✍︎ ⋰☄︎summary: in which dancers (and ex lovers) with opposite styles reunite and train to together in effort to win the worlds’ greatest dancing competition also known as the 10Dance. Based off the movie 10Dance.
ᰔ y/n has always wanted to be number one.
From her little first grade self sweating to be the highest rank in her class to her constant training to win the national championships.
The waltz. Tango. Viennese Waltz. Slow Foxtrot. Quicksteps.
She mastered it all.
Some thought that her determination will make her get to her goal while others thought her ego was the only thing holding her back from success.
Whoever she never cared. She was herself, she wasn’t afraid to talk down. Which makes sense cause she is the number 1 ballroom dancer in all Korea. But can she continue talking if she’s never won the 10Dance championships?
The 10Dance was the biggest dance competition for all dancers. Every year pairs around the world come together to compete for the number one spot. This means mastering every single ballroom dances and Latino. Additionally from the ballroom the Latino genre included: Samba, Cha-Cha, Rumba, Paso Doble, and Jive.
No matter how much y/n trained she has never been to able to win. Every year she has walked out with the same medal of 2nd place. As if she’s just 3D copying that medal. She has always been inferior to Liana Florence, Spaniard, who knows how to move her hips like she’s in a reggaeton music video and gracefully glide through a waltz on the same floor. She has always been superior, most critics say she was always will be.
People would describe y/n as elegant, light, firm; everything you need to be a ballroom dancer. She appears as she’s floating with every beat and step of the elegant music but actually she’s just hanging on for dear life to her partner. While she can beat Liana in every single ballroom dance, her Latino always bites her ass.
Much like Liana, her y/n’s partners had it all.
Aedan Kim.
Y/n and Aedan’s chemistry was undeniably passionate. Every sharp turn and dip kept everyone in the crowd wanting more. Aedan would be describe as laid back and relaxed but when it came to the floor, he completely switches. His wasian eyes sharpen, brown hair gelled back, muscles tense, lightly tanned skin glowing in the singular light pointing at the two of you.
Aedan would keep y/n grounded. He would hold her by the waist at the floor, keep his hand on her lower back during interviews, drawing circles on her thighs when driving to a show.
Everyone thought they were forever, until it wasn’t.
“I can never make number 1 if I stay with you y/n”
“W-what..” you muttered out “I know we didn’t win this year but I can make my expressions sharper and more-”
“I’m sorry, I need to be with someone who can get me where I want to be, you’ve train so much and I see that but sometimes it doesn’t cut it”
You went home in tears, the 10Dance was in 11 months and you don’t have a back up partner with a connection as good as you and Aedan.
The only option you have is..
Zhao James
Lord how that name feels bitter, James was your ex partner.. and..well.. ex boyfriend too. You guy met when you first started training you learned your specialties side by side.
It genuinely was your typical love story, when you spend so many hours with a man you learned to fall in love. Whoever this took years.
James was a introvert he wouldn’t even look you in the eye while he was practically grinding on you. He would eat by himself isolated from you and the other dancers. To this day you have no idea how you shifted into being lovers, his vibe changed he would make you laugh and made you feel.. well understood.
He gave you the confidence you needed at that time but now looking back did you ever reciprocate it to him?
When you and James started competing at the national level, critics were quick to judge. James was very strong at Latino dances. His movement was just so sensual and captivating while you where kinda just trying not to step one his shoes.
When it came to ballroom, you would be as sharp as a pencil while he wobbled to hold your waist and keep you on your toes.
You guys were different and you didn’t care as much until trainers started splitting you up and at first you and James had accepted it. It was sad at the beginning cause —hello— he was your first partner, but you and him still had your relationship.
Until you didn’t.
After you and James had been split as partners, Aedan was his replacement. Of course Adean’s charm definitely threatened James and really no matter how much you comforted him, James began to distant himself. Missed calls, cancelled dates, and missed family dinners.
When you finally confronted James, it felt like a stab in the heart him telling you how he felt.
“I don’t deserve you y/n.”
