and the phone’s ringing soon halted. A minute later, it started again.
You turned over and faced the wall.
The next morning, there was a note on your locker.
It was folded in half, your name written on the front in his handwriting. You recognised it immediately—how he looped his letters and pressed too hard with the pen. You'd seen it on a hundred notes before. Meet me after school. I love you. Don't forget to eat lunch.
You unfolded it.
I'm sorry. I know I keep saying it. I know it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I'm sorry. I messed up. I'll do better. Just give me a chance.
You read it twice. Then you folded it back up, tucked it into your pocket, and walked to class.
You didn't write back.
He left another note on your locker the next day. And the next. Each one shorter than the last, like he was running out of things to say.
I miss you.
Can we please just talk?
I'm not going to stop trying.
You read each one. You kept each one, folded small, tucked into the back pocket of your jeans where no one could see. But you didn't respond. You didn't call. You didn't stop ignoring him in the hallways.
Your friends noticed. Mina asked you about it at lunch, her voice careful, her eyes searching.
"He keeps trying to talk to you," she said.
"I know."
"And you keep ignoring him."
"I know."
"Aren't you going to eventually—"
"No."
She was quiet for a moment before she then she sighed. "You're so stubborn."
"I know."
She didn't push and neither did Martin. They could see it on your face, you were serious this time around.
By the fifth day, Seonghyeon was running out of ideas.
He'd tried talking to you in the hallways and you'd walked away. He'd tried calling and you hadn't picked up. He'd tried notes and you hadn't written back.
He stood by your locker between classes, waiting. You turned the corner, saw him, and kept walking.
"Come on," he said, falling into step beside you. "You can't ignore me forever."
"Watch me."
"I'm trying to apologise."
"You already did."
"Then why won't you talk to me?"
You stopped walking and turned to face him. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you didn't care. Let them hear.
"Because I'm tired," you said. "I'm tired of you forgetting. I'm tired of you apologising and then doing the same thing over and over. I'm tired of waiting for you to show up and being disappointed when you don't."
He flinched. "I know. I know I've been—"
"You know? Then why haven't you changed?"
He didn't have an answer. You could see him searching for one, see the words dying on his tongue.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned and walked away. He didn't follow.
And you felt bad for it. How could you not? Watching the shine slowly disappear from his eyes every time he saw you—it did something to your chest. He looked smaller now than he used to. That easy confidence he always carried around like a second skin had cracked, and underneath it, he just looked... tired.
But you were tired too.
Tired of him forgetting. Tired of making excuses for him. Tired of telling your friends he's not usually like this when he was, actually. He was usually like this. That was the problem.
The study date wasn't the first thing he'd forgotten. It was just the last straw.
He'd forgotten your friend's birthday party last month. Shown up two hours late with a half-hearted apology and a bag of chips he'd grabbed from the corner store on his way over. You'd let it slide because he'd looked sorry, because he'd kissed your forehead and promised to make it up to you.
He'd forgotten the movie you'd planned to see the weekend before. Texted you at 7pm to say practice ran late, he'd catch the next showing, don't wait up. You'd waited anyway. Sat in the dark theater by yourself, watching the previews, saving the seat next to you like an idiot.
He'd forgotten to call you back that time you'd had a bad day. You'd sat by the phone for hours, waiting, replaying the conversation in your head where you'd told him you needed him, you really needed him, and he'd said I'll call you tonight, I promise.
He hadn't called.
And every time, he said sorry. Every time, he looked at you with those big brown eyes, and you forgave him. Because you loved him, and you wanted to believe him, and you thought maybe this time would be different.
It wasn't different. It was never different.
So yeah, you felt bad. You weren't a monster. You saw the way his face fell when you walked past him without a word. You saw the way his friends clapped him on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up, and the way he'd nod along and pretend he was fine.
But feeling bad wasn't enough anymore. Feeling bad didn't fix anything. Feeling bad didn't make him show up.
That night, you lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
The phone sat on your nightstand, silent. He hadn't called tonight. Maybe he was finally giving up. Maybe he'd realised you weren't worth the effort and had decided to move on to someone who was easier, and didn't expect him to remember things, or would get upset when he forgot.
The thought made your stomach hurt.
Your eyes drifted across the room, landing on your desk and spotting the stacked crooked tower of tapes that were held together by sheer will and lack of anywhere else to put them.
Cassette tapes. Dozens of them. Spines lined with Seonghyeon's handwriting, the title always underlined twice because he said it looked more official that way.
For you. Volume 1.
Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2).
Late night driving mix (for when you can't sleep).
The one with all the love songs. You know the one.
You'd listened to every single one of them. Some of them so many times the tape had started to wear thin, the sound warbling in places, the songs skipping in the way that meant you'd played them too much and your brother had told you to buy a CD player already, it was the 80s, not the Stone Age.
Each tape had a story. You could trace your relationship through them like a timeline.
Volume 1 was given to you the night he asked you out. Tucked it into your hand with stolen cornflowers tied with kitchen string. You'd played it that night in your room, lying on your bed, the volume turned down low so your parents wouldn't hear.
Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2) was left in your locker with a note that just said "Hi." You'd played it on repeat for three days straight, until your brother threatened to throw your stereo out the window.
The third one. The fourth. The fifth.
They were everywhere now. Spilling off your desk, stacked on your nightstand, crammed into the drawer of your bedside table. You'd find them in your coat pockets sometimes, tucked into your textbooks, hidden under your pillow. He left them like breadcrumbs, like love letters, like proof that he was thinking about you even when he wasn't there.
You sat up, swung your legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to your desk.
Your fingers brushed the spines of the tapes, one by one. The plastic cases were warm from sitting in the sun. The handwriting blurred in the dim light, but you didn't need to read it. You knew every word.
For you.
For you.
For you.
You pulled one out—The one with all the love songs. You know the one.—and held it in your hands. The case was worn, the edges soft, the plastic cracked at the corners. You'd played this one so many times it probably had permanent grooves in the tape.
He'd made this one for you last month. Not for any special reason, just because. He'd shown up at your door with it and a bag of your favourite snacks and a grin that made your heart do something stupid in your chest.
"What's this for?" you'd asked.
"Does there have to be a reason?"
"There's always a reason with you."
You'd played the tape that night, lying in bed with your headphones on, and you'd listened to every single song. Some of them you knew: ones he'd played for you before and had gradually become yours. Some of them were new, songs you'd never heard that he'd found just for you.
He'd spent hours on this. You knew he had. Sitting in his room with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing right. His mother had probably yelled at him to turn it down a dozen times. His father had probably asked him why he was wasting his time on something so silly.
But he'd done it anyway. For you.
You looked at the tape in your hands. The label was smudged now, the ink fading, but you could still read it. "You know the one."
He'd written that. For you.
You thought about the study date. The hour and a half you'd spent in the library. The way he'd shrugged when you confronted him. The way you'd walked away.
And then you thought about the tapes. Dozens of them. Hours of his time. Proof that he loved you, even when he forgot. Even when he messed up. Even when he made you want to scream.
You put the tape back on the stack, then climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling.
You still weren't going to call him. But you weren’t going to throw the tapes away either.
Across town, Seonghyeon was going mad, to put it lightly.
He lay in his bed, staring at the same ceiling he'd been staring at for four nights.
He hadn't slept at all. He'd dozed off here and there, in brief, fitful bursts, but his dreams were filled with your face: the way you'd looked at him in the arcade, the way you'd spoken to him like you’d finally given up, the way you'd walked away and he hadn't followed.
His room was a mess: clothes on the floor, empty glasses on his nightstand, jacket still rumpled and draped over the back of his chair
He picked up the phone again, held it in his hand and stared at the rotary dial.
He'd called you every night for three nights. Every night, you hadn't picked up. The first night, he'd let it ring fifteen times before he gave up. The second night, ten. The third night, five. Tonight, he hadn’t even tried, because what was the point? You weren't going to answer. You'd made that clear.
He put the phone back and dropped his arm over his eyes, breathing a sigh.
He knew you weren't going to forgive him. He knew it was his fault. He'd been a complete idiot let you walk away when it was entirely his fault. He'd done all of it, and now he was lying in his bed at—he glanced at the clock—almost 2am, staring at the ceiling, going slowly insane.
He thought about the tapes.
Dozens of them. Hours of his time. He'd made them in his room, late at night, when his parents were asleep and the house was quiet. He'd sat on his floor with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing just right. He'd wanted them to be perfect. For you.
"You're wasting your time," his father had said once, watching him from the doorway. "She's not going to care how many tapes you make if you can't remember to show up on time."
He'd been right. His father had been right, and Seonghyeon hadn't listened, and now here he was.
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to his desk.
His desk was a mess too: apers scattered everywhere, a half-empty mug of coffee that had gone cold days ago, and stacked in the corner, a pile of blank cassette tapes, still wrapped in plastic, waiting to be filled.
He'd bought them last week, before the fight had even occured. He'd had plans: songs he wanted to put on them that had made him think of you and that he'd been saving for a special occasion.
He picked up one of the blank tapes. Turned it over in his hands and watched as the plastic crinkled.
He thought about making you another one and filling it with all the songs he should have been listening to instead of being at the arcade. Even thought about leaving it on your doorstep with a note that just said "I'm sorry" over and over until you believed him.
But what was the point? You wouldn't listen to it. You'd probably throw it away without even opening it.
He put the tape back. Ran his hands over his face. Breathed.
He missed you. That was the worst part. He missed you so much it felt like someone had reached into his chest and pulled something vital out that he couldn't live without. He missed your laugh. He missed the way you said his name. He missed the way you'd look at him when you thought he wasn't paying attention, like you were trying to memorise his face.
He missed you and it was his fault.
He turned his head, closing his eyes as he breathed a sigh. Then his eyes caught on something.
A lone cassette tape. Sitting on the corner of his desk, slightly hidden behind a stack of notebooks. And stuck to the front of it was a sticky note, yellowed at the edges, the adhesive long since dried. Written on it in his own handwriting, messy and rushed: ‘for when you need it.’
He stared at it for a long moment. His brain felt sluggish, slow to catch up. And then the memory dawned on him, rising up from somewhere deep that he'd tucked it away and forgotten about.
Months ago you’d had anothet fight that wasn’t as bad as this one, but had still bruised him just as deeply. You'd been angry at him for something stupid, something he couldn't even remember now. You'd ignored him for a whole day, a full twenty-four hours of silence, and he'd practically gone insane.
He'd sat in this same room, at this same desk, and he'd made you a tape full of songs that made him think of sorry, I miss you, please come back. He'd spent hours on it, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the order just right. He'd wanted it to be perfect. He'd wanted to give it to you and have you listen to it and understand everything he couldn't say out loud.
But he never gave it to you.
You'd forgiven him before he had the chance. Shown up at his door the next morning with a bag of his favourite snacks and a small smile, and he'd kissed you, and the fight was over, and the tape sat forgotten on his desk. He'd meant to put it away, meant to save it for the next time—because there was always a next time, wasn't there?—but he'd forgotten. He'd shoved it behind his notebooks and let it collect dust.
Until now.
His hand reached out, almost without his permission, and picked up the tape. The case was dusty. The sticky note was peeling at the corners. He turned it over in his hands, reading his own handwriting again. For when you need it.
He needed it now more than he'd ever needed anything.
