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⌦.｡that awkward feeling (part 2) — martin e.

[ 👾 ] synopsis you’ve taken it upon yourself to put some distance between you and martin in fear your hidden feelings for him might ruin things. unbeknownst to you, the boy himself just might have a secret of his own. pairing(s) friend!martin x fem!reader. genre a bit of angst, fluff, loser!martin (are we even surprised), y/n acts kinda mean, mention of alcohol/getting tipsy, a kiss, expletives. word count 15.4k+ words. rob’s note next to “naiilang” by le john, another opm song by over october inspired this one, titled “ikot”. it’s not mandatory that you read the first part but that one really dives deep into y/n’s perspective, as i’m going to focus on martin’s in this part sksksksk. hope you guys enjoy this! 😄🌷 i got so carried away apologies :") [ part 1 ]

Life was made up of so many things. That was how Martin had always understood it.

It wasn’t a ladder you climbed or a list you ranked in order of importance. Rather, it was a wide, overlapping sprawl. It was found in the way music bleeds into movement, movement into noise, noise into people. Nothing stayed neatly contained (not if he could help it), and he’d never wanted it to. He liked the idea that life could be full without it feeling heavy, that you could want many things at once without having to cling too tightly to any single one of them.

Growing up in the Edwards-Park household, music had always come first.

It wasn’t even a conscious choice, or an interest that was forced upon him just because everyone else in his family had a passion for it. Music was always just there, as constant as breathing. His dad, most of all, made it prevalent with his influence. Sound filled the quiet corners of his life before he ever learned how to name what he was feeling. If anything, it softened the edges of everything else.

Movement followed naturally after that. It was admittedly restless and undoubtedly necessary, a way to keep his body in sync with his head. Noise, too, with the comfort of always having something happening, something to focus on, something that kept him from sitting too long with thoughts that asked more questions than he was ready to answer.

Martin actually liked being busy, as a matter of fact. Despite everyone else everywhere thinking otherwise. He liked having his hands full. He liked being too occupied with things to even spiral in his thoughts. He liked not having to decide which part of his life mattered more than the others.

Friendship, for the longest time, lived somewhere in that same mix.

It mattered, of course. He couldn’t possibly deny that. But, let’s be real here, it wasn’t really sacred, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t something you wrapped carefully and protected at all costs. It wasn’t family. It wasn’t music. It wasn’t the kind of thing you made promises about. Friendship, to Martin, had always been something that happened naturally when paths crossed often enough, when people shared the same space long enough to become familiar.

Friendships were meant to be easy, organic. Unexamined.

The moment you start overthinking it, the moment you start to let it take over everything in your life, that’s when friendships stop being effortless. And effort, in his mind, was where things started to break.

That philosophy was how he’d ended up in the dance club in the first place.

Joining that club wasn’t some lifelong dream or secret calling. If he were being honest, he’d originally planned on joining something more obviously tied to music — perhaps production, composition, literally anything that kept him close to soundboards and software (he had wanted to finally use the MIDI board he got for Christmas, after all).

However, he’d joined the dance club on a whim, half-curiosity and half parental suggestion. His parents had told him — gently, definitely reasonably what with his most recent stint in PhysEd — that if he was going to spend hours hunched over equipment and screens, he should probably do something that allowed him to move too.

So he tried it, albeit quite begrudgingly, fully expecting it to be temporary.

Okay now, dance club wasn’t technically bad — far from it, actually. It was one of the most popular organizations at Cedar Heights for a reason, competitive and loud and alive in a way that surprised even him. He told himself he’d stay for a month. Maybe two. Just long enough to say he tried.

What he hadn’t expected was the people.

James, Juhoon, Seonghyeon, and Keonho already came as a set. They’d been friends long before Martin showed up — comfortable in each other’s rhythms, finishing one another’s sentences and inside jokes, arguing about even the smallest things like it was a sport. Somehow, instead of making him feel like an outsider, they pulled him in all at once.

There was no awkward trial period, no formal moment where he earned his place in their little group. One day he was just… there. It was as though, before he even realized it and allowed it to sink in, he was already folding into rehearsals, jokes, post-practice walks, shared exhaustion, like he had been there from the beginning.

James, or Zhao Yufan, as he learned, was unpredictable but anchoring all the same, a guy made of pure chaos with a center of gravity. Ahn Keonho was loud and unapologetic, the kind of happy-go-lucky presence you felt even when he wasn’t speaking. Kim Juhoon was sharp and intentional, every word chosen like it mattered because he made sure that it did. Eom Seonghyeon noticed things others missed, steady in a way that grounded the room and everyone in it that counted.

They laughed together. They moved together. With them, hours passed without Martin even noticing. Friendship, exactly the way he’d always understood it — unforced, unannounced, something that simply happened.

They started to leave school together after that. It wasn’t planned at all, no announcements needed, either. It’s not long before when, one afternoon as they were walking out after practice, all of that widened.

He met Iroha and Wonhee by accident, the two of them stepping out of a classroom just as the boys were passing by.

They’d just finished a meeting for the school paper, arms full of folders and complaints about deadlines, already familiar with the boys Martin was walking with and naturally accepting of his sudden inclusion.

Hokazono Iroha matched his pace almost immediately, same age, same easy familiarity settling in like it had always been there. Lee Wonhee followed with warmth that felt practiced, like she knew how to make space for people without trying too hard.

Now, all of it — the sudden expansion of his world, the way new people kept folding into his life without warning — would have unsettled old Martin more than he would’ve liked to admit. He’d always been wary of things that grew too fast, too full. It wasn’t because he didn’t enjoy them (he was allergic to the idea of not having fun), but because he didn’t know what to do with things that asked to be held too closely. He preferred balance. He preferred keeping every part of his life important, but never indispensable.

So he let the friendships happen the way he always did: with gratitude, with ease, but at a careful distance. He appreciated them deeply without anchoring himself too hard to any one point. Standing there with them, it didn’t feel overwhelming — not because it mattered less, but because he wasn’t asking it to matter more. Nothing was being taken from him, only added, and even that addition felt light enough to carry.

It was simply a widening circle, paths intersecting the way they naturally did when you stayed long enough in the same places.

He didn’t know yet that someone would come along who would quietly rearrange that understanding entirely. Because then, not even a few moments later, you were there.

Somewhere along the way — quietly, without his permission — life stopped feeling like it was made of too many things. It narrowed.

It didn’t straiten all at once, not in a way that alarmed him the way he thought it would. What happened was more like a gradual refocusing, the way a lens sharpens without him realizing his vision had been blurred before. Music was still there. Movement, noise, laughter, the constant hum of wanting to do everything and be everywhere all at once.

But suddenly, certain moments carried more weight than others. Certain conversations stayed with him longer than they should have. Certain people pulled his attention inward instead of scattering it outward.

Martin didn’t know when that started. He only knew who it started with.

He doesn’t remember the day he met you the way you probably do. Not the sky, not the exact shade of gray overhead, not the way the air smelled like rain that hadn’t decided to fall yet. (He does remember knowing this for a fact because you’d retold the story of how you met everyone when you gave a speech at Wonhee’s eighteenth birthday party.)

What he remembers is the feeling of it all lining up without asking him first.

Martin stood just outside the school grounds, hands tucked into the sleeves of a hoodie that was definitely too warm for the weather, half-listening as James talked too loudly about something he would forget the moment it ended. He was there because he was supposed to be there — because the boys (and now, the girls, too) were his people now, because joining the dance club on a whim had quietly tethered him to this exact moment, this exact group of voices and movement.

It all felt ordinary enough to be unremarkable. Then, Martin remembers noticing you because you were waiting.

You were waiting by the gate. It didn’t seem like the impatient kind of waiting exactly — just caught in that in-between space, with you shifting your weight like you didn’t know whether to stay or just leave. You had your backpack slung over one shoulder, scrolling on your phone like you weren’t aware of how everyone’s attention tilted the moment you looked up.

While everyone else flowed, you paused. He clocked that before he ever got to properly meet you. You looked composed, but there was something restrained about you, like you were holding yourself together with intention. It made him curious in a way that felt unfamiliar even for him.

He stayed quiet at first. That part, he remembers clearly.

He was new to the group — comfortable enough not to panic during back-and-forths, cautious enough not to overstep. He listened more than he spoke, smiled when it felt right, laughed softly when something actually landed. He let James sling an arm around his shoulder mid-sentence, let Keonho tease him like he’d been there longer than he had, but he didn’t quite step fully into the center yet. He hovered at the edge, hands hidden in his sleeves, watching.

He’d heard your name before, once or twice.

It came up casually in conversations he wasn’t part of yet, slipped into stories like you were a familiar refrain. Someone would say your name the way you said home, or obviously, or you know who I mean. He’d gathered, piece by piece, that you were the connective tissue. You were the one who had met them all separately before the group ever existed as a whole. This Y/N girl was the constant, the reason the circle had even formed at all.

You mattered to them in a way he hadn’t learned the shape of just yet.