“James what the fuck is wrong with you, I love you, and you know that very well”
“It doesn’t matter if you love me or not, they only thing people see is me bringing you down. Bringing down your connection with that new partner of yours. All people see me is as a random next to you. So im gonna say this before the media forces you too. Let’s break up”
You remember your heart being broken that day and you also remember how Aedan being at your side the day you came to the studio crying.
Now here you are years later, with your thumb hovering over James’ contact.
You read your message over and over again, just to make sure you had everything right. You internally scream when you decide to send it.
Hello James, I hope you doing well. I know we haven’t talked in a long time but I would love to reconnect very soon for some important news. Thank you for your tie.
You read the text and that when you realized. Tie?! Your wrote tie! Your act stupid and dumb you tell yourself like you literally read it over 10 times and you still messed it up.
—
A week passed and you still got no answer, you were just praying for him to be available.
The it happened.
James
Hi it has been a while. What is so important you are willing to talk to me again?
you breathed and texted
you
You’ll find out if you meet me at xxx cafe.
James
no im not going anywhere in public with you.
That stung.
you
Would u rather come to my house?
James
no I’ll meet at the cafe Thursday at 9:00
Bingo.
-
It as Thursday now, you slowly realising your cooked. How will you convince him to dance with you if he barely wanted to be seen with you in public.
You settled at the table closest to the corner of the shop placed all your purse and patiently waited for James
After about 10 minutes of waiting James walked in a bit of a rush and his hood pulled up a glasses on.
His hair was now dyed into a mousy brown instead of his pitch black hair that was the only thing you could really tell from his appearance
“Umm.. hi..”
“Y/n cut to the point why did you text me.” He says with a blunt expression that you haven’t seen before.
“Chill not even a hi back” you mutter.
He stood up
“Stay James. You can’t run away from here like I’m the one who broke your heart.”
He sat back down.
“Look, I don’t know if you’ve heard but me and Aedan aren’t partners anymore. The 10 Dance is in 11 months and to be honest your my only hope to even place” you say not looking into his eyes as if he’s gonna break your heart again.
James tried a little to hard not to smile. He never liked that asshole and the feeling of him not having you by his side anymore kinda made him… happy?
“Hell no.” He says a little too quick
“What..?.”
“Y/n I just drove 30 minutes just for you to tell me some bullshit you already knew I would’ve said no to” he says as he rubs his eye visibly tired.
“James you don’t understand, I need you right now. More than ever before.” you plea.
That’s sentence made James’ heart beat a little faster but he continued “You think I’ll crawl back to you after my rebound dumped you”
“Well I didn’t have a choice, James, I never have a choice. Did you really expected me to never move on from you. Did you really expect me to forgive your lazy excuse of ‘your to good for me” you snap back feeling your face get hot.
“Well I’ve clearly been forgiven considering you practically on your knees telling me how much you need me which now that I say it could me interpreted very wrong..” the second James words slips his tongue that he mentally slaps himself in the face.
“Zhao Yufan you left me because you wanted me to thrive and be better, you truly care you would understand it’s you or no one else. If you say no, your excuse of breaking up with me isn’t valid cause clearly you would be ok with crushing my dreams also horrible time to be cracking jokes.”
“Why are you acting like I will save you from loosing to Liana, I don’t know how to ballroom dance remember. And much less now.”
“James I can teach you. I have my own studio for the love of god. And you can help me perfect my Latino.” damn this plan sounded crazier out loud.
“Acting like this would be easy. This is going to take time and patience and unfortunately for you I don’t have both” he says literally giving you zero hope to work with.
“James please, I will do anything, you don’t even have to talk to me after this just please think.”
James’ world stop for second, his ex-girlfriend begging for him, asking for him, needing him. His ego combusted.
James stared at his watch. “I have to go”
“Wait!” y/n yelped.. “Just think please”
James looked straight into y/n eyes filled with desperation “goodbye y/n”
And just like that he left.
-
James
Saturday 7:49 pm
I’m free Tuesday after 8:00 where is your studio located.
You jumped around your apartment with joy.
You also realized that your self esteem had really gone down now that you literally let James book his own time at the studio
But none of that is really on your mind because you had done the hardest part, making him your partner. Now the most ragebaiting one was coming.