He sat down at his desk, the chair creaking under his weight. He brushed the dust off the case, opened it, pulled out the tape. The label on the cassette itself was smudged, but he could still make out the tracklist: song titles he'd chosen carefully and deliberately, each one a message he'd been too scared to say out loud.
He held the tape in his hands for a long moment and the plastic was cool against his palms.
He thought about making you a new, better one that had songs from the last few months, songs that had made him think of you since then. But there wasn't time. He couldn't wait and spend hours in his room, fast-forwarding and rewinding, while you were out there somewhere, still ignoring him, still hurting.
He stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, shoved the tape into his pocket, and grabbed his keys from his nightstand. His shoes were by the door; he shoved his feet into them, didn't bother with socks.
His parents were asleep. The house was dark. He crept down the stairs, his hand trailing along the wall for balance, until he arrived in front of the back door, clicking it open before he slipped through.
The night air hit his face, cool and damp, smelling like cut grass and distant rain. He sucked in a breath and started to run.
His sneakers pounded against the pavement. His lungs burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The streets were empty, the houses dark, the streetlights casting pools of orange on the pavement like stepping stones leading him toward you. None of that mattered. None of it registered. Because to him, time felt like a ticking bomb, each second another excuse for you to decide he wasn't worth it, each moment he wasted giving you more reason to leave him for good.
He thought about what he'd say when he got to your house. Rehearsed the words in his head, over and over, like a song he couldn't quite get right. I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I'll do better. Please. Just give me one more chance. But the words felt small, inadequate, nothing compared to the weight of what he was feeling.
He thought about whether you'd even let him in. Whether you'd even open the window. Whether you'd take one look at his face and close the curtain, lock the latch, walk away.
He reached your street. Your house sat at the end of the block, the porch light on, the way it always was—a warm glow spilling across the front steps, a beacon he'd followed a hundred times before. Your parents' car was in the driveway. Your brother's bike was on the lawn, lying on its side where he'd left it. Everything was the same. The same house, the same street, the same familiar shape of your bedroom window at the side of the building.
But everything felt heavier, ike the air itself was thicker, harder to breathe.
He didn't go to the front door. He knew your father would open it, and he'd take one look at Seonghyeon's face—the dark circles, the desperation, the four days of sleeplessness written all over him—and close it again without a word. So he went around the back, to the side of the house, to the window he'd climbed through a hundred times before that you always left unlocked on nights when you were expecting him.
He didn't know if it would be unlocked tonight. He didn't know if you wanted to see him. He didn't know if you'd even let him in.
But he had to try.
He stood beneath your window, his chest heaving, his hands shaking at his sides. His breath fogged in the cold air, small clouds that disappeared as quickly as they came. The curtain was drawn so he couldn't see anything, or even tell if you were awake or asleep or somewhere in between, lying in your bed with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling the way he'd been doing for four nights straight.
He reached up, fingers curling around the ledge beneath the window before he hauled himself up, his sneakers scraping against the siding, his muscles straining. The ledge was narrow, just wide enough for his feet. but he'd done this before. He'd done it a hundred times. He knew exactly where to put his weight, exactly how to balance.
He steadied himself. Pressed one hand against the glass to keep from wobbling. Then he raised his other hand and knocked three times, harder than he intended.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound echoed through the quiet night, louder than he meant it to, louder than it should have been. The glass rattled in its frame but he didn't care. Let your parents hear. Let the whole street hear. Let the whole world know he was here, outside your window, begging.
He waited. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers where they pressed against the glass. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.
The curtain moved. Just slightly, just a flicker, like someone was peeking through the gap.
Then, all at once, it was shoved aside, and you were standing on the other side of the glass.
Your hair was a mess: tangled, falling across your face in waves you hadn't bothered to brush. Your eyes were puffy, ringed with dark circles that matched his own, proof that you hadn't been sleeping either. You were wearing his gray t-shirt that he’d left at your place after a sleepover, and always made his chest ache every time he saw you in it.
For a long moment neither of you moved, just staring at each other. The streetlight caught the side of your face, illuminating the shadows under your eyes, the slight frown on your lips, the way your brow was furrowed like you were trying to figure out if he was real.
"You've got to be kidding me," you said, sliding the window ajar for him to hear you.
"I'm not kidding."
"It's two in the morning, Seonghyeon."
"I know what time it is."
"My parents are asleep."
"I know."
"You could have woken them up."
He swallowed. "I know."
You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained unmoving.
"What do you want?" you asked.
"You know what I want."
"No, I don't. That's the problem. I never know what you want. One minute you're making me tapes and leaving notes on my locker, and the next you're forgetting I exist."
"I don't forget you exist."
"You forgot our study date."
"That's not the same thing."
"It feels the same from where I'm standing." You crossed your arms over your chest, your jaw set. "You forgot, Seonghyeon. Again. You were at the arcade with your friends while I sat in the library like an idiot, waiting for you."
"I know. I know, and I'm sorry—"
"You're always sorry."
"Because I'm always messing up."
"Then stop messing up!"
The words hung in the air between you, loud and sharp. You blinked, like you hadn't meant to shout, but you didn't take it back. You just stood there, your arms crossed, your chest heaving, your eyes bright with something that looked like tears.
He pressed his forehead against the glass. The cold bit into his skin, but he didn't move. He couldn't.
"I don't know how," he said. His voice was quiet, barely audible. "I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be better. I don't know how to be the person you deserve."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I can't—I can't just—" He pulled back, looked at you. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking. "I can't lose you. I can't. I know I mess up. I know I forget things. I know I'm late and I don't call and I make you feel like you don't matter. But you do. You matter more than anything. And I don't know how to fix it, but I have to try. I have to."
You were quiet for a long moment. Your arms were still crossed, your jaw still set, but your face had shifted to something softer.
"What's that?" You asked, nodding toward his hand.
He looked down. The tape was still clutched in his fingers, the plastic case warm from his palm. He'd almost forgotten he was holding it.
"I made this for you," he said. "Months ago. After our last fight when you ignored me for a day and I thought I was going to lose my mind."
Your eyes flicked down to the tape, then back up to his face.
"I never gave it to you because you forgave me before I had the chance. And I was relieved, so I shoved aside and forgot about it." He swallowed. "But I found it tonight. And I thought—I thought maybe you'd listen to it. If you still wanted to."
"Baby Come Back," you said, reading the tracklist through the glass. "Really?"
"It's a good song."
"It's cliché."
"Clichés exist for a reason."
You shook your head, but your lips twitched just slightly, just enough for him to notice. "You're impossible."
"I know."
"You're standing outside my window at two in the morning holding a cassette tape like some bad movie."
"I know that too."
"You don't even have socks on."
He looked down at his feet and realised you were right. His sneakers were loose, his bare ankles visible above the heels. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed anything except the need to get here.
"I didn't have time for socks," he said.
You stared at him for another long moment. Your hand moved from the window frame to the latch. You hesitated and he held his breath.
Then you unlocked the latch and slid the window open fully.
The night air rushed in, cool and damp, and you stepped back, just enough to give him room. Your arms were crossed again, your face guarded, but you'd opened the window and let him in, and that had to mean something.
He didn't wait. He hauled himself over the sill, his sneakers scraping against the frame, and landed on your bedroom floor with a soft thud. The tape was still clutched in his hand as he was now standing in the middle of your room, his chest heaving.
You closed the window behind him, pulling the curtain shut before turning to face him.
The room was dark except for the orange glow of the streetlight filtering through the fabric, casting long shadows across the floor.
"Play it," you said.
He blinked. "What?"
"The tape. Play it. If you came all this way, you might as well."
He crossed the room to your stereo, the same one he'd used a hundred times before. He slid the tape into the deck, pressed play, and stepped back.
Static. Silence. The soft hiss of the tape spinning.
Then music.
The opening notes of 'Baby Come Back' filled the room and the words hung in the air between you like a confession he couldn't make himself.
‘Spending all my nights, all my money going out on the town
Doing anything just to get you off of my mind, yeah
But when the morning comes, I'm right back where I started again
And tryna forget you is just a waste of time’
"You're such an idiot," you finally spoke again, but your voice was softer this time. Quieter.
"I know."
"This doesn't fix anything."
"I know."
"One song doesn't make up for four days of silence."
"I know."
"And I'm still mad at you."
He nodded. "I know."
‘Baby come back, any kind of fool could see
There was something in everything about you’
You took a step closer. Then another. Your arms fell to your sides. Your face was still guarded, but your eyes were wet, and your hands were shaking slightly.
"You forgot," you said. "You forgot, and you were late, and you shrugged at me like it didn't matter."
"It did matter. It does matter. You matter."
"Then why do you keep doing this?"
He didn't have an answer. He'd been asking himself the same question for days, and he still didn't have an answer. He was scared, maybe. Or stupid. Or both.
‘Baby come back, yeah, you can blame it all on me
'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’
"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know why I keep doing this. I don't know why I can't just—remember. I don't know why I keep hurting you when you're the last person I want to hurt."
"Then figure it out."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
The song played on. He could see you fighting it—fighting the way your eyes kept dropping to his lips, the way your hands kept twitching at your sides like you wanted to reach for him.
"I'm scared," he said.
You blinked. "Of what?"
"Of you. Of this. Of how much I need you." His voice cracked. "I've never needed anyone the way I need you. And it terrifies me. Because what if I'm not good enough? What if I keep messing up? What if one day you wake up and decide I'm not worth the trouble?"
You stared at him. "Seonghyeon—"
"That's why I forget things. Not because I don't care. Because I do. I care so much it scares me, and I don't know how to handle it, so I just—shut down. And then you're upset, and I'm upset, and I don't know how to fix it."
‘All day long, wearing a mask of false bravado (false bravado)’
You crossed the room in three steps. Your hand found his face, your palm cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing away a tear he hadn't even realised had fallen.
"Idiot," you whispered.
"I know."
"You should have told me this days ago."
"I didn't know how."
‘Tryna keep up a smile that hides a tear (hides a tear)’
You were close now, close enough that he could see the way your breath hitched when his hand came up to cover yours.
"I'm still mad at you," you said.
"I know."
"Like, really mad."
"I know that too."
"This doesn't mean I forgive you."
He nodded. "I know."
‘But as the sun goes down, I get that empty feeling again
How I wish to God that you were here’
But you didn't step back. And neither did he. The song played on, soft and sad, and you stood there in the middle of your room, your hand on his face, his hand over yours, neither of you willing to be the first to let go.
"Well," you said finally, "are you going to kiss me or not?"
He blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I thought you were still angry at me."
"I am."
"So why—"
"Because I'm also tired, and I missed you, and you're standing in my room at two in the morning with a cassette tape like some lovesick fool, and it's kind of pathetic, honestly."
"Gee, thanks."
"But it's also kind of sweet." You shrugged, but your eyes were soft, and your thumb was still tracing circles on his cheekbone. "And I've been lying awake for four nights wondering if you were going to show up. So are you going to kiss me or not?"
He kissed you as the chorus finally swelled once more.
The moment his lips met yours, something in him broke open.
They were chapped from the cold, from the wind, from four days of not taking care of himself. They were rough against yours, almost unfamiliar, and he tasted like salt from the tears he'd shed running through the dark, and the ones that still clung to his lashes.
He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like he'd been holding his breath for four days and you were the only thing that could save him. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly at your sides, slid to your waist and pulled you flush against him. There was no space between you now, just the warmth of his chest pressing against yours, the rapid thrum of his heartbeat echoing through his ribs into your own.