So when he finally saw you there — just beyond the gate, where the others said you would be — he noticed the way the energy shifted almost imperceptibly, the way conversations bent toward you without anyone consciously trying. He didn’t move forward, didn’t interrupt. He stayed where he was, observant as ever.

And he watched you.

He didn’t do it constantly or obviously. God, he’d hate to seem like a damn creep. He observed you just enough to notice the way you spoke when someone addressed you directly, the way you filled silence without forcing it, the way you seemed to belong to the group without ever needing to prove it.

He remembers thinking — briefly, oddly — that he treated friendship like something deliberate. He had treated it like something he chose every day instead of something that just happened.

He didn’t know then how much that would matter to him later.

It wasn’t until the group broke into smaller pockets while walking toward the convenience store that he ended up beside you. He doesn’t remember how it happened — only that suddenly he was close enough to hear you properly, close enough to catch a comment you made about a band someone mentioned offhand (it was probably something like Tame Impala). He reacted without thinking, head snapping toward you.

“You listen to them too?”

That moment is sharp in his memory, even now. It was tattooed in his mind not because of what was said, but because of how easily it unfolded after.

One band turned into another. Then movies. Then some obscure online reference he didn’t expect you to get — but you did, immediately, finishing the joke like it was instinct. He laughed, surprised by how natural it felt, how little effort it took to keep talking. His laugh came out softer than he meant it to, a little breathless, like he hadn’t expected to be understood so quickly.

That was when Martin realized he hadn’t introduced himself yet.

He remembers that embarrassment — the split second of panic when he realized he’d been talking for several minutes without doing the polite thing. When he finally said his name, it came out just a beat too late, awkward enough that he knew he’d rehearsed it in your head at least twice already. You smiled anyway, filled the silence without even realizing you were doing it, answered like he wasn’t a stranger you’d just met.

This stuck with him, among other things; your kindness and, quite frankly, sweet disposition.

He remembers noticing the ring you wore — not why, not where you got it, just the way it caught the light when you gestured animatedly as you spoke. He remembers you handing it to him later, almost casually, because he’d complimented it, and the way he turned it over in his fingers afterward like it was something fragile. He remembers thinking he should give it back immediately. He remembers not doing it.

He remembers you more than he remembers the day itself.

The way conversation with you didn’t feel like effort. The way similarities stacked on top of each other without either of you trying. The way something settled in his chest without fireworks, without drama. Just the quiet, unmistakable sense of oh. Like something had clicked into place without asking permission.

And that — that was what scared him, even then.

Because unlike the others, you didn’t just add to the noise of his life. You reorganized it. You made everything else feel slightly less urgent by comparison. You became a presence he replayed later without meaning to, moments resurfacing at inconvenient times, long after the day itself had already blurred.

He didn’t remember the weather. He remembered your voice. He didn’t remember what time he left. He remembered how easily he’d stayed.

He didn’t plan to fall into it. Heck, he didn’t even realize he was falling in the first place. All he knew was that life, somehow, had stopped pulling him in every direction at once — and begun, slowly, quietly, to focus around you.

That really fucking scared him, for some reason.

Because Martin had never been someone who built his world around people. He just let them orbit, he let them come and go without anchoring himself to their presence too deeply. It kept things light, manageable. Safe.

But you — somehow, in your own surprising way — had begun to make things feel concentrated.

He didn’t yet know what to do with that.

And maybe that was the difference between you and him, even then — something Martin didn’t know how to articulate just yet, only feel.

You treated friendship like something hallowed, like a promise you already made without ever saying the words out loud. You showed up with intention, with loyalty that ran so deep it bordered on self-sacrifice, as if caring too much was a responsibility you carried willingly. Martin had noticed it in the small ways: how you remembered details other people forgot, how you adjusted yourself to keep the group comfortable, how you never pushed for more even when you clearly felt more.

To him, friendship had always been something that happened around him. To you, it was something you protected. And sometimes — when he caught you looking at the group with that quiet, resolute fondness — he wondered if you ever thought about what you were to each other. If the same questions ever crossed your mind. If you ever lay awake replaying moments the way he did, wondering where exactly the line was drawn, and whether either of you was brave enough to step over it.

He didn’t really ask, never felt the need to. Instead, that goddamn night happened.

Martin remembers it too clearly. It was never meant to end up with just the two of you. Plans with the others just fell apart the way they usually did. Some of them had somewhere else to be, another remembered something last-minute, until suddenly the group was gone and he was left standing there with you.

Without everyone else, everything felt louder and quieter at the same time. The parking lot lights were too bright with the traffic humming in the distance. Worst (or best) of all, you were literally right beside him, close enough that he couldn’t pretend not to notice.

He noticed the shift almost immediately, from the way you became more careful with your words to the way pauses lingered longer in the air after every quip now that there was no one else to fill them. He didn’t really stop to think about it and just adjusted.

He matched your restraint, pulled himself in a little. He told himself it was the considerate thing to do, that being careful was better than risking making things awkward. Because sitting that close to you, every movement felt intentional.

When your fingers brushed as you both reached for the same bag inside the restaurant, he stepped back too quickly, an apology spilling out on reflex. When you pulled away too, he took it as a sign.

Don’t say it wrong. Don’t make it weird. Don’t let her notice.

Walking afterward, he hated that he had to ask questions that used to be automatic. He hated that something as simple as walking together suddenly felt like it needed permission. The silence pressed in, thick with things he didn’t quite know how to name.

When he finally spoke, he joked about the quiet instead of saying what he actually meant. You laughed it off, easy and practiced, and he followed your lead like he always did when he thought he might be overstepping.

He walked with you anyway, careful not to crowd you, matching your pace like it was something he could mess up if he wasn’t paying attention. He noticed how you kept the conversation light, how you filled the air with small talk and easy smiles, and assumed you were doing it for the same reason he was — to survive the space between you without naming it. He thought the awkwardness was mutual, something accidental that bloomed from standing too close to something fragile.

What he didn’t know — what he couldn’t see — was how you were already shrinking yourself beside him. How you were already deciding to want less. All he knew was that you’d gone quiet first, and he’d followed your lead because he cared too much to risk misstepping.

He thought he was protecting the friendship. He didn’t realize he was teaching you the wrong lesson entirely.

The thought that haunted him later, long after the night ended, wasn’t that he’d been uncomfortable. It was the possibility that you had been — and that he’d done exactly what he thought you wanted. If he had known, he would have said something. If he had known, he wouldn’t have mistaken your caution for discomfort.

But that night, all he could think was this: If I say the wrong thing, I’ll ruin everything. And so he said nothing — never realizing that silence, too, could be misunderstood.

Martin really does believe, at first, that things will go back to normal.

He had believed that the night will settle into memory the way most things do — filed away, softened by routine, dulled by stuffy classrooms and the comfort of familiar noise. He tells himself that school has a way of resetting people, that hallways and bells and shared complaints about deadlines will smooth the edges off whatever that evening had been. That when he sees you again — really sees you, not just as the version of you he replayed on the walk home, or the one that lingered in the quiet of his room — it’ll be easy and familiar. Unchanged.

He hates, a little, that he has to go back to pretending, though. He hates that he has to fold himself back into something smaller, quieter, less obvious. Because wanting you feels like a thing with teeth now — sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore once acknowledged. But if this is the cost, he thinks, then he’ll pay it.

If keeping his feelings buried means he gets to stay in your life — laughing beside you, listening to you talk about nothing and everything, being someone you reach for without hesitation — then he’ll endure the ache. He’ll be careful. He’ll be good. He’ll want silently, indefinitely, if that’s what it takes.

Friendship, after all, still means something to him. It always has. Maybe not in the inviolable, almost-reverent way it does to you — but enough. Enough to hurt for it. Enough to choose it over himself.

So when he walks into school the next day, he’s almost relieved by how ordinary everything looks.

Cedar Heights’ hallways still had the same cracked tiles, the same smell of cleaning solution and warm air. Greeting him as he walked further down was James waving him over from across the hall, Juhoon seeming to be yapping away, already complaining about a Calculus quiz he forgot about. It feels like proof, like reassurance, like maybe he didn’t break anything after all.

And then he sees you.

You’re there with them, too, slightly obstructed from his view earlier because of James stature — but he sees you, now. You’re laughing, bag slung over your shoulder, expression easy in a way that makes his chest loosen before he can stop himself. For a split second, instinct pulls him forward. He almost steps closer, almost reaches for the space beside you like he always does.

But you don’t look at him, not at first. When you do, it’s brief and polite. It’s not that you being polite was out of the ordinary (you were as well-mannered as one could get), but come on, you and him were already way past pleasantries.

You’d just given him a smile that lands and disappears just as quickly before he can even catch it. You greet him like you’d greet someone you know well but aren’t quite sure how to approach anymore, and the difference is so subtle he nearly convinces himself it’s nothing. Nearly.

First period confirms it, with the classroom still looking the way it always does.

Fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, casting a flat, almost too-bright glow over rows of wooden desks etched with years of carved initials and half-erased doodles. The whiteboard at the front is still smudged with remnants of last period’s notes — dates and names ghosting the surface no matter how many times it’s been wiped clean. Windows line one side of the room, blinds half-drawn against the morning glare, letting in thin stripes of light that stretch across the floor.

A few students are already there, scattered and unbothered. Some slump back in their chairs, legs stretched into the aisle, phones hidden just below desk level. Others flip lazily through textbooks or rest their heads against their arms, whispering in low voices that blend into the ambient noise of the room. Someone taps a pen against their notebook in an uneven rhythm. Someone else is still chewing the last bite of a convenience-store snack, the crinkle of the wrapper quickly hushed as a warning glance is exchanged.

It’s ordinary and familiar. The kind of setting where nothing ever feels like it’s about to change — until, of course, it does.

The worst case scenario in his mind is confirmed when you don’t sit beside him.

Okay, truth be told, it’s not exactly mandated for you to be with him in all the classes you shared. Even so, it couldn’t be denied that it had always been unspoken and automatic. It’s almost expected, with your chair angled toward his, your knee brushing his under the desk like it’s muscle memory rather than a choice.

Today, you chose, deliberately, not to sit there with your bag hooked on the back of his chair, not with your notes already half-open between the two of you like a shared secret. Today, you paused at the doorway of the classroom for half a second longer than usual, scanning the room with an expression that’s thoughtful instead of habitual, and then you choose a seat across the row, closer to Seonghyeon.

You drop into the chair beside the boy with a quiet scrape, setting your bag down at your feet. Your body turns outward, angled toward the group instead of instinctively toward Martin. It’s a small shift. It’s almost nothing, really.

For some reason though, for Martin, the shift feels enormous.

Seonghyeon glances at you, surprised, then grins. “Wow. New seating arrangement?”

You shrug, casual. “Eh. Thought I’d switch it up.”

From across the row, Martin notices. Of course he did. He always does.

He doesn’t let it show at first. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms loosely, posture relaxed like this hasn’t completely disorientated him. He tells himself it’s nothing. People move seats all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t. (Trying to convince himself of this doesn’t necessarily wipe off the sour expression on his face, though. Not immediately.)

When Mr. Song finally comes in — your History teacher with a clipped voice and a tablet always tucked under one arm — the chatter fades into silence. Chairs straighten and backs go rigid. The lesson begins, something about what happened in the Joseon era, words flowing together in a steady, droning cadence that demands attention but rarely gets it.

James leans back in his chair and mutters something under his breath, dry and perfectly timed, the kind of comment he only ever makes when he’s certain it’ll land with exactly one person.

You hear it, as per usual.

Your laugh bursts out before you can stop it — bright and unguarded and familiarly loud, your head tipping back just a little as if the sound has nowhere else to go. It cuts clean through the low drone of shuffling papers and half-hearted note-taking, sharp enough that a few heads turn. Seonghyeon snorts beside you, already half-grinning, and Juhoon ducks his head to hide his own smile.

At the front of the room, Mr. Song pauses mid-sentence.

“Y/N,” he says, not unkindly, one eyebrow lifting as he looks over his glasses. There’s a hint of amusement there, the kind reserved for students he trusts. “Care to share what was so funny? Or should we save it for after I finish explaining the causes of the Gabo Reform?”

A ripple of quiet laughter moves through the class. You straighten immediately, composure snapping back into place like muscle memory.

“Sorry, sir,” you say, already reaching for your pen. “It won’t happen again.”

Mr. Song studies you for a second longer, then nods. “I’m counting on that, L/N,” he says, turning back to the board. “You, of all people, should know better.”

Martin notes that it isn’t a reprimand so much as an acknowledgment — the unspoken understanding that you’re his favorite kind of student. Focused and reliable, the one who never misses an assignment, who raises her hand with answers instead of excuses, the kind who chose academics over everything else and made it obvious she wasn’t going to regret it.

Martin smiles automatically at the sound of your laugh, already turning his head, already waiting for your eyes to flick to his like they usually do. Like they always do.

They don’t, though, and the absence of it — that small, almost inborn glance — lands heavier than the teacher’s words ever could.

Instead, you murmur something to Seonghyeon, and he replies easily with a whisper, then leaning closer to hear you better. Martin catches a fragment — your voice saying, jokingly, “See? This is why you’re my favorite.”

It’s an old inside joke, one that everyone in your little circle knows. You’d said it months ago, half-laughing, half-teasing — that Seonghyeon was your favorite because he never said no to hanging out, because he’d sit with you as long as you wanted, whenever you wanted, no questions asked. It had never meant anything serious.

But now, watching Seonghyeon grin at you, watching you bump your shoulder lightly against his, Martin feels something prickle, hot and unwelcome. He bristles before he can stop himself, then forces his expression to stay neutral. He exhales, slow, and shrugs it off.

He doesn’t know exactly what he was feeling, a foreign sensation that weighs heavy upon his chest. Irregardless, he tells himself he’s being ridiculous.

He leans over forward slightly anyway, lowering his voice. “Did you get the homework for this class?”

You turn, finally, but only halfway. Only just enough to acknowledge him.

“Yeah,” you say. It was in that tone again, efficient and polite. “I can send it later.”

Later.

Not now. Not with you scooting your chair closer. Not with you raising your iPad’s screen so he can see. Not with whispered commentary scribbled in the margins while Mr. Song talks about emperors and revolutionaries.

You said later.

He nods. “Cool. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

And that’s it.

Mr. Song keeps talking. Pens scratch against paper. The room settles back into its usual rhythm. Martin stares forward, jaw tight, telling himself — again — that it’s fine. He tries to convince himself that nothing’s changed, that this, whatever the fuck is happening, doesn’t mean anything at all.

And yet, despite all of the denial, he’s still painfully aware of the empty space beside him.

By lunchtime, it was harder.

The cafeteria is loud in that familiar, overwhelming way — chairs scraping against tile, someone yelling across tables, the constant hum of a hundred conversations stacked on top of each other.

Your group (save for Seonghyeon, Keonho, and Iroha who were all preoccupied with an activity they didn’t finish within class hours) claims the same long table you always do, backpacks kicked underneath, trays scattered with half-eaten food and stolen fries. Martin drops into his usual seat without thinking and, just as unconsciously, leaves the space beside him open.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until you don’t take it (again).

You slide into the seat across from him instead, settling between Juhoon and Wonhee. Your tray lands on the table with a soft clatter, neatly aligned, elbows tucked in like you’re making yourself smaller. It’s such a small thing. If he weren’t looking for it, he might’ve missed it entirely.

“Hey,” Martin says, the word slipping out the way it always does, instinctive and unthinking, because he always starts with you. His voice is light, practiced. “Did you hear what Keonho said in chem earlier? He really thinks sodium and chlorine cancel each other out like—”

You look up. You always do, and for half a second his chest loosens on reflex.

“Hm?” you hum, eyes on him, attentive in that way that used to feel like a private thing.

“He was dead serious,” Martin continues, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “I swear, he stared at the board for a full minute and went, ‘So… it just neutralizes, right?’ Like he’d cracked the damn system.”

A beat. He waits for it. He waits for the scoff, or the whisper back, or the you’re kidding look you usually reserve just for him.

You smile instead, soft and controlled. “Huh. Yeah, that sounds like him, alright,” you say.

Then, without missing a step, you turn back to Wonhee. “Did you finish the outline for Mr. Lee’s essay? I’m stuck on the last part.”

Wonhee nods, already leaning in. “Yeah, I can show you after lunch.”

The conversation seals shut right there, neat and unceremonious.

Martin blinks, the moment stretching longer than it should. His fingers tighten around his fork until the plastic creaks faintly. He stares down at his food, appetite gone despite the hunger literally chipping away at his energy earlier.

“Yeah,” he mutters, the word barely audible, meant for no one at all.

And across the table, you’re already talking again — engaged, warm, present — just not with him.

James is halfway through a story about practice, gesturing wildly with a chicken wing. Juhoon interrupts him. Wonhee laughs too loud. The table stays full, lively, exactly the same as it’s always been. Martin tells himself that means everything’s fine.

A few minutes pass. A few minutes, long enough for him to tell himself not to do this again. A few minutes, long enough for him to poke at his food, to listen to James and Wonhee argue about something pointless, to pretend he isn’t measuring the distance between where you are and where you used to be.

Then he does it anyway.

“Y/N,” Martin says, quieter this time, leaning forward just a little like that might bridge something invisible. He keeps his tone easy, careful. “You still watching that show you told me about? The one with the, uh—what was it—the messed-up timeline?”

You turn to him immediately the way you always do. That part hasn’t changed, and the small relief it gives him is almost worse for how brief it is.

“Oh,” you say, brows lifting slightly, like you’re reaching for the thought. There’s no annoyance in your voice. No edge. It just felt like you were being cautious now. “Yeah! Yeah, actually. It’s, um, really good.”