Actually teaching him to perfect ballroom.
I finished this story a little bit ago but wanted to post a preview before publishing the full thing. The story is very very very long so would you rather me cut it into parts or just post the whole thing? Please feel free to leave critiques or suggestions! I would also recommend to watch the movie it is very good.
✍︎☄︎⋰summary: when juhoon chooses you over his pr relationship
𝓉ℯ𝓁𝓁 𝓎ℴ𝓊𝓇 ℊ𝒾𝓇𝓁𝒻𝓇𝒾ℯ𝓃𝒹
Juhoon had a date today. However it wasn’t with the girl of his liking, instead it was with his ‘girlfriend’ that the company had set him up with.
He was getting ready until he realized something was off when he reached for his watch for the third time in five minutes. Not to check the time—he already knew he was running early—but because his phone felt… too quiet.
No random meme from you. No voice note complaining about your neighbors. No “look at this” text that led to nothing.
He frowned slightly as he adjusted the cuff of his button-down, fingers pausing as the thought settled naturally and uncomfortably in his chest. I haven’t talked to you all day.
He told himself you were probably busy. Or napping. Or ignoring him on purpose to mess with him. Still, by the time he slid his belt through the last loop and checked his reflection—hair styled, shirt ironed, painfully handsome in that clean, idol way—he was already tapping your contact.
FaceTime rang once. Twice.
You picked up.
Your camera was off, but his was on, and the first thing out of your mouth was a soft, stunned, “Wow. You clean up nice.”
He laughed, shoulders relaxing instantly. “What do you mean nice? I always look nice.”
“Yeah, but this is like… fancy-nice,” you teased. “Like CEO Mafia boyfriend.”
“Y/n what the hell does that even mean,” he said, slightly chuckling . “How was your day?”
There was a tiny pause. Barely noticeable—but Juhoon noticed everything about you. “Uh… it was okay,” you said. “I’ve been kinda sick recently, so I didn’t do much. Just stayed in.”
His brows knit together. “Sick?” He leaned closer to the screen instinctively. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s nothing,” you rushed out, too quickly. “Just a little off. Really.”
He hummed, unconvinced. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Why is your camera off?”
You scoffed. “Because I look awful.”
“I miss your face,” he said, tone light but honest. “Turn it on.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.”
“I love you,” he said easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t care how you look.”
“That’s a trap,” you shot back. “You say that and then I turn it on and you lie.”
“I have never lied—”
“You literally lie for a living.”
He burst out laughing. “Okay, rude. But still. Camera. On.”
“Nope.”
“Just one second.”
“No.”
“I’ll show you my outfit again.”
“I already saw it.”
“I’ll—”
“Juhoon.”
He sighed dramatically. “Fine. Be secretive. Mysterious. Gatekeep your face.”
You laughed, coughing a little at the end.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, suddenly serious.
There was another pause. Then: “Oh. Yeah. I mean—no. I should probably order something. I haven’t eaten all day,” you added with a laugh, trying to make him over see it.
It wasn’t funny to him.
“What?” he said flatly.
“It’s fine,” you insisted. “I’ll order ramen or something.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No,” you said immediately. “Juhoon, no. You don’t have time, you literally have a reservation—”
The call ended.
You stared at your phone in disbelief.
Across the city, Juhoon checked his watch—forty minutes. “Plenty,” he muttered, already jogging down the street. He hit the nearest convenience store like it was a mission: ramen cups, tea, your favorite gummies, soup packets, even that weird snack you loved. He paid, shoved everything into bags, and practically sprinted to your apartment, like he was in a marathon.
When he let himself in, your place was dim, curtains drawn, air too warm. Shoes kicked off, he headed straight for your room and nearly scared you out of your skin.
“Juhoon!” you yelped. “I literally told you not to come!”
The moment he really looked at you, everything else disappeared. Your under-eyes were dark, skin pale, hair damp with sweat. He dropped the bags and crossed the room in two steps, wrapping you in his arms.
He leaned in to kiss you and you pushed him back immediately. “Ew! Are you insane? You’re gonna catch whatever this is.”