Your fingers slid to tangle through his hair. The strands were soft at the nape of his neck, curling around your knuckles the way they always did.
His hands slid up your back, fingers splaying wide, spanning the space between your shoulder blades. He pulled you closer, closer, until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.
Your hands slid from his hair to his jaw, cupping his face like you had moments ago. His skin was cold from the night air, and you could feel the muscles working beneath your palms as he kissed you: the way his jaw moved, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. The song was still playing, soft and sad, the words washing over you both like a wave.
‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me
I was wrong, and I just can't live without you, no’
His forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and you could see the tear tracks glistening in the dim light. His breath was warm on your lips, uneven, hitching, and you felt his hands lower back down to your waist.
"Seonghyeon," you whispered.
He opened his eyes. They were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and there was something in them that made your breath catch—something that looked like awe, like wonder, like he couldn't quite believe you were real.
"I'm not going to forgive you just because you showed up with a tape."
He nodded. "I know."
"But I'm also not going to pretend I didn't miss you."
His hands tightened on your hips. "I missed you too."
"So much it hurts."
"So much I couldn't breathe."
You looked at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, the ones that matched your own. At the way his hair fell across his forehead, messy and unwashed. At the way his lips were red and slightly swollen, parted like he was still trying to catch his breath.
"You look terrible," you said.
"I feel terrible."
"Have you been sleeping?"
"A little."
"Eating?"
He hesitated and you raised an eyebrow.
"A little," he said again.
You sighed and shook your head, but you didn't let go of his face, and he didn't let go of your hips.
"Idiot," you said.
"Your idiot."
"My idiot," you repeated. The words felt heavy in your mouth, weighted with everything you hadn't said in four days. "But only if you stop being an idiot."
"I'm going to try."
"That's not a promise."
"It's the best I can do."
You were quiet for a moment. The song played on, a hum in the background.
‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me
'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’
"I guess that'll have to do," you said.
And you kissed him again as the electric guitar soared, blurring your every sense as all you could feel was him.
This time, it was slower. You kissed him like you were trying to tell him something you didn't have words for that had been sitting in your chest for four days waiting to come out.
I love you. I hate you. I missed you. Please don't leave again.
He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Like this moment, right here, was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Your hands slid from his jaw to his chest, pressing flat against his heart. It was pounding under your palm: fast, uneven, the same rhythm as yours. His hands slid from your hips to your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
He broke the kiss first. Not because he wanted to—you could see it in his eyes, the way they were still dark, still desperate, still fixed on your lips—but because he couldn't breathe. His chest was heaving, his shoulders shaking, and his forehead dropped to yours again, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
"I love you," he said. His voice was wrecked: raw and rough, like he'd been screaming, or crying, or both. "I love you so much. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it."
You brushed your thumb across his lower lip. It was still wet from the kiss, still chapped, still trembling just slightly.
"I know," you said.
"I'm going to do better."
"I know."
"I'm going to remember."
"I know."
"I'm going to—"
You kissed him again, soft this time, just a brush of your lips against his. "Stop talking," you whispered.
He nodded and swallowed, pressing his forehead to yours.
The song ended and the tape clicked off, waiting for you to confirm the next track. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the stereo and the sound of both of you breathing.
"I missed this," you admitted quietly, your thumb lowering to trace his jaw. "I missed you. Even when I was angry. Even when I didn't want to."
His breath hitched. His hands, still resting on your back, tightened just slightly. "I missed you too," he said, his voice rough. "Every second. Every minute. I couldn't breathe." He pressed his forehead harder against yours, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. "Don't ever shut me out again. I can't—I can't do that again."
You didn't promise. You couldn't. But you let your forehead rest against his, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders, and you stayed there. Breathing the same air. Feeling his heart beat against your palm where your hand had settled on his chest. The clock ticked past three and the tape still waited. But neither of you moved. You just stood there in the dark, holding onto each other, and for the first time in four days, you finally felt back home.
SYNOPSIS :: Juhoon has spent months allowing the rumours on if he has a girlfriend or not to spread, hoping the endless barrage of confessions he faces daily would eventually stop. One day he’s finally decided he’s had enough and chooses to put the rumours to rest.
W.C :: 3.6k
CONTAINS :: popular!footballer!juhoon, high school au, established relationship, other girls like jju, secret relationship, angst if you squint, tiny jealousy, fluff, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Lover is a day - Cuco; Out of my league - Fitz and The Tantrums; Kiss me - Sixpence None The Richer; Cariño - The Marias
The first bell was mere minutes away when the main courtyard of the school turned into an utter circus.
Juhoon noticed this before he even stepped out of the bike shed. A girl he vaguely recognised from the dance department had planted herself directly in his path, flanked by two giggling friends holding a rather tragic handmade sign that read ‘BE MY BF, JUHOON?’ in glitter glue.
He stopped, blinking slowly before he let out an eventual sigh.
"Juhoon!" The girl declared, voice trembling but brave. "I've liked you since the winter recital. Will you go out with me?"
The crowd that materialised from thin air was a testament to his particular brand of fame: part football star, part unreasonably good-looking, all mysterious smiles and sharp jawlines that granted him endless unwanted attention.
"Sorry," he said, not unkindly, but with zero hesitation. "I'm not interested."
Her face crumpled slightly, he spotted the slight tremble of her lips but chose to ignore it, he had been asked out by far too many girls he didn’t even know the names of. To make things worse the crowd erupted and ooooh'd, Juhoon wanting the ground to swallow him whole just so he could escape.
And then—because this was always the follow-up, there was always a follow-up—she pressed further. "Is it because of that rumour? About you and that girl?"
Juhoon's expression didn't change an inch, he remained entirely neutral. He'd been asked this before, dozens of times actually. In classrooms, in hallways, in DMs he never opened.
"There's no rumour," he said carefully, calculated. "There's just me, and I'm not interested."
It wasn't a denial, but it wasn't a confirmation either. It was a door left slightly ajar, and he knew it. He'd learned, over the past few months, that saying too much would only make things worse. Confirming would bring a different kind of attention: the curious, invasive kind that might scare you away, and Juhoon was doing anything in his power to protect you from that.
So he stayed quiet and let people wonder and spin the rumour mill, but his gaze was already drifting, snagged by a flash of recognisable hair and chunky sneakers thudding against the floor near the iron gates.
He spotted you walking onto the school ground, plugged into the earphones you carried around like they were your own child. Your head was down and you were moving through the morning like water through rocks, oblivious and unhurried, having absolutely no idea that a crowd of forty people was watching a girl get rejected over glitter glue by your very own secret boyfriend.
His eyes tracked you as you passed behind the building, feeling something in his chest tighten once you disappeared from his view.
He should stay and let the crowd dissipate naturally, let the dance girl save face, let the rumours simmer without him adding fuel.
Instead, he decided to push through the people encircling him. An elbow here, a muttered apology there. By the time he broke free, he was almost jogging, passing the last few remaining students entering school grounds.
"Y/N!" He called out once he was sure the crowd was outside of sight, though you didn't hear him and kept walking forward.
Of course you didn't. Your world existed behind those headphones, tucked away somewhere he'd somehow wrangled himself into a few months ago. He quickened his pace, closing the distance between you just as you entered the doors to the humanities wing.
He reached out and tugged gently on the cord of your left earbud.
You startled, a tiny jump that made him want to apologise and laugh at the same time. Your eyes went wide for a split second before they registered who it was, softening immediately.
"Oh." You pulled the other earbud out, placing them into the same pocket as your phone. "Hi, Jju."
"Hey, yourself." He fell into step beside you, matching your pace like it was second nature. His shoulder brushed yours, sending sparks down your arm. "You planning on doing anything after school today?"
You looked up at him, seeing the slight smile resting against his lips that always seemed present when he was watching you.
"Why…?" You dragged out, but you knew all too well what he was about to ask. You'd had the same exchange many times before.
He tilted his head, that smile widening just a fraction. "My game’s at four. Home field. Against Busan."
"You play Busan every month."
"And every month I ask you to come." He shrugged, like it was obvious, though the slighting reddening of his cheeks gave far too much away than he would’ve liked. "And every month you say you'll think about it."
"Maybe this month I will."
He stopped walking and you kept going for two more steps before you realised he wasn't beside you anymore. You turned around, finding him standing frozen in the middle of the hallway, expression caught somewhere between hopeful and terrified.
"Wait," he said. "Really?"
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. The morning light was filtering through the hallway windows, catching the edges of his hair, and he looked so genuinely thrown off that you almost felt bad.
Almost.
"I said maybe," you reminded him, turning back around and continuing toward your classroom. You heard his footsteps rush to catch up and you attempted to suppress the smile crawling onto your lips.
"That's not nothing," he said, falling back into step beside you. "That's closer to a yes than you've ever given me."
"Don't read into it."
"I'm going to read into it so hard."
You laughed despite yourself, a quiet, breathy thing that you tried to hide by looking straight ahead though how could he not notice it? However, in your attempt at indifference you failed to spot the softening of his gaze as he watched you, the smile on his lips mirroring your own. His shoulder brushed yours again, and this time you didn't move away.
"Four o'clock," he said again, like he was making sure you remembered.
"I know you play at four o'clock, Jju."
"Just making sure."
You stopped outside your classroom. The door was still propped open, students filing in, the familiar chaos of first period settling into place. You should have gone in by now, you were already late by hallway standards, but he was still standing there, looking at you like you'd just offered him something precious and something in your chest twisted.
"I'll think about it," you said softly.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "That's all I'm asking for."
Someone suddenly bumped into him from behind—a freshman who immediately turned purple and stammered an apology. Juhoon waved it off without even sparing the boy a glance, his attention not once wandering from your face.
"You should get to class," you finally said, maintaining eye contact despite the flood of heat rushing up your neck.
"I should," he agreed, though neither of you moved.
The bell rang, shrill and insistent. You watched his expression shift from soft to reluctant to something that looked almost like resignation. He wanted to say something—you could see it in the way his jaw worked, the way his lips parted slightly before pressing shut again.
"Go," you said gently, insistently.
He exhaled. "See you at the game?"
"Maybe."
"Y/N."
"I said maybe."
He shook his head, but he was smiling again. "Fine," he said, already backing away. "Maybe. I'll take maybe."
You watched him walk backward down the hallway for a few steps before he finally turned around, running a hand through his hair as he disappeared around the corner.
You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorframe, feeling the ghost of his shoulder against yours. That boy had you completely wrapped around his fingers and you don’t think he even realised it.
The thought was quickly pushed aside as you entered the class, already wishing the day would just pass by faster.
By the time four o'clock rolled around you had already made up your mind.
You stood at the edge of the field, hands tucked into the pocket of your hoodie, watching the crowd filter into the bleachers. The sun was starting its slow descent, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The air smelled like grass and sweat and the faint sweetness of someone's overpriced coffee from the concession stand.
You entered the bleachers, your eyes trained on the field watching the players warm up.
You didn’t know if he had seen you yet, it was hard to tell from this distance, he was focused, sharp, his dark hair already sticking to his forehead despite the cool evening air. He moved across the field like he owned it, like the grass was an extension of his own body.
Someone bumped into your shoulder.
"Oh, sorry!" A girl with braces and a phone case covered in stickers smiled at you. "Are you here for the game?"
You hesitated for a brief moment. "I know someone on the team."
"Me too!" She grinned, gesturing toward the field. "I'm here for Juhoon. He's so cute, right? Do you think the rumour is true? About him having a girlfriend?"