His chest tightens, hopeful in that stupid, automatic way. “Yeah?” he asks, trying to sound casual, trying not to lean in too much. “You’re on—”

“I’m almost done with it. Um, second to the last episode,” you reply gently, already glancing back toward Juhoon as he speaks up beside you. “I’ve just been… busy.”

Juhoon asks you something about the playlist you sent the night before — whether you meant for the last song to be there or if it was an accident — and you turn fully to answer him, thoughtful and engaged, like nothing is wrong at all.

Almost done.

The words echo louder than they should. Almost done — not you should catch up. Not we need to talk about it. Not wait until you see the next episode. Just a neat little end to the exchange, tied off before it can ask for anything more. (He feels like he’d been transported to his own personal hell.)

Martin nods slowly, throat tight as he swallows around it. “Cool,” he says, because that’s what’s expected of him. Because you’re not being mean and you’re not doing anything wrong.

You laugh then at something Juhoon says, leaning a little closer to him. It’s the same laugh you’ve always had — bright, genuine. Martin watches it land on everyone else at the table, shared freely, easily. He waits for the moment when it might turn back toward him.

It doesn’t, and uncharacteristically perceptive James doesn’t let it go right away.

He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking between the two of you like he’s trying to line up a picture that won’t quite focus. “No, seriously,” he says, tone lighter but curiosity sharp underneath. “Did something happen? You guys used to literally talk over each other. Now it’s like you’re— fuckin’ taking turns, or something.”

Wonhee shifts beside you, her gaze soft but searching for yours. She doesn’t say anything, just watches you with the kind of quiet attention that means she already knows more than she’s letting on.

You tilt your head, considering James like this is a harmless question. “People are allowed to be quiet sometimes, Zhao Yufan,” you say, smiling, almost teasing in the way you said his real name. It’s not defensive. It’s reasonable. Mature. Very you. “Doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”

James opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly unsatisfied. “I mean, yeah. I guess. It’s just—” He gestures vaguely between you and Martin. “You know. Different.”

There it is. That word he was dreading. Different. Martin didn’t particularly like the bitter taste it left in his mouth, but he wasn’t about to deny it, either. Because you had. You both had been different.

He keeps his eyes on his tray, thumb tracing the edge of the plastic absentmindedly. He’s aware of how still he’s gone, how every instinct in him is screaming not to draw attention to himself. If he says the wrong thing, if he says anything too honest, the fragile balance you’re maintaining might tip.

Wonhee finally speaks, voice gentle, almost careful. “If you say you’re fine,” she says to you, “then okay. Just checking.”

You meet her eyes, grateful. Martin sees it — the flicker of something unspoken passing between you two — and understands, dimly, that whatever is happening here didn’t start with him and definitely won’t be solved by him alone.

“Promise,” you add, like punctuation. “Nothing happened. We’re good.”

Martin nods again, because that’s what everyone else is doing, because agreeing is easier than explaining the hollow feeling settling in his chest. “Yeah,” he echoes, softer this time. “We’re good.”

James watches him for a second longer, like he wants to argue, then sighs and lets it drop. “Alright,” he says. “If you say so, I guess.”

The table fills back up with noise — complaints about homework, someone groaning about an upcoming test, James dramatically declaring he’s going to fail anyway. It all slides back into place, neat and familiar.

But Martin feels like he’s standing just outside of it.

Nothing happened, you said. And maybe that’s true in the way facts are true. There were no fights, after all. No confessions, no lines crossed. But something is happening, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

He can feel it in the way you don’t look for him in the middle of laughter anymore, in the way your words stop just short of inviting him in. It’s happening quietly, carefully, like you’re trying not to break anything.

And he sits there, surrounded by people who can tell something’s off but don’t know where to place it, thinking the same thing over and over until it starts to ache: if nothing happened — then why does it feel like he’s already losing you?

He stares down at his food, appetite gone, the space beside him still empty. And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel paranoid or dramatic — it feels frighteningly clear.

Maybe nothing really happened. Maybe she realized something that night.

Maybe you felt it, too — whatever that closeness had been — and decided it was safer to step back before it became something else. Maybe he’d crossed a line without meaning to. Maybe just existing beside you, wanting you the way he does, had been enough to make you uncomfortable.

The worst part is that none of it feels cruel.

You’re still kind and warm and quintessentially you. You still include him in conversations and plans when he falls behind, you still smile when you catch his gaze (rare as it is, now), you still treat him like someone you care about. He knows this because the distance you’re so very obviously putting between you isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic. It’s measured, intentional. The kind that suggests thought, not indifference.

Which makes it hurt more.

He keeps telling himself to let it go. He tells himself that he’s imagining patterns where there are none, that he shouldn’t read so deeply into a shift this small. He’s always been good at convincing himself that his feelings are manageable, containable. He was also always able to repeat the same reassurances until they almost sound like truth.

It’s nothing. You’re overthinking. Drop it.

But he doesn’t.

Because every time you choose a seat that isn’t beside him, every time your laughter skips past him on its way to someone else, every time he catches himself waiting for you to turn back — and you don’t — it feels like confirmation. It only feels like an answer he never asked for, but somehow already understands.

And no matter how much he tells himself otherwise, the wanting doesn’t fade. It just learns how to ache very, very quietly.

It happens in pieces, which is almost worse.

It isn’t one clean fracture Martin can trace back and examine. It’s scattered, spread thin across ordinary moments that should mean nothing on their own. He keeps telling himself that if he lines them up correctly, they’ll come to form something harmless. He tries to convince himself that if he puts them together, it will just show proof that he’s imagining it, that you’re just busy, that people ebb and flow all the time.

He believes, in the end, that closeness doesn’t disappear — it just changes shape.

Free period spills out the same way it always does, the whole group gravitating toward the shade of the big old tree near Cedar Heights’ grass field. It’s the one spot that reliably blocks the sun, its roots breaking through the ground like it’s been there longer than the school itself. The field stretches out beyond all of you — empty goalposts, scuffed earth, distant shouts from a group of guys Martin recognizes from Class 2-B kicking a ball around.

Everyone’s here for once. James, Juhoon, Martin, Seonghyeon, Keonho, Iroha, Wonhee. You. It feels, at first glance, like a good day.

That’s when Martin notices it.

You’re leaning toward James, close enough that your knees almost bump, sunlight catching the edge of your smile. You’re animated, hands moving as you talk, eyes bright in a way that feels unforced and easy.

“You’re actually impossible,” you say, laughing as you bump your shoulder into his. “Like, I’m a hundred percent convinced you wake up every day and actively decide to make things worse.”

James gasps, clutching his chest. “That’s just insane. I wake up early now. I even stretch. Literally in my to-do list!”

You squint at him. “Is that what you call showing up to class late with grass stains and a random bruise?”

“Hey, they’re earned,” he says, offended. “You try doing drills for two hours and then immediately switching to freakin’ scientist mode. I reckon you won’t even last five minutes.”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “You’re not even good at pretending to be humble.”

“Dude, I don’t need to pretend,” he says, grinning. “Also, reminder—you’re talking to the guy who almost singlehandedly sabotaged our lab earlier.”

“Almost?” you repeat. “James, our solution fucking exploded.”

“Damn right it did.”

You gawked at him in disbelief, “That’s not something to be fucking proud of, Cassie!”

The reference to the line in that popular Western TV series makes some chuckle and the others roll their eyes affectionately. Martin, among others, knew just how much you quoted that on the daily.

“And yet,” James says, pointing at you, “you didn’t murder me.”

You sigh dramatically. “Yeah. Which says a lot more about me than you, honestly.”

He nudges your arm with his elbow. “Just admit it, you love me.”

“Uh-uh, mister. That’s not what that is,” you say immediately, scoffing.

“Oh, it absolutely is.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s exposure therapy, is what it is. The more time I spend around you, I get more and more desensitized to your bullshit.”

James laughs, easy and loud, leaning back in his chair like he’s already won something. “See?” he says. “I’m just that unforgettable.”

Wonhee laughs from beside you. Juhoon shakes his head, muttering something along the lines of “more like unbearable.” Seonghyeon adds fuel to it when he mentions the other times James had messed up one of your projects, Keonho jumps in with a comment about your last month’s Biology partner project, Iroha snickers quietly. The moment grows, layered with overlapping voices and shared amusement.

Martin laughs too, because the familiar banter between the two of you is funny. Because it would be strange not to. But the sound comes out a beat late, like his body is lagging behind his instincts.

He watches the way you and James fall into rhythm — how you cut in at the right moments, how he sets you up without meaning to, how your laughter crests and settles like it knows where to land. It’s customary. It wasn’t because it’s romantic or even threatening, but because Martin recognizes the shape of it.

That moment used to be his.

It’s not ownership — of course, he knows better than to think of what you have (or had) in that way — but rather, proximity. Habit. The quiet assumption that if something funny happened, your eyes would find his first. That if you leaned in, it would be toward him, sharing the moment before it ever reached the rest of the group.