“I don’t care,” he said, forehead pressing to yours anyway.
“Leave the food and go,” you insisted. “You have somewhere to be.”
He glanced at his watch. He was already late. He turned his phone face down on the dresser. “I care more about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he said gently, already untucking his shirt. “Stay in bed. I’m making ramen.”
He moved around your kitchen like he’d lived there forever—boiling water, adding extras, adjusting the spice because “you can’t handle heat when you’re sick,” which you deny every time.
He brought the bowl to you, fed you the first bite despite your protests, wiped your mouth when you missed. He pressed cool towels to your forehead, reminded you to drink water, teased you for whining.
“You know,” you muttered between sips, “you’re canceling on your girlfriend for this.”
He snorted. “She’ll survive.”
“You’re gonna get yelled at.”
“Worth it.”
He silenced his phone without even looking at the notifications piling up. He stayed. When you stopped pushing him away and accepted the fact he was not gonna give up trying to cuddle you, Juhoon curled up beside you, arm around your waist, kissing your temple instead of your lips like it physically pained him to hold back. When you finally fell asleep, he stayed awake a little longer, watching you breathe.
In the morning, he checked his phone.
5 missed calls. Twelve messages. One headline notification preview that made him laugh out loud.
“Well,” he murmured, tucking the blanket around you. “That’s future Juhoon’s problem.”
You stirred. “What’s funny?”
He smiled, soft and stupid and completely gone for you. “Nothing, baby. Go back to sleep.”
I LOVE more than friends!!! I'm so invested in the characters already and I'm excited to see where the story goes. It's also nice that you delve into the more serious side of Martin for characterization since he's usually characterized as crackhead energy haha
Thank you sooo much! I’m happy you enjoy it!! It took me a while to find a concept for a good and realistic Martin story. I also wanted to dive more into the deeper sides of things, rather than just make him crack jokes all the time, because I want to emphasize how much y/n means to him lol. I want to have a good balance of it to not just make it boring because that's also not him. But thank you so much; I’ll make sure to post more chapters soon!
✍︎ ⋰☄︎summary: in which your cortis boyfriend finds out that you were a major fan girl before meeting you
MARTIN
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
You’re standing beside Martin at the event, heels digging slightly into the carpet, lights flashing everywhere. It’s loud but controlled, the kind of chaos you’re used to now. Martin’s hand is warm at your back, grounding, and you’re half-listening to the reporters while smiling on cue.
A reporter steps forward, cheerful and way too excited. You don’t think much of it at first—standard questions, compliments, nothing unusual. You nod, Martin answers smoothly, and you relax just a little.
Then the reporter tilts their head and says it. Something about fans “digging up” an old editing account. Your name. Your username. Your brain blanks so hard it’s like someone unplugged it. You swear the world slows down by half a second.
They mention edits. His edits. Your edits. You feel all the blood in your body rush straight to your face.
You blink once. Twice. “Oh,” you say weakly, “that’s… not supposed to exist anymore.”
Before you know it your vision blurs just enough that you dramatically clutch
Martin’s arm, whispering, “I’m gonna pass out,” even though you’re very much alive.
Martin freezes. Not in a concerned way—more like his brain is buffering. He looks at you, then at the reporter, then back at you. His lips twitch. That’s when you know it’s over for you.
The reporter keeps talking, completely unaware they’ve just exposed you to the public like this. You’re nodding along, smiling like everything’s fine, while internally planning to disappear forever.
You try to recover by pretending it’s hilarious, waving it off like, “Oh yeah, that phase,” even though your soul has fully left your body.
Martin, meanwhile, is biting his lip, shoulders shaking, doing absolutely nothing to help.
Then he lets out a laugh he absolutely shouldn’t have on camera. He tries to turn it into a cough and fails miserably.
You glare at him. “You’re supposed to defend me right now.”
As soon as the interview ends and the cameras move on, Martin turns to you with the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “So,” he says, dragging the word out, “you were a fan.”
You groan and hide your face in your hands.
He laughs harder, leaning over like he might actually fall. “Edits?” he repeats.