Your stomach tightened. "I don't know."
"I hope it's not," she said, already turning toward the bleachers. "He never confirms anything, so there's still a chance, right?"
Right, you thought. There's still a chance.
You watched her bounce down the metal steps and settle into the front row—the fanclub row, you realised—spotting the familiar cluster of matching headbands and handmade signs. There were at least fifteen of them today, maybe more. They had a choreographed cheer that they practiced during warm-ups, their voices carrying across the field in a high-pitched chorus.
You found a spot midway up the bleachers that was off to the side: far enough from the fanclub that you wouldn't be lumped in with them, close enough that you could still see your boyfriend’s every movement.
The whistle blew and the game began
Juhoon was everywhere in the first half. He was in the midfield, then on the wing, then tracking back to defend, then sprinting forward again. His jersey was already dark with sweat, but he didn't slow down
The fanclub screamed every time he touched the ball, and you remained completely, and utterly silent.
He had a chance in the fifteenth minute: a loose ball that bounced his way just outside the box. He didn't hesitate, striking it first time, and the crowd held its breath as the ball curved toward the top corner.
The goalkeeper just barely got a hand to it and it deflected wide.
Juhoon swore, loud enough that you could just catch the sound of it from the bleachers. Then he turned and jogged back into position, shaking his head.
But in that moment—just before he turned—his eyes swept the stands.
And found you.
His whole body stilled for half a second and his expression flickered from frustration to something softer. He didn't smile nor wave but his hand came up, just briefly, and touched his chest, right over his heart.
Then he turned and disappeared back into the play.
Beside you, someone gasped. "Did he just—did you see that? Who was he looking at?"
You pulled your hoodie strings tighter and said nothing.
The score reached 1-0 by the second half when Juhoon stole the ball from a Busan midfielder.
It was a beautiful tackle: perfectly timed, perfectly clean. He won possession and burst forward, two defenders closing in on either side. The crowd was on its feet, the fanclub shrieking, the air electric.
He feinted left, went right, and suddenly he was through.
There was only one defender left, and the goalkeeper was rushing out toward him.
Juhoon didn't panic. He waited momentarily, and then he slotted the ball into the bottom corner, so casual it looked effortless.
The net rippled and the stands exploded.
Juhoon was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face in droplets before he looked up at the bleachers, directly to where you were, as though he had memorised exactly where you were positioned in the short second he had noticed your presence.
You had risen up the moment he scored, though your reaction was far less exaggerated than the fanclub that stood before you. Instead, when your eyes locked onto his, you beamed at him, a sight that was so rare to come by in public that Juhoon’s legs almost gave out.
His teammates mobbed him, pulling him into a group hug, ruffling his hair. but over their shoulders, you saw him grinning, that private grin that was just for you.
Quickly the team recollected themselves and continued the game, Juhoon’s eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer before he ran after them
The final whistle eventually blew indicating the end of the game, and Juhoon’s team ended up winning 3-1. He had scored twice, assisting on the third, and it was, by any measure, a phenomenal performance.
The crowd filtered out of the bleachers in waves. You waited at the bottom of the stands, pretending to check your phone, pretending you weren't watching the players pack up near the bench.
The fanclub was already there.
You saw them from across the field: a cluster of maybe fifteen girls, all wearing those matching headbands, all pressing forward like moths to a flame. They surrounded the bench area, calling Juhoon's name alongside the names of his many other teammates, waving their phones, jostling for position.
You watched one of them grab his arm before hgently extract himself. Another quickly pushed forward with a water bottle, and a third with a handmade card.
He was smiling that polite, practiced smile he used for people he didn't know, but his eyes kept drifting, scanning and searching, looking for you.
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, suddenly aware of how far away you were standing. How separate. How invisible.
You wondered what to do. The possibility of going over there and having to push through a stampede of teenage girls just to talk to your boyfriend made you feel sick. But you had also sat through the entire game and wanted to congratulate him on his plays, so leaving was out of the question.
A girl with pigtails grabbed his sleeve. "Juhoon! Is it true you're single? My friend wants to know!"
The other girls giggled, leaning in and waiting to hear his answer. Juhoon's expression didn't change. "I don't talk about that stuff."
"That's not a no!"
"It's not a yes either."
The girls laughed like he'd said something funny. You bit your lip, your hands curling into fists inside your hoodie pocket. You wanted to tell them that he’s yours, that they needed to back off, but the words got stuck in your throat.
Because you'd never said it out loud. Because you'd never claimed him publicly. Because for all these girls knew, the rumour was exactly that: a rumour, a ghost story, a maybe that didn't mean anything.
You couldn't blame them for trying.
Whilst lost in the maze of your thoughts, Juhoon's gaze finally found you.
You saw the exact moment it happened. His polite, practiced smile had flickered like a mask slipping, just for a second. His eyes locked onto yours across the field, and something in his expression shifted.
The girl with pigtails was still talking. Something about a photo, about waiting all season, about how her friend really liked him. But Juhoon wasn't listening anymore.
He was looking at you, and you were looking right back at him. Neither of you moved for a long, suspended moment. The fanclub chattered around him, entirely oblivious. The rest of the team packed up their bags whilst the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass.
Then Juhoon moved, just a shift of weight initially, a turning of shoulders. He gently extracted his arm from the girl's grip, murmured something you couldn't hear, and then he was walking straight toward you.
The fanclub turned, confused, following his gaze. One by one, they spotted you standing by the corner flag in your hoodie and sneakers, hands still buried in your pocket, heart pounding so loud you were sure everyone could hear it.
Whispers rippled through the group, likely questioning who you were and if you were the rumour girl, but you paid attention to none of it, your focus remained entirely on the boy appraoching you.
Juhoon didn't look back. His cleats squelched softly on the grass; his hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead; his cheeks were flushed from the game.
And his eyes—those dark, steady eyes you adored so deeply—were locked on yours, paying no mind to anything else around.
You should say something, you should smile, wave, do something normal. But your voice had abandoned you, and your feet felt nailed to the ground, and all you could do was watch him get closer.
He was ten meters away. Then five. Then—
"You scored," you blurted out, because the silence was too loud and your heart was too fast and you needed to fill the space between you with something. "Jju, you played so good today—"
His hands were on your cheeks before you could finish.
Warm palms with calloused fingers from years of gripping football balls, from hours of practice, from the way he'd been clenching and unclenching his fists all game, waiting. He cupped your face like you were something precious, something breakable, like you might shatter if he didn't hold you carefully enough.
And then he was pulling you toward him.
There was desperation in the way he closed the distance, months of restraint finally snapping. His fingers curled around the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his, and suddenly his lips were on yours.
The world stopped.
The field. The sunset. The fanclub. The whispers. The entire universe condensed into a single point of contact: his mouth against yours, soft and certain and hungry, like he'd been waiting all day for this.
He kissed you as though he was afraid you'd disappear. Like every time he'd watched you walk away to your classroom, every time he'd bitten his tongue when someone asked about the rumour, every time he'd wanted to reach for your hand in the hallway and stopped himself—it had all been building to this.
His lips slanted over yours, and you felt the sigh he let out, felt the way his shoulders dropped like he'd been holding his breath for weeks and could finally exhale.
Your hands came up automatically, fisting in the fabric of his jersey. The material was damp with sweat beneath your fingers, but you didn't care.
His nose pressed against your cheek, his breath was warm on your skin, he tasted like the mint gum he always chewed before games, mixed with something saltier, something that was just him, a taste you couldn't name but would recognise anywhere, in any lifetime.
One of his hands slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into the hair at your nape. The other stayed where it was, thumb still stroking gentle, absent arcs against your cheekbone. He wasn't rushing anymore, the desperation had softened into something else: something deeper, something that felt like finally.
Behind you, someone gasped. A phone clattered to the ground. Someone else whispered, oh my god.
You didn't care.
You couldn't care. Not with the way he was kissing you, slow and deliberate now, like he was trying to memorise the shape of your lips and tell you everything he'd never been able to say.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
Your eyes fluttered open to find his were still closed, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your breath. His hands were still on you—one in your hair, one on your cheek—and neither of you moved to break the contact.
"Jju," you whispered.
"Took me long enough," he murmured, voice rough.
You let out a shaky laugh. "Took you long enough to what?"
He finally opened his eyes. They were dark, intense, holding yours like he was afraid you'd disappear if he blinked. "To do that," he said. "To stop lying and pretending you're just a rumour."
Behind him, the fanclub stood frozen. Some had their phones out: filming, probably, or taking photos. Others just stood there, mouths open, processing the fact that the boy they had been daydreaming about just kissed a girl in a hoodie by the corner flag.
You should have felt embarrassed, even self-conscious.
But Juhoon was still holding your face, still looking at you like you'd hung the moon, and somehow that made everything else fade away.
"The rumour," you said quietly. "It's not a rumour anymore."
"No," he agreed. "It never was."
You looked at him, seeing how the tension that had previously been in his shoulders now dissipated and left a calmness that only appeared when you were within his reach.
"Juhoon," you whispered.
"Y/N."
"You should probably let go of my face now."
He smiled gently, his thumb tracing your cheek once more as his eyes tracked your features. "Probably."
Instead he pulled you towards him again, this time his lips lingered on your forehead, a soft comfort against the lingering stares of everyone watching the two of you.
Though you could only focus on the boy in front of you, holding you with so much love and care your heart wanted to burst. You didn’t have it in your heart to even pretend to complain about the secret being out now, not if it meant he could love you outwardly like this more often.
⟡⠀⠀⠀ׅ⠀ 𝑖dol!𝑚artin 𝑥 𝑓em!𝑟eader ❤︎ est. relationship 𓈒 pouty martin 𓈒 fluff 𓈒 little kissing 𓈒 drabble (?)
you adored martin, you really did.
you loved his passion for making music and fashion, it was admirable so no wonder so many people looked up to him.
but what people, namely fans, didn’t know, was that he was a complete hopeless romantic.
he’d go to heights to make his girlfriend happy, it didn’t matter if it was buying you a luxury gift or a snack from a store.
as long as he saw you happy, he was happy.
you’re backstage with his group, cortis, for an award show.
you always show up happy and excited for them, you know they’ll win every award.
but today is different, completely different.
everything was going wrong this morning.
your favorite perfume ran out, the clothes you wanted to wear weren’t clean, it started to rain and your hair got ruined.
you were already pissed at everything and, sadly, everyone, including martin.
he enters the waiting room you’re sitting in and immediately notices your serious expression and crossed arms.
“baby, you’re here!” he grins and goes in for a kiss.
before your lips can touch, you move your head to avoid his kiss.
“y/n?” he looks confused but pulls away in order to give you space.
he doesn’t know the horrors you have suffered since 7:00 am.
“i’m not in the mood, martin,” you say in a monotone voice.
he stares at you for a second before nodding and sitting beside you.
after a couple seconds, you decide to look over at him and oh my god.
he’s pouting.
edwards martin is sulking.
“what?” you ask him, holding in a laugh.
“nothing…” he said quickly and shakes his head.
“martin, what?” you turn your body fully towards him.
“nothing! you what?” he looks away from you, a pout still present on his lips.
“look, i’ve already had a bad day, what is it? why are you sulking?” you throw your hands up.
“you rejected my kiss!” he whines, finally looking at you.
“that’s what it is…?” you narrow your eyes at him.