Now, you don’t look at him when you say it. Not even once.

James says something else, something exaggerated and ridiculous, and you groan dramatically, dropping your head against his shoulder for half a second before straightening again. It’s casual. It means nothing. Martin knows that.

And still.

There’s this dull ache in his chest, the kind that doesn’t spike but settles, heavy and persistent. It isn’t jealousy, not really. He doesn’t think James is stealing anything from him. If anything, James is just… there. He’s available, easy, filling a space Martin didn’t realize had been left open.

He tells himself you’re allowed to laugh with other people, that you do laugh with other people. He rationalizes that none of this means you care about him any less.

But wanting something, convincing himself of something, doesn’t make it true.

He thinks about how careful you’ve been lately. How courteous. How you still talk to him, still answer when he speaks, still smile in that gentle way that never turns sharp or dismissive. You don’t push him away — you just don’t pull him closer to you anymore.

Which somehow hurts more.

Because it means you’re not being callous about it. You’re being thoughtful, mature enough to step back without making a mess of it. And Martin, sitting there under the tree with the rest of the group laughing around him, realizes that if he ever said anything — if he ever admitted how much he actually wants you — it would put you in an impossible position.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself he can live with this. And for now, he does.

Not even a day or two later, Martin notices another small fracture.

It happens in the quiet, which feels cruel in its own way. He’s sitting on his bed, back against the wall, one knee pulled up while the other leg dangles off the mattress. His room is dim except for the desk lamp he never remembers to turn off, casting a soft, uneven glow across scattered notes and a half-zipped backpack on the floor.

Outside, he hears his sister laughing in the hallway. A door opens, his Mom shouts for his Dad to help her with the laundry, and it shuts. Life is going on, uninterrupted.

He isn’t doing anything important, just existing in the leftover hours of the day, homework done and his current work-in-progress beat half-finished. Maybe that’s why his hand reaches for his phone without him thinking too hard about it. He just opens his Messages, clicks on your familiar icon (an adorable picture of you from above with his fish-eye lens, posing cutely) and types something casual.

hey did you end up understanding the last part of the lecture?

It’s harmless and familiar. It’s the kind of message that’s passed between the two of you so many times it barely registers as a choice he had to actively make anymore. He hits send and lets the phone rest against his thigh, already half-distracted.

Delivered, it shows, and he waits. Moments later, nothing happens.

He tells himself not to count the minutes, but he does anyway. He shifts, glances at the ceiling, then back at the screen. Still nothing. Just as he’s about to lock his phone and move on, the screen lights up again.

The group chat.

Y/N: guys i js realized we have that quiz for mr song moved to friday 😭 Juhoon: WAIT SERIOUSLY?? James: You’re lying.

Martin’s thumb stills.

He watches the conversation unfold in real time — your messages coming in quick, playful, threaded with crying emojis and dramatic overreaction. James fires back immediately. Seonghyeon spirals. Someone else joins in. It’s loud in that familiar way, full of energy, full of you.

The small “seen” indicator appears. You’re there, active, engaged, and present in the group chat, while his DM stays untouched.

For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. He just stares at the screen like it might correct itself if he waits long enough. He just stares at the screen like your reply will slide into place with a laugh or an apology or even just a sorry, just saw this.

It doesn’t.

He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not too out of character for you, since you’ve always had some trouble with replying back to people immediately, thinking you’ve already replied when you haven’t. Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t notice the notification. Maybe you saw it and figured you’d reply later. Maybe you’re just distracted. He tells himself not to double-text, not to be that person, not to turn something small into something humiliating.

So he locks his phone and drops it into his bag, the motion sharper than it needs to be. His jaw tightens, just enough that he has to consciously relax it.

And that’s when the feeling starts to loop.

It isn’t pronounced. It doesn’t crash over him all at once. It settles instead, slow and persistent, like a realization he doesn’t want to have had but can’t shake all the same. He’s still around you. He’s still part of the same group chat, the same jokes, the same plans that get made and remade without much thought. But there’s a new rule he hasn’t been told outright.

He’s close enough to see you, to hear you, to exist in the same spaces — but he’s not close enough to reach you the way he used to. There’s a distance now that adjusts itself whenever he tries to cross it, subtle and precise. It’s like an invisible line that moves just ahead of his steps.

Another fracture. A small one, almost nothing. Except it’s starting to add up, because the worst moment — the worst fracture — comes later that week.

It’s nothing astonishing, which was what made it unbearable.

You’re all supposed to walk home together from school, as you all often do without needing any planning or announcement of some sort. It’s just the usual unspoken understanding that forms when everyone packs up at the same time and drifts in the same direction. The sky is already dimming, washed in that blue-gray light that makes the world feel softer, quieter, like it’s holding its breath.

Iroha had joked about homework, how their Literature teacher gave something extra to Keonho because he kept making noises during the lecture. James complains about his shoes, how it’s now all scuffed because his coach always made him run laps (yes, it’s because he’s always late for practice, but that’s a story for another time).

Laughter bubbles, then fades as people start peeling off one by one — turning corners, taking shortcuts, calling out quick goodbyes over their shoulders.

Until it’s just you and Martin. Again.

The shift is immediate, even if neither of you says anything. He feels it in his chest before his brain can catch up. In the way your steps slow, then stutter slightly, like you’re recalculating something. In the way your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, knuckles paling for just a second.

He opens his mouth, meaning to say something, anything. A joke, perhaps. Or a comment about the sky, maybe even a question he already knows the answer to. Just to replace the tense awkwardness blanketing you both. His hand lifts without him realizing it, fingers curling like they’re meant to catch the edge of your sleeve.

“Oh,” you say first, glancing down at your phone as if it’s just occurred to you. “I just remembered— I, uh, told my mom I’d be home early.”

There it is.

His hand stills midair. He drops it back to his side like it never moved. He nods too quickly, like his body moves before his heart can protest. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah. That’s— That’s fine.”

It isn’t, but he doesn’t know how to say that without sounding like he’s asking for something you’ve already decided not to give.

You smile at him, soft and apologetic. The careful one. The smile that says I hope you understand, even though he doesn’t think he really does. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

He wants to add something — text me, or walk safe, or even just your name — but the words suddenly stick, heavy and uncooperative. He can feel them sitting at the back of his throat, pressing, waiting. He’s scared that if he reaches out now, if he makes it obvious that he wants more of this moment, it’ll push you further away. Like confirming something you’ve already started to avoid.

You don’t linger. You don’t wait for him to fall into step beside you. You turn down the side street with a small wave, already slipping your earbuds out of your pocket, already retreating into yourself. A quiet, practiced exit.

Martin takes one step forward without thinking. Your name is already forming on his tongue when he stops himself, the sound dying before it ever has the chance to exist. He stays where he is instead, hands clenched, useless.

He watches your back grow smaller, watches you disappear into the thinning crowd. He doesn’t feel angry. That’s the part that hurts the most. He feels emptied out instead, like he’s trying to hold onto something fragile that’s already slipped through his fingers.

And what he doesn’t know — what makes it ache in a way he can’t quite label neatly — is that your chest is tight too. He doesn’t know that you’d slowed your steps because you were hoping, stupidly, that this would be the moment he’d stop you. You were hoping, imprudently, that he’d say something which will prove that all this careful distance you were actively drawing wasn’t necessary, that you weren’t protecting yourself from something you imagined.

But he didn’t, as you had, from the back of your mind, expected. So you left.

Standing there alone, it finally clicks for him, sharp and unmistakable; You’re not pulling away from the group. You’re pulling away from him.

The realization lands softly, but it spreads fast, seeping into every memory he’s been trying to excuse. The angled seating. The shorter replies. The way you always leave just before it becomes the two of you, or when it finally had. The way your warmth redirects itself elsewhere the moment he even had a mind to reach for it.

Stubbornly so, however, he decides to keep orbiting you anyway.

He shows up to hangouts despite knowing the outcome when it comes to you. He laughs when he’s supposed to, he listens, he cares. He tries not to want too loudly. He tells himself — over and over and over again — that this is fine. He’s almost a broken record the amount of times he repeats in his head that this is survivable, that if this is the shape your relationship has to take for him to stay in your life, then he’ll adapt.

But some nights, walking home alone (something that’s also new because you and him always walked home together before), the thought slips through no matter how tightly he grips everything else: He’s still circling you. And you’ve already decided where he can’t land.

It settles into him slowly, the way an ache does when you ignore it for too long — quiet at first, almost polite, easy to dismiss if he doesn’t move too much or think too hard. Martin deludes himself into thinking that longing is manageable, that wanting is something you can compartmentalize, fold neatly into the corners of your day and take out only when you’re alone.

He’s always been good at restraint, after all. He was exceptionally good at holding things in until they stop asking to be held, until they burst.

But, for some reason, this is different. This feels different.