“yes,” he nods seriously.
you sigh and roll your eyes before pinching the bridge of your nose.
you think for a second before cupping his cheeks and kissing him.
he grins against your lips and puts his hands on your waist.
“are you happy now?” you pull away.
“so so happy, cutie,” he smiles wistfully before hugging your waist and leaning into your side.
he’s so clingy after a kiss.
♡ ̲ׄ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ׄ⠀ ⠀choco’s notes : first drabble and a sort of headcanon i have had of martin! i loved writing this, i think it’s so cute! i hope you guys enjoyed it and like the new layout! (๑´`๑)♡
૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა happiest birthday to my riri baby !! @j4eyxn i love u sm my goat 😉😉 also there's sooo much kissing in here lol
martin ver | james ver | seonghyeon ver ( keonho ver next! )
bf! juhoon is the type to rub circles on the palm of your hand while you lay on his chest. his would be laying against the headboard, taking your hand gently and laying it flat, ghosting over your palms as you doomscroll.
bf! juhoon is the type to murmur i love yous while you're sleeping. his heart definitely skips a beat or two when you fall asleep next to him or on him. he likes to soak in your beauty, too. he'd play with your hair gently, tucking a loose strand behind your ear as he whispers.
bf! juhoon is the type to give you soft, gentle, and slow kisses. he'd tuck your hair behind your ear, talking to you about how much he missed you before leaning in, giving you soft pecks on your lips before proceeding to kiss you breathless.
bf! juhoon is the type to look at you with full admiration as you go on about your day. there's nothing that he loves more than going home to you. as he listens, he looks at you with bright eyes and a smile, sometimes chuckling when you say something silly.
bf! juhoon is the type to check up on you every few hours, whether it's through text or in person. the two of you could be on the couch watching a show, and he'd ask you if you're comfortable laying beside him.
bf! juhoon is also the type to instinctively adjust things for you. since his top priority is you being comfortable, he's always adjusting to satisfy you without even having to be told. suddenly shiver in bed? he's pulling up the blanket and making sure you're warm.
bf! juhoon is the type to be very attentive. he'd remember small things about you, how you act when you're feeling a certain mood, or just simply noticing how your shoes are untied.
bf! juhoon is the type to always hold you close as the two of you sleep. his hand will always be found on your waist, body facing yours as you subconsciously move closer to his.
bf! juhoon is the type to kiss your temples and rest his forehead against yours, rubbing your hips as he mumbles i missed you. he'd do this when he gets home from a long, overwhelming day, or when he misses your presence extra hard.
bf! juhoon is the type to lazily smile into a kiss that you initiated. he cheeses so bad when you're the one who kisses him first, no matter how often you do it.
bf! juhoon is the type to cup your face gently when you feel upset. when you've just cried, he wipes away your tears gently, telling you to breathe in and out slowly before you vent to him. he'd also kiss your temples while doing so, and pull you into a hug after.
bf! juhoon is the type to let you do skincare on him. you'd be sat on his lap, his hands placed on your waist to keep you steady as you apply your moisturizer on him.
bf! juhoon is also the type to let you play around with his hair. sometimes he'd let you do his hair, letting you sit on his laps as you tie his hair and placing clips. he also loves it when you run your fingers through his hair.
bf! juhoon is the type to send you things that remind him of you. he definitely has you in his mind twenty-four seven, especially if the two of you had a long-distance relationship. he's the type to send you the picture of the item with no context at all, or he'd annoy the shit out of martin and say name would love this!
bf! juhoon is the type to get a sudden burst of energy just by seeing you. no matter how “nonchalant” he is around his friends ninety-nine percent of the time, he could never be nonchalant with you.
bf! juhoon is the type to stuff his head in the crook of your neck while hugging. he hugs you like he's about to lose you, and him placing his head in the crook of your neck is a sign that he feels clingy.
bf! juhoon is the type to always be so good with his words. he doesn't talk a lot, but when he does, he's very well-spoken. you like it when he talks just as much as he does with you, finding his voice soothing and charming.
bf! juhoon is the type to smile at himself with you're not looking. you could be doing your own thing, and he'd be there observing you, smiling to himself how cute his partner is.
boyfriend!martin who wakes you up at the ass crack of dawn because he had a nightmare about you cheating on him :: wc. 826 :: authors note 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 contains established relationship, fluff, just humor lol :: plss like + reblog :: if my work isn’t for you, feel free to leave but negativity has no place here.
♪ she looks so perfect ノ would you wanna run away too? ‘cause all i really want is you : nav : m.list
Martin woke up sad, thought about it for ten minutes while staring at the wall, then slowly grew angry, a pout tugging at his pink lips. He just had the worst dream, and you're not even awake for him to get annoyed at you for it. What the heck, “babe. wake up,” martin started, massaging your hips while gently shaking your body awake.
You had slept on your side, facing his back. Martin loves being the big spoon, yes, but he never said he hated being the small spoon either. So what if he likes being held?
Though the more he shook you awake, the more you didn't wake up. It only made him even more frustrated. “Wake up!” he shook you even more until you finally started to stretch awake, blinking your clouded sleepiness away. “I'm mad at you,” Martin said the second he saw you peek one eye open.
You yawned and stretched your other arm. “Okay? m'sleeping.” You turned your back toward him, getting more comfortable in your new position, putting an arm under the pillow. You smiled when you felt how good a spot you'd gotten; you weren't really registering what he was saying.
Martin glared at the back of your head. “Now you're just making me even more mad,” he said. You heard him climb off the bed. So dramatic, that boy, swear. When you didn't say anything, too busy drifting back off to sleep, he let out a huge, dramatic sigh, grabbed the pillow from the end of the bed, and threw it at you. “I said, now you're just making me more mad.”
“I heard you,” you mumbled, your eyes still closed. You dug your face deeper into the cold side of the pillow. It's like hitting the jackpot of comfortable spots. “Why are you even mad?” You couldn't help but find him getting annoyed at your sleepy state hilarious. Definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.
“Because you're not listening to me!” he groaned when he saw the small smile on your face. You're not taking him seriously! Why are you smiling? “I had the worst dream. no, actually, it wasn't even a dream, it was a nightmare, and you are just trying to be funny when i'm trying to tell you about it.” he's literally been stressing about the nightmare since he woke up, wondering if it's a sign the universe is trying to give him or if his brain just wants to play tricks on him and give him jump scares that'll have his heart beating like no other just for the fuck of it.
You yawned, getting yourself even more comfortable. “Tell me when I wake up then.” Martin can't wait for you to wake up because he's been stressing about it ever since he woke up!
“Where's your phone?”
You immediately sat up. “What?” Oh, so now all of a sudden you're awake? He didn't know if that made him angrier or sadder.
“I thought you were sleepy,” Martin replied, walking around your room to find your phone. If you weren't going to give him the answers now, he would just have to find out for himself, he guessed. “Where's your phone?” he asked again when he couldn't find it.
“Why?” Now you're asking why? Martin is legit about to crash out.
“You're such a cheater,” he spat out. He was standing while you were now propped up on your elbows, watching him as he looked around for your phone. “In my dream, you were cheating on me with this ugly ass guy, and then I woke up to you not even hugging me. It's like, damn, you really don't love me.” he crossed his arms. “That's when I started thinking, hmmm, maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.”
Is he fucking serious right now? “That's what you're mad about? A fake dream of me cheating?” You shook your head and pulled the blanket over yourself. “Wake me up when you're normal again.”
“Babe, see! how do you expect me not to be mad when you just dismissed me like that?” he pouted. Why aren't you giving him your phone? Or your attention? “You're so mean to me.”
He walked over to the side of the bed you were sleeping on, not caring about the yelp you let out when he put his whole body weight on top of you, letting his head fall into your neck. You huffed. Wasn't he just complaining? The switch up in three seconds truly gave you whiplash. “You just said how mean I was to you and got all mad because of your dumbass dream.”
“I am still mad, trust,” his voice muffled into your neck. You almost snorted. mad looked a little different here, but oh well. “and it's not dumb. I'm still gonna be on you because of that when we wake up again,” you rolled your eyes.
CHEER FOR THE PLAYER, NOT THE GAME ! ───── eom seonghyeon 𓂃 𓈒𓏸
SYNOPSIS texts with your basketball player boyfriend as a (his) cheerleader.
PROJECTS ᠀୧ seonghyeon x f!reader / basketballplayer!seonghyeon x cheerleader!reader — humor, established relationship, swearing, teenage love, highschool complaints, one stressful moment, massive usage of babe
───── ness : i had made a written fic about this idea, but to be honest.. i never thought about it through fully so it sat in my drafts for months but this idea was too cute too give up. i'll try my best in the future.
boyfriend!martin who wakes you up at the ass crack of dawn because he had a nightmare about you cheating on him :: wc. 826 :: authors note 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 contains established relationship, fluff, just humor lol :: plss like + reblog :: if my work isn’t for you, feel free to leave but negativity has no place here.
♪ she looks so perfect ノ would you wanna run away too? ‘cause all i really want is you : nav : m.list
Martin woke up sad, thought about it for ten minutes while staring at the wall, then slowly grew angry, a pout tugging at his pink lips. He just had the worst dream, and you're not even awake for him to get annoyed at you for it. What the heck, “babe. wake up,” martin started, massaging your hips while gently shaking your body awake.
You had slept on your side, facing his back. Martin loves being the big spoon, yes, but he never said he hated being the small spoon either. So what if he likes being held?
Though the more he shook you awake, the more you didn't wake up. It only made him even more frustrated. “Wake up!” he shook you even more until you finally started to stretch awake, blinking your clouded sleepiness away. “I'm mad at you,” Martin said the second he saw you peek one eye open.
You yawned and stretched your other arm. “Okay? m'sleeping.” You turned your back toward him, getting more comfortable in your new position, putting an arm under the pillow. You smiled when you felt how good a spot you'd gotten; you weren't really registering what he was saying.
Martin glared at the back of your head. “Now you're just making me even more mad,” he said. You heard him climb off the bed. So dramatic, that boy, swear. When you didn't say anything, too busy drifting back off to sleep, he let out a huge, dramatic sigh, grabbed the pillow from the end of the bed, and threw it at you. “I said, now you're just making me more mad.”
“I heard you,” you mumbled, your eyes still closed. You dug your face deeper into the cold side of the pillow. It's like hitting the jackpot of comfortable spots. “Why are you even mad?” You couldn't help but find him getting annoyed at your sleepy state hilarious. Definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.
“Because you're not listening to me!” he groaned when he saw the small smile on your face. You're not taking him seriously! Why are you smiling? “I had the worst dream. no, actually, it wasn't even a dream, it was a nightmare, and you are just trying to be funny when i'm trying to tell you about it.” he's literally been stressing about the nightmare since he woke up, wondering if it's a sign the universe is trying to give him or if his brain just wants to play tricks on him and give him jump scares that'll have his heart beating like no other just for the fuck of it.
You yawned, getting yourself even more comfortable. “Tell me when I wake up then.” Martin can't wait for you to wake up because he's been stressing about it ever since he woke up!
“Where's your phone?”
You immediately sat up. “What?” Oh, so now all of a sudden you're awake? He didn't know if that made him angrier or sadder.
“I thought you were sleepy,” Martin replied, walking around your room to find your phone. If you weren't going to give him the answers now, he would just have to find out for himself, he guessed. “Where's your phone?” he asked again when he couldn't find it.
“Why?” Now you're asking why? Martin is legit about to crash out.
“You're such a cheater,” he spat out. He was standing while you were now propped up on your elbows, watching him as he looked around for your phone. “In my dream, you were cheating on me with this ugly ass guy, and then I woke up to you not even hugging me. It's like, damn, you really don't love me.” he crossed his arms. “That's when I started thinking, hmmm, maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.”
Is he fucking serious right now? “That's what you're mad about? A fake dream of me cheating?” You shook your head and pulled the blanket over yourself. “Wake me up when you're normal again.”
“Babe, see! how do you expect me not to be mad when you just dismissed me like that?” he pouted. Why aren't you giving him your phone? Or your attention? “You're so mean to me.”
He walked over to the side of the bed you were sleeping on, not caring about the yelp you let out when he put his whole body weight on top of you, letting his head fall into your neck. You huffed. Wasn't he just complaining? The switch up in three seconds truly gave you whiplash. “You just said how mean I was to you and got all mad because of your dumbass dream.”
“I am still mad, trust,” his voice muffled into your neck. You almost snorted. mad looked a little different here, but oh well. “and it's not dumb. I'm still gonna be on you because of that when we wake up again,” you rolled your eyes.
⠀ 🪷 ˚ after being dumped on a freezing night, you accidentally call your enemy instead of your brother. 2k
AUTHOR’S NOTE i wasn’t planning on writing part 2 but then my late night playlist convinced me otherwise. also tried a new layout. click for part one
The street stays quiet long after the call ends.
You sit there, on the side of the street, shivering, hugging yourself in a pathetic attempt to warm up. Every passing car makes your stomach twist with anticipation, until one slows, then stops directly in front of you.
The headlights wash over you, and your breath catches because you already know it’s him. You feel it before you see him, that strange tightening in your chest, that instinctive awareness you hate having.
The door opens, and Seonghyeon steps out.
He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, not with softness, but with a kind of restrained intensity, like he’s trying to keep something under control.
“You’re still here,” he says quietly.
You swallow. “You told me not to move.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, the closest thing he has to relief.
He walks toward you, hands on his sides, shoulders tense. He stops in front of you, eyes scanning your face, your red nose, your trembling hands.
His voice drops. “Yn, you’re freezing.”
You look away, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
It comes out sharper than he intends.
He exhales, softer. “You’re not.”
Your chest tightens at the shift, the way his tone dips, the way he’s trying not to sound worried. It makes something warm and painful bloom under your ribs.
He crouches down, but not gently. More like he’s annoyed at the ground for being wet, annoyed at you for sitting on it, and most of all annoyed at himself for caring.
“Stand up,” he murmurs.
You hesitate, and he notices. His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, something unguarded flashes there, something that makes your stomach flip.
He reaches out.
His fingers brush your wrist, tentative at first, giving you a chance to pull away.
You don’t. Your breath stutters at the warmth of his hand.
He pulls you up slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break.
You stumble forward, but he catches you naturally. His hands grip your arms, firm, steady, and warm. Too warm. Warm enough that your throat tightens and your eyes sting again.
“Careful,” he mutters, but the word is softer than the tone.
You look up at him, and for a moment, he looks away, as if meeting your eyes is too much.
Then he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. This time, he doesn’t pretend it’s practical. He doesn’t pretend he’s annoyed. He just does it.
And your heart aches. Again.
“Why are you being nice to me?” you whisper.
He freezes. His eyes lift to yours, and you swear the world narrows to that single moment.
“I’m not,” he says too quickly.
You almost laugh, a small, imperceptible sound, because he absolutely is.
“You are,” you whisper. “And it’s confusing me.”
He looks away again, jaw tight, like he’s fighting himself.
“Get in the car,” he says, voice low. “Please.”
You blink. The word hits you harder than it should.
“You said please.”
He closes his eyes for half a second, like he regrets it instantly.
“Don’t make me take it back.”
You should be offended. You should roll your eyes. You should snap at him like you always do.
But you don’t.
Because the truth is, you’re freezing. You’re exhausted. And the way he’s looking at you right now, guarded, tense, but undeniably worried, makes something inside you unravel.
You get in the car.
He closes the door gently, not slamming it like he usually does. When he gets in on his side, he doesn’t start the engine right away. He just sits there, hands on the wheel, breathing slowly like he’s trying to steady himself.
Finally, he speaks.
“You shouldn’t have been alone tonight.”
Your throat tightens. “I didn’t mean to call you.”
“I know.”
His voice is quiet.
“But you did.”
You look at him, and he finally meets your eyes. The look he gives you makes your heart stumble.
“Next time,” he says, voice low, “if you’re hurting like that… call me on purpose. Okay?”
Your breath catches.
You don’t know what this is. You don’t know why your chest feels too full. But suddenly you’re not cold anymore.
“Okay.”
The engine hums softly as he pulls away from the curb, the sound barely audible beneath the distant noise of the city.
Streetlights slide across the windshield in long ribbons of gold and white, briefly illuminating the sharp lines of Seonghyeon’s face before disappearing again. The city feels strangely far away from inside the car, as though the two of you exist in a separate world suspended between one destination and the next.
Seonghyeon doesn’t speak, not once. Not even a sigh. He just drives.
His jaw is tight enough that you can see the muscle twitch every now and then. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, dark and unreadable beneath the glow of passing lights. His hands rest steadily on the steering wheel, fingers curled around it with quiet control.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable.
You sit curled into the passenger seat, wrapped in his jacket. It’s much too big for you. The sleeves cover your hands, and the scent of him lingers stubbornly in the fabric, clean detergent mixed with his distinct cologne. The warmth sinks slowly into your skin, into your bones. Into the hollow places that have felt cold for too long.
You pull the jacket tighter around yourself.
For a moment, your eyes drift to the window. The city passes by in a blur of neon signs, traffic lights, and reflections dancing across rain-dark pavement. Everything outside keeps moving, but inside the car time feels stretched thin.
Your gaze finds him again. You tell yourself not to look, but you do it anyway.
The curve of his nose, the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps swallowing like he’s holding something back.
You wonder what he’s thinking. You wonder if he’s angry at you for calling him out of the blue. You wonder why he came so quickly.
The questions pile up until they become impossible to ignore.
“…Thank you.”
The words leave your mouth so quietly you’re not even sure he heard them. But he does. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
It's silent again. For a second, you think he is not going to answer.
“What for?” His voice is low and careful.
You stare down at your hands hidden beneath his sleeves.
“For coming.”
The words scrape painfully out of your chest.
“For…” Your voice catches. You hate that it does. You hate how fragile and pathetic you sound.
“…for not leaving me there.”
The car fills with silence once more.
Seonghyeon exhales slowly. A long breath, as though he’s been holding it since the moment he saw your name flash across his phone.
The streetlight above casts a brief glow across his face.
For the first time all night, you catch something crack through the composure he’s been wearing.
“I wasn’t going to leave you there.”
The words come out barely above a murmur, soft and immediate, like there was never another possibility.
Your breath catches.
His eyes remain on the road.
“Just…” He pauses. The single word hangs between you.
“Don’t make me worry like that again.”
The world seems to tilt, just slightly, just enough to steal the air from your lungs.
You stare at him, but he refuses to look back.
His jaw clenches immediately afterward, like he regrets saying it, like the truth slipped out before he could stop it.
The vulnerability of it hits harder than anything else.
Seonghyeon never says things he doesn’t mean, and those words weren’t casual, polite, or out of obligation.
They were honest.
You look away first. Your heart beats unevenly against your ribs.
The rest of the drive passes quietly, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore. Every second feels filled with things left unsaid.
The warmth of his jacket, the memory of his voice, the way he had looked at you earlier when he thought you weren’t paying attention, the way he had shown up without hesitation, the way he had stayed.
Outside, neighborhoods begin replacing city streets, then familiar roads, familiar houses, and finally your home. Too soon.
You hadn’t realized how badly you didn’t want the drive to end.
The car slows as he turns onto your street.
You glance at him one last time. He notices, you notice he does, but neither of you say anything.
The porch light flicks on the second his headlights sweep across your driveway.
The front door opens before the car has even fully stopped. Keonho appears immediately, panic written across every inch of him. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.
His eyes scan the car frantically. The moment he spots you, relief crashes through his expression so hard it’s almost painful to watch.
“Yn!”
He’s moving before you can answer.
The passenger door flies open. Cold night air rushes inside.
“Are you okay?” he asks breathlessly.
His hands hover near your shoulders as if checking for injuries.
“Why didn’t you call me? I was worried sick. I was about to go looking for you—”
Then he notices who’s standing beside the car.
Seonghyeon.
The words die instantly in his throat.
For a brief moment, neither of them speaks.
The porch light casts long shadows across the driveway.
They look at each other, and a silent understanding passes between them.
Keonho exhales heavily. The tension drains from his shoulders.
“Thank you.” His voice is sincere with gratitude.
“Really. Thank you for staying with her.”
Seonghyeon glances briefly toward you.
“She shouldn’t have been alone.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
He says it so simply, as though it were obvious. As though anyone would have done the same. Yet somehow you know they wouldn’t have. At least, not like he did, without hesitation.
Keonho helps you out of the car.
The moment your feet hit the ground, exhaustion crashes over you. The night’s emotions suddenly feel ten times heavier.
“You should get inside,” Keonho says gently.
You nod quietly, but your eyes keep drifting back.
Back to him.
Seonghyeon stands beside his car with his hands shoved into his pockets.
The night breeze ruffles his dark hair. The porch light catches in his eyes.
He’s looking at you.
For one long moment, neither of you looks away, and something inside your chest twists. A strange ache.
Then, finally, he lowers his gaze, turns around, and slides back into the driver’s seat.
The engine starts again.
You watch until the taillights disappear at the end of the street, until the darkness swallows them completely. Only then do you go inside.
Hours later, you’re lying on your bed.
The house is quiet.
Keonho checked on you three times before finally leaving you alone.
The hallway light glows faintly beneath your door.
Everything should feel normal again, but it doesn’t.
You roll onto your side and pull Seonghyeon’s jacket closer. The fabric bunches beneath your fingers. His scent still lingers there, faint and comforting. Far too comforting for a boy you’re supposed to hate.
Your eyes close. Immediately, memories replay.
His voice when he picked up the phone. The shift when he heard you were crying. His face when he arrived. His hand reaching for yours. The warmth of his jacket settling around your shoulders. The look in his eyes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. And those words.
Don’t make me worry like that again.
The sentence loops endlessly through your mind. Nobody has ever made worrying sound so gentle, so honest, so personal.
Your chest aches. But for the first time since the breakup, the ache feels different. As though something new had quietly slipped into the space where all the hurt used to be.
You stare at the ceiling in the darkness.
Your fingers tighten around the sleeve of his jacket.
Despite everything you’re feeling, the heartbreak, the confusion, the exhaustion, one thought keeps returning. One thought you can’t seem to silence.
Out of all people, Seonghyeon showed up. The second you needed him, he came.
And somewhere in the middle of all your grief, all your loneliness, all your broken pieces, you realize he’s there now, too, quietly, patiently, waiting in the corners of your thoughts, tangled somewhere between comfort and longing.
And for the first time, that realization scares you more than the heartbreak ever did.
SUMMARY after being dumped on a freezing night, you accidentally call your enemy instead of your brother.
WORD COUNT 1.3k
AUTHOR’S NOTE i’ve had this in the drafts for too long… here take it
click for part two
The night is freezing.