Because the wanting doesn’t stay in the present. It reaches backward, too, tugging at memories he didn’t realize had become landmarks. Late at night, when the house is quiet and his phone screen is the only light in his room, he finds himself replaying your smile from before that night.

It was the unguarded type of smile, among your many forms of pretty grins, the kind that curved into your cheeks and made your eyes soften without calculation. It’s the smile you used to give him when he said something stupid or unexpectedly clever, when you leaned closer like you trusted the space between you not to betray you. He remembers the way you used to tilt your head when you listened, how your attention felt full, generous, like you were giving it freely instead of rationing it out.

Now, when he thinks about it, his chest tightens — not with bitterness, but with something far more humiliating. Gratitude. That you ever gave him that version of yourself at all.

He misses you in ways that feel almost embarrassing. It’s not in the grand, dramatic things — he doesn’t fantasize about holding your hand in public or kissing you under streetlights. It’s smaller than that, more insidious.

He misses the way you used to sit a little too close, knees angled toward his without thinking. He misses the way you used to lower your voice when you told him something like it was a secret meant only for him to know. He misses the way your laughter used to find him first before it even found the room. Sometimes, without realizing it, he leans forward when you talk now — fuckin’ muscle memory betraying him or something — only to stop short when he remembers that closeness is no longer his to assume.

There are moments when his mind betrays him completely. He’ll be halfway through a mundane thought — what subject to prioritize as he’s finishing up backlogs, what song to queue next — and suddenly he’s imagining a future he never gave himself permission to want.

You beside him somewhere ordinary, with a shared routine. A comfort that doesn’t require translation. Maybe you would be reading a book beside him, legs slung over his lap, while he was making beats or melodies on his laptop. The image is never loud or incredibly clear, just a quiet us that feels terrifyingly possible if he just mans up to it.

He shuts it down immediately, though. Heck, he feels almost sick with himself for letting it exist in the first place, regardless of how much he wants for it to come true.

Because wanting you like that feels reckless. Because desire, once spoken, once confessed, can’t be unsaid. Because if he admits it — to himself, to you — then the fragile thing he still has might splinter completely. Friendship, as thin and altered as it feels now, is still something. It’s still access (to you), still proximity (to you), still a reason to be in your orbit without explanation.

If he wants this — like, really wants it — then he risks everything. But, if he says nothing, he only loses himself.

That’s the part he doesn’t know how to reconcile. How both truths can coexist without destroying him. He walks around with the confession pressed behind his ribs, heavy and unvoiced, rehearsing it in the quiet moments he knows he’ll never get to use. Words that dissolve the second he imagines the look on your face if he said them. Not disgust — never that. He imagines you would only show distance or maybe even surprise, and that careful pulling back he’s already learned to read too well.

He tells himself you’re only protecting something through the way you’re acting. Yourself, or the friendship, or whatever line you think you guys almost crossed. And because he loves you — ‘cause yeah, actually, that’s what this has quietly, devastatingly become — he respects that. Even when it costs him. Even when it dulls into something that aches instead of burns.

Silence becomes his offering. Silence becomes his proof of care.

And some nights, lying awake with his phone face-down beside him, he wonders which is worse: the possibility that confessing would make you disappear, or the certainty that staying quiet is slowly erasing him instead.

The house is already too loud by the time Martin arrives.

James’ baseball season has been a background hum for months now — something that comes up in passing, woven into conversations the same way weather or homework does. It’s always the same things that make it a topic of conversation, too. Early practices that made him late, sometimes. Random bruises everyone learned not to ask about. Complaints about drills, about coaches, about games that almost went their way.

Every now and then, James would mention how close they were this year, how this one mattered more than the rest, and the group would nod along, half-invested but still rooting for him in that casual, loyal way friends do.

Part of it was that no one really expected baseball to be the thing Cedar Heights would rally around. The school definitely dominated in other sports — basketball banners lining the gym walls, volleyball games that drew real crowds — but baseball had always lagged behind, talked about more out of obligation than excitement. Wins were rare enough that they felt borderline theoretical, something you assumed happened to other schools.

So when tonight paid off, it landed harder than anyone anticipated.

They’d all gone to the game after school, crowding into the bleachers with snacks and bad takes and absolutely no understanding of baseball mumbo jumbo. Martin remembers the way James kept glancing toward them between innings, grinning whenever he caught sight of familiar faces, like he needed the confirmation that this was actually happening.

The game itself blurred together — cheering, groaning, someone yelling at an umpire who definitely couldn’t hear them at all — but the ending stuck. With the crack of the bat, the rush of bodies onto the field. Most of all, their little group remembers James ripping his cap off and pointing toward the stands like he couldn’t believe they were really there.

That was probably the reason why the celebration escalated so fast. Someone — one of James’ teammates — had immediately offered up their house to celebrate. Apparently their parents were out of town, or maybe just generous enough not to care, happy to let a bunch of teenagers take over for the night as long as nothing caught fire. It was framed less like a party and more like a victory lap Cedar Heights didn’t usually get.

Martin had gone along with it without really thinking. It felt expected, almost natural. Another thing the friend group did together.

Now, standing at the edge of it all, he wonders when exactly that started feeling less true.

Music spills out into the street in uneven waves, bass heavy enough to rattle the windows. Someone has hung string lights along the porch, the warm glow doing very little to soften the chaos inside. James’ teammates are everywhere — laughing too loudly, sloshing drinks, reliving the same winning play over and over like it might just turn out to be a mass hallucination if they don’t keep saying it, affirming it, out loud.

He steps in with the rest of the group — minus James, who’s already been claimed by his teammates and swept somewhere deeper into the house — his shoulder brushing yours for half a second in the doorway, brief enough that it almost doesn’t register, except it does. He feels it anyway, the familiar spark of awareness that comes with proximity, and then you’re already moving ahead of him, absorbed by the noise, by hands clapping you on the back, by voices calling your name like they’ve been waiting all night to say it.

Martin tells himself it’s fine.

This is how parties work. People spill into rooms and lose each other. Conversations fracture and reform around whoever’s closest. No one stays still long enough for anything meaningful to settle. He repeats it to himself as he steps further inside, as the music presses against his ears and the smell of something sugary and artificial hangs in the air.

He can do this. He can get through one night of pretending the dull ache in his chest isn’t there, that it hasn’t been quietly blooming for weeks now, ignored and unaddressed like a bruise he keeps pressing just to check if it still hurts.

At first, it’s just awkward in that manageable, low-stakes way.

You don’t end up near him — not on the couch where people keep rotating in and out, not by the kitchen counter cluttered with snacks, not even within that unspoken radius you used to share without effort, where glances and half-smiles could cross without anyone noticing.

He scans the room more than he means to, not frantic, just… searching, and every time he spots you, it’s from a distance. Once, your eyes meet across the space. You smile at him — easy, genteel, the kind of smile you give someone you care about but don’t really want to linger with — and before he can even think of moving toward you, someone says your name and you’re already turned away, folded seamlessly back into the crowd.

He exhales slowly, like he’s missed a step he didn’t know he was taking.

“Drink?” Juhoon asks, appearing at his side and pressing a red cup into his hand without waiting for an answer.

Martin takes it out of habit, fingers curling around the rim. He doesn’t drink much, barely at all. Mostly he holds onto it so his hands have something to do, so no one asks if he’s okay, so he looks occupied instead of stranded. He leans his weight onto one foot, then the other, shoulders slightly hunched, posture casual enough to pass but not relaxed enough to be convincing.

From the corner of his eye, he watches you laugh at something someone says, your head tipping back just a little, and the sound cuts through him sharper than the music ever could. He looks away before it can sit too long, jaw tightening briefly as he schools his expression back into something neutral.

It’s fine, he tells himself again. He just has to make it through the night.

From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly.

You’re dancing now, near the living room where the space opens up just enough for people to move without constantly colliding into furniture. Wonhee and Iroha are with you at first, the three of you swaying and laughing in that loose, unselfconscious way that comes naturally when no one’s trying too hard.

Martin notices you without meaning to — Jesus, how could he not? — the way the fabric of your top shifts when you move, soft and familiar, something he’s seen you wear before but never like this, lit by warm string lights and the flicker of someone’s phone camera. Your sleeves slide up your arms when you lift them, your hair catching on your shoulders as you turn, a little undone in a way that feels intentional even if it isn’t.

You look good. Effortlessly so. And there’s something almost cruel about how easy it all seems—how you slip into the night like you belong to it, how your smile stays bright and unforced, how anyone watching without context would assume you’re having the time of your life.

Martin watches anyway. He knows he shouldn’t. He tells himself not to. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t stop him.

Every time you laugh, his chest tightens, a quiet, insistent pull he keeps trying to ignore. Every time someone steps a little too close to you, he feels it like a small subtraction, a loss he has no right to claim. When Keonho drifts over mid-song, all energy and wide gestures, and takes your hand without hesitation, Martin feels something sharp and unfamiliar cut through him. Keonho spins you once—nothing dramatic, just playful — and you laugh, breathless and bright, the sound carrying farther than it has any right to.