Not the kind of cold that simply brushes against your skin, but the kind that sinks into your bones and settles there, heavy and relentless.
Your breath leaves your lips in shaky white clouds.
The pavement beneath you is damp from an earlier rain, soaking through the fabric of your jeans as you sit on the curb with your knees pulled tightly against your chest. The rough concrete bites into your skin, but you barely notice, because the humiliation burns hotter.
Hotter than the sting behind your eyes. Hotter than the tears sliding down your cheeks. Hotter than the memory of your ex-boyfriend’s face when he told you it wasn’t working anymore.
The words replay endlessly in your head like a song you never wanted to hear again, or like a wound someone keeps pressing their thumb into.
Around you, the city moves on. Cars sweep past in streaks of red taillights and white headlights, reflections smearing across the wet asphalt. Distant conversations drift through the air. Somewhere nearby, a train rattles over steel tracks.
But everything sounds muffled to you, distant, as if you’re underwater, as if the entire world has been wrapped in cotton just to make your heartbreak echo louder inside your skull.
You drag a shaky hand across your face. Your mascara smears beneath your fingertips as you do so. You don’t even care anymore.
For the first time in months, maybe years, you feel completely untethered, completely lost, completely alone. And suddenly you need someone, anyone.
Someone who knows you. Someone who can tell you you’re going to survive this. Someone who can anchor you before the storm inside your chest pulls you under completely. The first person who comes to mind is your brother, Keonho.
Your fingers fumble for your phone, the screen illuminating your face with cold blue light. Everything is blurry through your tears.
You scroll through your contacts without really looking or thinking. Your vision swims through your tears.
You tap the first B you see and press call.
You hold the phone to your ear. It rings once, twice, three times, each ring stretching longer than the last.
A voice from the other end slices through the darkness.
“…What?”
Low, deep, impatient.
Your entire body goes rigid at the sound, your breath catches painfully in your throat.
No. This can’t be happening. You didn’t call Keonho.
You called Eom Seonghyeon.
Your sworn enemy. Your rival. The boy who turns every conversation into a battlefield. The boy whose name alone can raise your blood pressure. The absolute last person on earth you would ever willingly call while crying.
For a horrifying second, your brain simply stops functioning. You can literally hear your mind going blank. You stare at the phone. His contact is glowing across the screen. You must’ve messed up “Brother” with “Bitch”.
Your stomach drops.
God, you can’t believe this. You actually called Seonghyeon.
A fresh wave of humiliation crashes over you, as if being dumped wasn’t enough.
You should hang up immediately. You should throw your phone into traffic. You should disappear from Earth.
But your thumb won’t move. It ghosts over your illuminated screen.
Before you can force yourself to end the call, a small sound escapes you.
One broken inhale, one pathetic sniffle, one crack in your composure. Just one. But it’s enough for Seonghyeon to hear it.
The silence on the line changes instantly.
His voice sharpens with alert, and every previous trace of irritation vanishes.
“Yn?”
Your pulse stutters at how he says your name.
A pause follows, barely a second long, but it’s enough for something to shift, enough for you to hear the crack in the armor he always wears around you.
“Are you okay? Where are you?”
The question lands harder than it should. The way he says the words feels demanding, focused, as if nothing else matters.
You swallow. Your throat feels raw, scraped clean by hours of crying.
“I didn’t mean to call you,” you whisper.
Your voice trembles so badly it barely sounds like your own.
“I thought you were Keonho. I’m sorry if I bothered—”
“Where.”
The single word cuts through your sentence.
Your heart skips.
It’s the voice he uses when he’s serious, the one that never leaves space for argument, the one that makes you picture him already moving, already standing, already grabbing his keys like he’s just been waiting for an excuse.
You shake your head despite knowing he can’t see it.
“I’m fine.” The lie sounds weak even to you.
You laugh softly, a miserable sound.
“I’m so stupid. I just got dumped and—”
The word catches. Your chest caves inward, and your voice breaks completely.
It’s silent. Not the usual cold silence Seonghyeon always gives you. It’s not even the annoyed silence, nor the sarcastic one. This feels different, as though he’s gripping something inside himself and refusing to let it loose. It’s heavy, dense, and charged with thoughts he can’t seem to express.
The seconds drag.
You can hear faint movement on his end. A rustle of fabric, a door opening and then closing.
When he speaks again, his voice is unrecognizable. No more smugness, no more sharp edge, no more irritation. What’s left is something quieter, something controlled, something that sounds incredibly close to gentle. Something you didn’t know Seonghyeon was capable of.
“Stay where you are.”
Your eyes widen.
“Seonghyeon, I didn’t call you for—”
“I know.” The interruption is softer this time.
He exhales quietly, like he’s trying very hard not to sound worried. “I know you didn’t.”
The city lights blur through fresh tears.
His next words arrive almost reluctantly.
“But you called me.”
Your heart stumbles, as if it forgot how to beat properly.
The line fills with movement. You can’t make out anything until you hear a car door slamming, the sound loud and definitive.
Your breath catches.
“Text me your location.”
You close your eyes. “I said I’m fine.”
“And I said text me your location.”
His voice drops lower, rougher. The sound rolls through your chest like distant thunder, every word deliberate, every syllable unwavering.
For a second, if he weren’t coming to get you, you’d swear he was angry with you.
“You’re crying on the side of the road.”
A pause. “I’m not leaving you there.”
Something twists painfully inside you.
Not because of your ex-boyfriend, or at least not this time, but because nobody stayed tonight, and somehow, the only person showing up is the one person who was never supposed to.
Your grip on your phone tightens enough that your knuckles turn white.
“Why do you even care?”
The question slips out before you can stop it. It’s small, fragile, and honest.
Silence answers first. Several long seconds, enough for your heartbeat to become deafening, enough for you to wonder if you’ve made a mistake asking.
“Because it’s you.”
The world stops. The traffic, the wind, the ache in your chest. Everything.
Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your throat and stays there.
The streetlight above flickers. Gold light spills across your trembling hands, across the tears drying on your skin, across the phone clenched tightly against your ear.
You don’t know what this feeling is.
You don’t know why his voice suddenly sounds different, why every word feels heavier, or why your pulse won’t slow down.
But your fingers move anyway.
You open his empty chat, share your location, and click send.
The typing bubble appears instantly, as if he’d been waiting, as if he’d been watching, ready.
Three simple words arrive.
[ Seonghyeon ] I’m coming.
A second message follows.
[ Seonghyeon ] Don’t move.
Then the line goes dead, but that isn’t the end.
The electricity he leaves behind keeps buzzing beneath your skin.
And for the first time all night, you don’t feel quite so alone.
SYNOPSIS: martin wants a late night snack, and you just want him to stop interrupting your sleep. martin edwards x f!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS: none, just fluff and the bitter aftertaste of my loneliness, f!reader is a little mean but it’s fair honestly
WC: 0.9k
NOW PLAYING: stuck in love, café canela (3:41 min)
you’re on the cusp of sleep when martin lifts his head off the pillow.
his arm feels warm, feels safe at its position around your waist. his breath puffs in and out against the back of your neck, but it’s not slow enough, not lazy enough.
he’s awake. you inwardly sigh. martin makes his move.
‘baby. wake up.’
you play dead, banking on the fact that he doesn’t know you well enough to think you’re asleep. but alas, it is martin. the same martin who knows you take your coffee after stirring thrice, or that you love winter but hate the cold, or that you’ll only eat ramen when there’s no spring onions and a healthy scoop of sesame seeds.
that same martin is now removing his warmth from your skin and lifting himself onto his elbows.
‘i know you’re awake, c’mon. i can sense it.’
‘that’s not creepy at all.’ he has the audacity to smirk at that, even though you can’t see. if you weren’t already facing away from him, you would be by now.
‘you are such a little shit. i was just about to fall asleep, tin.’
a sliver of guilt makes its way into martin’s chest at that, though it quickly disappears when you turn around and create a resounding slap! against his chest.
‘hey! what was that for?’ the comment elicits a sleepy giggle from you, enough to pull at the corners of his lips.
now that martin’s got your attention, he wants more of it, quickly dropping back from his elbows down into the crook of your neck.
your arms wrap around his neck, travelling into his hair as he peppers kisses across your collarbone. it’s quiet now, just like how it was before martin decided to wake you up at an ungodly hour.
‘like your hair like this,’ you murmur, ‘feels nice. longer.’
‘yeah?’
‘yeah.’
‘is it nice enough that you could get out of bed and maybe… come get snacks with me?’
’martin.’
‘…yes?’
‘you woke me up so i could babysit you at the convenience store?’
‘well when you put it like that…’
‘it’s exactly how it sounds, tin.’
‘please please please?’ martin’s looking at you now, no, in you, the way he does when his love borders on admiration.
there’s a little whine in his voice, and it tells you he’s a bit embarrassed after asking. nevertheless, his 6’3 self always gets what he wants, so you sigh, audibly this time, long and loud so he can hear clearly.
martin grins at that, easing himself off the bed before reaching for his hoodie laid across the chair. he pulls you up, a little more effort needed to fully convince you to wake properly.
when you’re finally standing, he raises your arms, pulling the hoodie over your head and letting it fall around the top of your thighs.
‘i can dress myself, y’know.’
‘yeah but, baby, you’re just too adorable.’
‘shut up, man.’
the pair of you finally make it out the door after martin takes 15 minutes finding his beanie, claiming that he ‘can’t just walk around looking like a fool’. you retaliated by telling him it’s 2 am, and nobody is judging his outfit at 2 am.
the street is outlined with remnants of snow from a few days ago, wet and a little dirty, but magical nonetheless.
oh, and cold. oh so cold.
‘martin you are a sick freak for dragging me out at this time so you can eat.’
you’re clinging to him, arms clutching his bicep in a death grip as he practically carries you towards the store at the end of the street.
‘m’sorry baby. i really am. i’ll pay for your snacks, yeah?’
‘you already do, stupid.’
and martin being martin, grins at that, because what says i love you more than passive aggressive comments in the dead of night?
the entrance to the convenience store feels like a lifeline, heat rushing to reach your skin as you step in.
he wraps an arm around your shoulders as you detach yourself from him, always in need of your touch.
‘do you know what you want?’
‘um… funny story actually…’
‘martin edwards park.’
‘i’m just playing baby! yeah, i do.’
you mirror his steps as he leads you towards the instant ramen aisle, stopping right in the middle. no one’s there except for the teenage cashier half asleep at the counter, you note, as martin lets go of you in favour of choosing a flavour.
‘ok. m’done. you want anything?’
you shake your head, yawn slipping out as he leads you to the counter.
‘wait,’ that stops martin for a second.
‘i want banana milk.’
‘yeah, sure baby, whatever you want.’ martin leaves you momentarily, slipping past aisles to reach the back, though you can still see his stupid beanie peeking above the shelves.
he swings the plastic bag in the hand that’s not occupied yours, peace settling over the two of you, soft and quiet. when you finally settle on the couch back at home, you punch a straw into your reward (banana milk), and track martin’s figure as he sets about making his ramen.
he joins you, placing the bowl on the coffee table, face burying into your hair as you tuck yourself into his side.
‘thanks for coming with me.’
he only receives a half-hearted hum back, and plucks the carton from your fingers as you finally doze off.
the clock ticks to a rough 3 am. martin knows he has a schedule tomorrow, but for now, there’s nothing he’d rather do than be stuck in love with you.
‘cause you were always in love
you were always hung up’
martin…if you hear me martin…call me…
on a serious note, there have been a few not so nice things happening in coerblr over the past few weeks. lovely cosmiho deleted her account due to excessive hate, which is not tolerated in this community, or any other, for that fact. this should be a positive place where people can gather, connect, and have fun, and this sanctuary of sorts is ruined when not so nice people make disgusting comments. cosmiho is only one example of what can happen when you take it too far, and i really don’t want to see anyone else, especially my (or your) favourite writers, end up in the same situation, period. so, please remember, if you don’t like, don’t read! simple as that.
- ceecee’s contribution ⋆˚࿔♫⋆˚࿔
SYNOPSIS regardless of your insecurities, he will always find you as the perfect girl he knows.
REQUESTED 𐙚˚ 08' martin x f!reader established relationship insecure reader comparing stress thinking comfort fluff drabble?
@ NESS i decided to just make this a drabble / written fic anon because i've been feeling philosophical these days (wow you're so cool) i hope that's fine w you:( tho the ending feels a bit rushed i'm sorry.. also why do i use the em-dash in like every paragraph
SIDE NOTE insecurities are normal - atleast every human in this world has an insecurity; big or small. but please don't let it shadow over you. as someone who grew up with insecurities, we all realize our worth over time and notice how much insecurities effect us & how much of a dumb myth it all seems. we're all beautiful in our own way, were all worth it. we're not born to be perfect, but we all have our own beauty within ourselves.
YOU WERENT BIG ON INSECURITIES, but of course there were times where you didnt feel like yourself — you felt off, stressed, too different to manage and to make matters worse, you kept it all hidden, all secretive to yourself.
you didn't want to make others worried for your own insecurities or any stress feelings that were put against you. you always thought of it as a myth, just like it was a silly idea that would go away within its own.
but what you didn't realize is that keeping it away from others, made it pile and pile up as time went on. the idea of it went away, but the true feeling never did.
you told yourself you looked good in different styles, colors, and types of clothing. you knew you did - everyone thought so as well. you were complimented on a basis, for many things; physically and personality wise.
but you never thought the day would come, where it would all crumble — all in front of your lover, the person you kept it hidden from for the longest time, the person who complimented you and made it known that–to him, you were the most beautiful person he ever laid his eyes on, making his love an effort to you.
you thought it would be considered stupid to admit to all the rigid feelings to him. his love, his compliments were supposed to help you — help you be seen as a person, a girl, his girlfriend. but deep down, you felt the appeal he made towards you, but it just gained your insecurities a second chance in winning.
it's not like you were wearing something out of the ordinary; it was just a simple denim skirt alongside with a basic top, suitable for the weather.
but you were also just a girl who loved looking at other girls and their beauty. some become envious of their beauty while others form interest in them.
you weren't hatred to the others around you, you'd never compare yourself or become jealous over one's beauty but for some reason an odd thought appeared to your head, correlated to your boyfriend — the one who showered you with affection everyday.
you couldn't help but realize the fact that they were wearing the same thing as you - similar almost, and you saw the way they outshined you in every way. other girls had their hair styled just like yours, but yet theirs was shinier than ever.
you felt goosebumps raise against the shown parts of your skin, as you banged your palm against your arm, a sign to distract yourself as you tried to focus on whatever martin was talking about on the side of you to one of his friends.
you looked around your surroundings, invading different peoples conversations visually, looking at their orders almost in hunger as you didn't felt the need to eat prior to this — you just didn't tell martin. hence why you insisted on chilling at the barstools instead.
"what you thinking about?" you felt a shiver down your back as a random gush of air hit against your ear, interrupting your observation.
your head whipped to the sound, releasing a slight chuckle in embarrassment, "nothing why?" you watched the way his face didn't have his typical outgoing smile that he always had. it was more so a smile that showed small emotion, emotion of knowing something has to be wrong.
"i mean you're not eating and you're not talking either? you wanted to come here right?" he said softly, watching the way your fingers still drummed against your arms, before looking back towards your eyes.
you avoided his gaze, almost letting out a deep sigh — a sigh that would've shown the true, and the real feelings that were trapped within you but you quickly disregarded it, not wanting to express them in front of martin.
"i'm just tired?" you replied instantly, but not truthfully. you weren't even sure yourself, being confused with your own words and thoughts, combined all at once.
he hummed at your response, not being oblivious to your answer but he didn't want to act on it furthermore, creating a deeper silence between the two of you, the unnecessary tension as he stared at your side profile.
the way your eyes slowly blinked, the way your lips were pursed, the drumming of your fingers becoming more frantic, it wasn't any more obvious that something was stressing you out.
"you know, you can tell me if something is wrong"
you shook your head at him, quickly denying any type of rumor he would make up. you wanted to be fine — the reasoning felt too dumb to explain, you thought it would make you look stupid rather than feel stupid if you were to bring it up.
he sighed, as he examined your demeanor once more before turning back to talk to his friends. your eyes immediately removed itself from your arm, as your fingers came to a halt. you looked over to him one more time, watching the way his energy went back to normal despite the tense conversation you just had with him.
you nodded to yourself, as you looked away from him and his friends, continuing to observe around the area. but it got to the point where you felt misplaced — not in the way that you felt bored, but you felt like you weren't meant to be considered pretty.
looking around at the females who came with their friends, who deserve partners but probably don't worry about them –themselves. how less of an effort they can put into their beauty and yet still feel comfortable, without having a single doubt in their minds.
martin didnt talk to you much after that, assuming you had a lot on your mind due to the short and hurried responses you gave to him. but that made you want to explode even more. you wished that you can just open up and talk paragraphs to him about everything, but why was it so difficult? he's the one who sees the beauty that you can't see, he sees the perfection in you, he chose you for a reason.
your brain felt like it was melted with overwhelming thoughts — thoughts that made you worry for the worse, that made you feel unseen.
you looked at martin one last time before getting up from the stool, not giving him a glance when you finally stepped down. you made your way out of the scene as quickly as you could, not baring with any of your surroundings. you had no idea where you were going to walk to, you didn't even know the place that well.
you made your way to the closest thing, the only thing that you could see which was the main enterance. nobody was there, nobody was entering nor leaving. perfect space for you to hangout by yourself.
you didn't want to cry, you couldn't even cry. despite all those emotions that were built up deep down, it didn't come out. you felt lightheaded over everything.
you brought a hand up to your forehead, shutting your eyes mid proces. you felt small tears brim up in the corner of your eyes but you didn't force them out, you just let them sit there like your tears were unsure of releasing themselves. being in this position felt so stressful to you. why is opening up so difficult?
martin felt your prescene leave, he felt a shift in the air ever since you had sat down next to him. but the way you didn't bother looking at him or give him a word onto where you were going, led him thinking — thinking too much. were you mad at him? or did you just not feel good. if you didn't feel good, you'd usually let him know that you want to go back home but you didn't do any of that.
although he watched you to where you were heading, his attention tried to remain back onto his friends, trying to give you some space. thinking that you'd just come back on your own. but he couldn't. he kept thinking about you, about your feelings, and why you were acting like this. he needed to talk to you.
excusing himself from his friends, he made his way over to the main enterance, hoping you were still there and didn't leave your spot.
that's where he found you, your back slouched against the stone bench that was set by the doors, jacket rested lazily over your shoulders, as you dozed off to the plant in the corner of the room. there were no tears on your face, no leftovers marks, but he could see how you were feeling just by the way your eyes were narrowed, aswell as the slight pout on your lips.
"are you okay? youve been acting up all night." he said, standing over you. you didnt look at him, but your doze ended. you blinked slowly before letting out a sigh, "i'm fine." you repeated again.
it was his turn to sigh, "you're really not. can you just talk to me or do you want to go home?" he finally sat down next to you, though not too close to you. he wanted you to find your comfort state back.
you finally looked at him with a slight grin, "am i'm pretty?" you felt like laughing at yourself. why would you even say something like that. your grin started to falter, when you saw the way the corner of his lips were threatening to rise.
"are you seriously asking me that right now?" he smiled softly, almost laughing at your question. but that just made you groan, "yes i'm being serious martin. i'm sitting here looking at other girls and thinking that you probably find them more prettier than me." you rambled off, avoiding his gaze by now.
those tears came back, still threatening for it's release but you really tried to hold them back. you didn't want to break down in front of your boyfriend, rambling about stupid stuff.
"what...do you even hear what you're saying?" he leaned over to get a closer look at your face. he saw your tears prickling in the corner of your eyes though he hadthat smile still remaining on his lips, "why would i settle for another female when i have the most prettiest girl sitting right in front of me?"
you shut your eyes, another sigh releasing from you — showing how much his words effected you. but you stayed silent, sitting there as you tried to compose your tears.
his face softened from the way your lip was slightly trembling, your eyebrows furrowing alongside. he could tell you were really trying to keep yourself from breaking down and it broke him apart completely. "you seriously need to understand that there's nothing to be thinking too much about here, my love for you is so obvious and it'll remain always." he rested his hand on top of yours, playing with your rings, not entirely wanting to grab your hand fully. he's your boyfriend after all, but he's never seen you in this state before.
you opened your eyes, looking straight at him now, "i know it's stupid but like..." you looked down to your lap, now playing with your skirt, settling into silence for a bit before speaking up again, "i can't help but think that you'd leave me for no reason."
"in what world would i leave the most perfect girl just to ruin my life?" he chuckled slightly, "i think i would rather die.."
you couldn't help but smile a bit. although he was talking to you with laughs and smiles, you could feel the truth just by his words and by the small actions he was making towards you.
you groaned in a more laughing matter, "gosh i hate you.." you pushed his shoulder a bit, "i can never be sad because of you" you sniffled one last time, a tear drop running down your cheek — you weren't even sure if that tear was from sadness or from joy.
"why the hell would you wanna be sad?" he raised an eyebrow at you, shifting closer to you now that he's seen that you've gotten more comfortable. "i don't know, i always get into my feelings and then you come out here having me giggling, almost forgetting why i'm even sad." you pursed your lips.
"isn't that the point? to distract you from being sad?" he laughed, "i don't want to see you sad. i don't even know why you're feeling like you're not pretty enough for me. like seriously."
you frowned a bit, "i know you love me but like i can't help but think you deserve someome better than me.." you said low, mumbling your words.
he clicked his tongue at your words, returning a slight shove back to your shoulder, "i do not deserve someone better than you, you're literally everything i ever wanted."
you smiled, "you love me?" you teased him, smirking with an raise of an eyebrow. "of course i do you doofus, now stop thinking bad let's head back"
"i wanna leave though.." you muttered. "okay then let's leave." he got up from his spot, picking up his jacket from the side of him. "you're not gonna say bye to your friends?" you got up after him, fixing the jacket that was resting on your shoulders.
"i don't care about them, i care and love you way more. now let's go i'm gonna buy you some food because you can't come here thinking you're not gonna eat for three hours straight."
he took the jacket from iff your shoulders, putting it through your arms. he then zipped it up for you, staring at you for a good second afterwards. "stop staring at me you freak" you giggled at him, furrowing your eyebrows is fake digust.
he chuckled, as he grabbed your hand, planting a quick kiss on the back of it, before intertwining your hand with his own. "i can stare at you all day, pretty"
pixelskylines
germansingergirl
dailybridgerton
andulkaphoto
janainaart
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