The thought comes uninvited, ugly in its honesty. Since when are you that close?

He hates himself for it immediately. For the question. For the way his fingers curl tighter around his cup. For the way his eyes stay fixed on you anyway.

As if to spite him — or maybe just because this is how the group has always been — Wonhee slips in next, mirroring the motion with a grin, twirling you again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You go willingly, still laughing, still warm, and the jealousy twists again, absurd and indiscriminate this time. It wasn’t because of Keonho. It wasn’t even because of Wonhee. It’s anyone who gets to touch you so easily, who doesn’t have to overthink the space between you before crossing it.

Martin looks away. Then, like an idiot, he looks back. Then he exhales sharply through his nose and stares at the floor, annoyed at himself for caring this much, for letting it get under his skin when he’s been trying so hard to stay composed.

Someone bumps into him a second later, a solid hand landing on his shoulder. Ohyul — one of James’ teammates, Martin recalls, still flushed from the game and buzzing from the win — leans in so he doesn’t have to shout over the music.

“You good, man?” he asks, squinting at Martin’s face. “You’ve been kinda quiet all night.”

“Yeah,” Martin says automatically, forcing a small smile that feels practiced. “Just tired.”

Ohyul hums, unconvinced but not pressing it, already half-turned back toward the noise. Martin takes another shallow sip from his cup he still hasn’t really touched.

The lie sits heavy in his chest.

And across the room, you keep dancing, unaware of how close he is to breaking something he’s been holding together by sheer will alone.

Later, when the music shifts — bass deepening, tempo slowing into something heavier — and the living room swells with bodies and heat, Martin finds himself retreating toward the kitchen island, more out of instinct than intention. He needs something solid to lean against. He was desperate for a pause, a breath.

That’s when Iroha slides in beside him.

She doesn’t announce herself. She never does. She just appears at his shoulder, elbow bumping his lightly in a way that’s muscle memory by now.

They were the same age, same year, same wavelength — people joke that they might as well be twins, and Martin’s never bothered correcting them. They’ve always just circuited each other’s lives like that. They’re occasionally study partners, oftentimes one another’s late-night confession keepers. They’re the kind of friends to each other who know when to talk and when to just exist quietly in the same space.

Iroha knows about his half-formed plans to ditch the safe route and pursue producing music full-time after graduation — the fear, the stubborn hope, the completed tracks he keeps private (even though a lot of people had already assured him it was worth putting out there). He knows about her wanting to join the dance club, how she practices choreography in her room at night because she’s afraid of being seen trying (even though a lot of people, similarly, assured her she was practically trainee-worthy already). They’re mirrors like that. Trust built not on grand declarations, but on years of choosing honesty when it mattered.

She follows his line of sight without making it obvious. You’re across the room, laughing at something Wonhee says, hair a little messy from dancing, eyes bright in a way that makes his chest tighten.

“Hey,” Iroha says, leaning closer, voice lowered but not nearly enough for how loud the room is. “Did something happen between you two?”

The question hits him sideways.

Martin blinks. “What?”

She shrugs, but it’s a thoughtful kind of shrug, lips pressing together like she’s deciding how honest to be. “I don’t know. You guys just… feel different lately.”

Different. The word settles so heavy in his stomach it almost makes him sick.

He swallows, grip tightening around the cup. For a second, he considers doing what he always does — joking, deflecting, pretending he has no idea what she’s talking about. It would be easier. Safer.

Instead, awkwardness wins.

“Different how?” he asks, too quickly, like if he doesn’t know the answer, it won’t be real.

Iroha glances at him, then back at you. “I mean… a lot of little things.” She ticks them off gently, not accusing, just observant. “You don’t sit next to each other anymore unless there’s literally no space. You don’t do that thing where you both start talking at once about some movie or show and everyone else has to tell you to take turns.”

She smiles faintly, fondly recounting the memory. “You used to lose, like, twenty minutes arguing about which album from a random artist was better. Or you’d both crack up over some reference nobody else got. That— Well, that hasn’t really happened in a while.”

Martin’s chest tightens with every word.

“And,” she adds, softer now, “you used to look for each other. All the time. Now it’s like you’re… trying not to.”

He exhales, long and unsteady. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Okay. Yeah. I guess… it’s not just in my head, then.”

“Hm.” Iroha turns fully toward him. “Was it bad?”

“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head. “I mean—” He stops, scrubs a hand over his face. “No. I don’t know. Nothing happened. That’s kind of the problem.”

She nods slowly, like that makes sense. Like she’s heard that exact sentence before, maybe even said it herself once or twice.

“Well, you don’t look mad,” she says, studying him for a second longer than necessary. “You just look… tired.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, the kind that barely counts as one. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Iroha nods, like that’s all the confirmation she needs. She doesn’t push, doesn’t angle for the question he knows is waiting just under the surface. Instead, she bumps her shoulder into his again — light, familiar, grounding in the way she’s always been good at when things start to tilt too far into a gray area.

“For what it’s worth,” she adds after a moment, gaze fixed somewhere past the crowd, “it doesn’t feel like nothing. And it doesn’t feel one-sided either.”

He swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says simply. No theatric show of pity or flowery words of assurance. Just a statement, offered and then left alone.

There’s a pause between them, not uncomfortable, just full. The music dips, shifts into something louder, faster. Someone yells Iroha’s name from across the room (Martin has half a mind to recognize that to be Osaki Shotaro from Class 3-A), waving her over with both arms like it’s urgent. She sighs, rolling her eyes, then glances back at Martin.

“Don’t disappear, okay?” she says, half a joke, half not.

“I won’t,” he replies, and means it in the moment.

She leaves him there with a quick smile, already folding back into the noise, and the night rushes in to fill the space she vacated. James does something obnoxious that gets a collective groan. Someone spills a drink and laughs like it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened. The party keeps moving, uninterrupted.

But the word she used earlier sticks.

Different.

He’s heard it twice now. Once from James, casual and careless, tossed out like an observation that didn’t need follow-up. And now from Iroha, softer, more deliberate, like she understood the weight of it even if she didn’t say it out loud. Two people, same word, same conclusion—delivered from opposite sides of the room.

And for the first time, Martin realizes it isn’t just a description of distance. It’s a marker of transition.

Different doesn’t mean gone. It doesn’t mean over. It means something is actively changing, shifting into a shape that hasn’t settled yet. Something unstable. Something that could still tip in either direction, depending on what he does next.

That thought lands heavier than the jealousy he’s been feeling toward everyone ever did.

He stands there, red cup half-full now in his hand, the truth settling in his chest with a slow, undeniable weight. This isn’t neutral. This isn’t nothing. This isn’t something he can keep waiting out until it resolves itself.

This is something fragile and real — loss, or love, or heck maybe both — unfolding in real time while he keeps pretending observation is the same as control.

And for the first time that night, it occurs to him that staying quiet might not be the safer choice. That silence, too, is a decision — and not always a harmless one.

He doesn’t look for you after that. Not right away. He needs air, needs distance from the noise, from the movement, from the unbearable proof that you can still laugh, still dance, still exist fully in a room he’s slowly disappearing from.

The back door is cracked open, cool night air slipping inside like an invitation. Martin steps out into the garden, the sounds of the party dulling behind him, replaced by the quiet hum of crickets and distant traffic.

And then he sees you.

You’re sitting on the low stone wall near the edge of the yard, shoes kicked off, phone resting uselessly in your lap. Your head is tipped back slightly, eyes closed, face turned toward the sky like you’re trying to breathe through something heavy. There’s a drink beside you, barely touched, though the faint flush in your cheeks tells him you’ve had enough to loosen the careful grip you’ve been keeping on yourself.

For a second, he just watches.

You look… tired. Not the fun-tired of dancing too much, but the kind that settles deep, that comes from holding something in for too long. The sight of it twists something painful and tender inside him. (How is it that you’re both still interlinked down to the feeling despite the obvious separation that festered between you?)

He clears his throat softly.

You flinch, then open your eyes, focusing slowly until you see him. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The space between you feels charged, familiar and foreign all at once.

“Oh,” you say, a small, crooked smile appearing. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Martin replies. His voice sounds steadier than he feels at that very moment.

“You hiding out too?” you ask, gesturing vaguely toward the house.

“Sure, yeah. Something like that.” He hesitates, then adds, “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. I just— I needed a break.”

He believes you the way he always has: not at all, and completely.

Martin steps closer, stopping a careful distance away. He’s close enough, now, to feel your presence again. He’s also close enough, now, that it hurts.

The silence stretches first.

It’s not the comfortable kind, not the shared kind you two used to slip into without having to think too much about it. Hell, it was the one thing the both of your prided upon being secure enough to be in. This silence you have at this very moment feels brittle, like it might shatter if either of you move too fast.

“So,” you say, after a beat that lasts too long. Your voice comes out lighter than you feel. “James’ teammate really went all out, huh.”

Martin nods. “Yeah. Guess winning does that.”

Another pause.

You pick at nothing on the stone wall, eyes fixed on your hands like they’ve suddenly become fascinating. Martin shifts his weight, then stills again, like he’s afraid any movement might send you running back inside.

“Did you—” he starts, then stops, clears his throat. “Did you eat already?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Oh.” He nods again, uselessly. “You, uh, you should. There’s— there’s a lot of food.”

“Mm.”

Each word feels like it costs you something. Each answer is clipped, careful, like you’re rationing your breath. Martin can hear it — the way you’re steeling yourself, the way every syllable seems to hurt on its way out — and it makes something hot and panicked bloom in his chest.

This isn’t just awkward.

This is wrong.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. I— I can’t do this anymore.”

You look up, finally, and he doesn’t give himself time to lose his nerve as he looks into the depths of your eyes.

“Did I do something?” The words tumble out of him, raw and rushed. “Because you won’t look at me anymore. You don’t sit next to me, you don’t text me back unless it’s in the group chat, you leave the second it’s just us and I—” His voice breaks, just slightly, and he hates himself for it. “I keep replaying that night over and over, trying to figure out where I messed up.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Martin keeps going, breathless now. “If I made you uncomfortable, tell me. Please. I’d rather know than keep guessing. I’d rather you be mad at me than— than this. God, Y/N, I feel like I’m losing you and I don’t even know why.”

The words hang there, heavy and exposed. You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence settle again — this time on purpose. It stretches long enough for his rambling to burn itself out, long enough for his breathing to slow. It’s long enough for the night air to cool the heat rushing through both of you.

When you finally speak, your voice is quiet.

“Do you remember the second time we met?”

Martin blinks. The question catches him off guard. “The… second time?”

You nod, lips curving into a small, sad smile. “Yeah. Not the day at the gate. The, um, the one after.”

His mind stumbles, then—

“Oh,” he says softly.

You let out a shaky breath. “It was at the convenience store. The one near campus. Everyone else went inside first because Wonhee was arguing with Juhoon about which chips were better, and you stayed back with me.”

Martin remembers that much. Remembers standing by the bike rack, kicking at a loose pebble, feeling weirdly nervous for no reason he could explain.

“I was in a bit of a mood the whole day because Mr. Song gave me a bad grade, so I just wore my earphones so people would get the hint not to talk to me. You’re fucking clueless though, ‘cause you still asked me what I was listening to,” you continue. “I couldn’t even get mad. You didn’t know, after all. But the way you asked like— like you really wanted to know… Hah, that stuck to me.”

Your voice wavers, just barely.

“I, uh, told you, and you lit up. Like I’d handed you a million fuckin’ dollars instead of just a song title or something. Then you pulled out your phone and played me another track, one you said reminded you of walking home late, when the streets were empty and everything felt a little too loud in your head.”

Martin’s chest tightens.

“You talked about music like it was a place,” you say. “Like somewhere you went when the world felt too much. And I remember thinking—” You laugh softly, breath hitching. “I remember thinking, oh. This boy is going to be so much trouble.”

Your eyes shine now, glassy in the dim light. You swipe at them, frustrated. “Because it wasn’t just that you were kind. Or interesting. Or oblivious enough to climb over the walls I built. It was that you were careful. With me. With the things you loved. And I knew—somehow—I fucking knew you were going to mean something. That if I let myself get close, you wouldn’t just be a friend. You’d be… dangerous.”

Your voice breaks fully this time.

“So when that night happened,” you whisper, “and you said it was awkward because it was quiet, I thought— God, I thought I’d imagined everything. That I’d crossed a line just by wanting more. And I couldn’t— Fuck, I couldn’t be the reason things changed, Martin. I couldn’t lose you.”

Tears slip down your cheeks now, unguarded. “So I pulled back. Because wanting less felt safer than… than wanting you.”

Martin stares at you like you’ve just split him open.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes burning, tone high with wretchedness. “Fuck, dude. I thought— ‘Cause you went quiet first. I thought I was doing the right thing by giving you some space.”

You let out a wet, broken laugh. “We’re idiots.”

He laughs too, a sound caught somewhere between a sob and relief. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

For a second, neither of you moves.

The night seems to hold its breath with you — the crickets, the distant thrum of music from inside, even the cool air curling between your bodies like it’s waiting to see what you’ll do. Martin can feel his heart pounding everywhere at once, loud enough he’s half-convinced you can hear it. You’re so close now that the space between you feels less like distance and more like tension pulled tight to the breaking point.

He opens his mouth again because that’s what he’s been doing wrong all along — thinking he needs to explain, to clarify, to confess everything at once.

“I just—” he starts, voice already too full. “I need you to know that I never— God, I wanted you there. I always want you there, Y/N. I thought if I crossed the wrong line you’d disappear and I—”

You shake your head, inching closer before he can spiral any further. Close enough that his knee bumps yours against the creaky wooden bench, close enough that the warmth of you feels undeniable. His words stall in his throat as his brain scrambles to catch up with how near you suddenly are.

Your eyes shine when you look up at him — not fragile, not uncertain. Certain in a way that knocks the breath out of his lungs.

“Martin,” you say softly, but there’s a smile there now, small and trembling and real. “If you keep talking, I might actually combust.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, like he doesn’t trust them not to give him away.

You tilt your head, just slightly. “Just shut up and kiss me, Tin.”

The nickname hits him straight in the chest.

His laugh comes out wrecked, disbelieving, almost a sob. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He shifts closer on the bench, knees angling toward you, the movement instinctive. Even then, he still has to lean down — still has to bend toward you because he’s always been a little too tall, because somehow even now there’s this tiny, familiar adjustment between you. His hand lifts, hesitant for half a second, before settling at your waist like it’s always known it belongs there.

And then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first — almost worshipful. Like he’s afraid that if he rushes it, you’ll vanish. He’s imagined this for so goddamn long it feels like a dream to be doing it in real life. His lips brush yours once, twice, a careful question more than an answer. The second you kiss him back, something in him breaks open.

The world narrows violently, beautifully, to just this.

Your hand fists in the front of his shirt, grounding him, and the kiss deepens — not desperate, but full. Full of all the things he’s swallowed for weeks. The wanting. The relief. The sheer, dizzying rightness of it. His heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest and into yours.

Physically, it hits him everywhere at once — heat blooming under his skin, a pleasant ache settling low in his stomach, his knees threatening to give out even though he’s sitting down. Emotionally, it’s worse. Better. Hell, he doesn’t know nor does he care. What matters was that everything he’s been orbiting finally snaps into place.

She’s here. She chose me.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead drops to yours, eyes closed, like he needs the contact to stay upright. He’s smiling — wide and unguarded and a little stunned, like someone who’s just realized they’ve been holding their breath for far too long and forgotten what air felt like.

“Wow,” he breathes, almost laughing under it, voice soft and a little shaky. “I— yeah. Just know I’ve been wanting to do that for a really long time.”

Your laugh brushes his lips again, soft and disbelieving, and he feels it settle somewhere deep in his chest like a promise finally kept. The kind you don’t say out loud because saying it would make it fragile. He opens his eyes then, just to look at you properly — to confirm you’re still there, still real — and the way you’re smiling back at him makes his throat tighten.

This time, when he kisses you, there’s no hesitation left at all. It’s surer, warmer, his hand firm at your waist like he’s anchoring himself. Not rushing, not afraid. This is just present. And you kiss him back like you’ve both arrived at the same quiet truth from opposite directions.

The rest of the night unfolds gently, almost shyly, as if the world knows better than to rush you now. When you head back inside, the others clock it immediately — the way you’re standing too close again, shoulders brushing, the way Martin’s hand keeps finding the small of your back like it’s muscle memory. After days of obvious distance, of Wonhee and Juhoon exchanging looks, of Seonghyeon nudging Keonho and James whispering something to Iroha, the shift is impossible to miss.

No one says anything when you and Martin say your goodbyes earlier than expected. There are a few raised brows, a couple of knowing smiles, but they let you go without teasing, without questions. Like they’ve always known you’d figure it out eventually.

Outside, the night air is cool and forgiving. You walk without a destination, letting your feet decide, the neighborhood stretching quiet and familiar around you. At some point, Martin slips his jacket pocket open just enough for your hand to slide into, your fingers threading together inside the warmth, hidden from the world. It feels intimate in a way that makes your chest ache — in a good way. A full way.

Neither of you talks much. You don’t need to. The silence isn’t heavy anymore; it’s companionable, soft. He bumps his shoulder into yours once, gentle, and you smile to yourself, thinking about all the moments before this — every misstep, every pause, every second you both chose closeness even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

Later, when you stop under a streetlamp and look at each other like you’re still a little in awe, Martin squeezes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. That awkward feeling — the one that haunted the space between you for so long — doesn’t disappear entirely. It just changes shape. It becomes something tender. Something worth carrying.

Because loving each other like this, you realize, was never going to be simple.

But it was always, always going to be you.