“Multiple edits?”
You mutter something about it being years ago and a dark time in your life.
He doesn’t let it go. The entire walk away from the carpet, he’s teasing you—asking if you used slow-motion, dramatic music, if you had a favorite clip of him. You threaten to never attend another event with him again.
Later that night, you’re still mortified, curled up somewhere quiet while he scrolls through his phone, still laughing to himself.
He nudges you and says, “I can’t believe I’m dating my own editor.”
You bury your face in a pillow, muffling a scream, while he keeps laughing and pulls you closer anyway, clearly enjoying every second of your embarrassment.
You know you’ll never live this down—and judging by his grin, he has no intention of letting you forget it anytime soon.
(this one was heavily inspired by the mckenna grace incident😭)
JAMES
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
You’d been dating James long enough that silence was comfortable. The kind where you could be curling your hair in the mirror while he lounged on the bed behind you, scrolling on his phone, occasionally glancing up just to watch you. He wasn’t even trying to hide it either. Every time you caught his reflection staring, he’d give you that lazy smile like getting ready together was his favorite part of the night.
You were halfway through deciding whether to change tops for the third time when your phone lit up on the counter.
Your best friend’s name flashed across the screen, and you answered without thinking, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear. “Hey—what’s up?”
The shriek that came through the speaker made you flinch. “GUESS WHAT HAPPENED. Remember your old Tumblr account? FROM BEFORE? IT JUST WENT VIRAL.”
Your soul immediately tried to leave your body. “What—what Tumblr account?” you said weakly, already knowing exactly which one she meant. You glanced at James in the mirror, panic blooming when you saw him look up, interested clearly.
Your friend kept going, completely oblivious. “The one with the edits and the fanfics? People are reposting screenshots everywhere—”
“James is gonna freak if he—” you blurted, lunging for your phone to mute her, but you were too late.
James blinked. Once. Then again.
“Tumblr?” he asked slowly. “What’s Tumblr?”
You laughed too fast. “Nothing. Literally nothing. Ignore her, she’s being dramatic.” You waved a hand like this was normal, like your best friend hadn’t just threatened your entire existence.
James narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. He set his phone down and stood up. “You’re bad at lying,” he said calmly, walking over. Before you could react, he gently but firmly took your phone from your hand and unmuted the call.
Your friend’s voice filled the room again. “—I mean, imagine if James ever found out you wrote fanfiction about—”
You screamed his name. Loud. Sharp. Desperate. “JAMES!”
Your friend finally stopped. “Oh. Oh my god. He’s there, isn’t he?”
James just stood there, phone in hand, frozen. His mouth was slightly open, shock written all over his face. “Fanfiction?” he repeated. “You… wrote fanfiction?”
You didn’t even think. You snatched the phone back, bolted past him, and locked yourself in the bathroom like your life depended on it. The second the lock clicked, you slid down the door and covered your face, mortified beyond recovery.
“Hey,” James said from the other side, knocking softly. “Come on. Open the door.”
“No,” you groaned. “I’m never coming out. Cancel dinner. Cancel our relationship. I’m moving countries.”
He laughed—actually laughed—which only made it worse. “Babe, our reservation is in thirty minutes. You can’t ghost me over Tumblr.”
“You don’t understand,” you whined through the door. “I was unwell. I was cringe. I was unemployed.”
“That explains a lot,” he teased gently.
“But also… kind of impressive?”
You cracked the door open just enough to glare at him. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, grin unmistakably smug—but soft. “You’re not mad?” you asked cautiously.
“Mad?” he shook his head. “You liked me before you even knew me. That’s adorable.”
He paused. “Embarrassing for you, sure. But adorable.”
You finally came out, still hiding your face, and he immediately pulled you into a hug.
“Relax,” he murmured. “I promise I won’t read them.”
“You already want to,” you muttered.
He absolutely did.
At dinner, he behaved for exactly ten minutes. Then, while scanning the menu, he casually said, “So… was I the serious type in the fanfics? Or more soft and misunderstood?”
You kicked him under the table. Hard. He just laughed, leaning closer. “I’m just saying,” he whispered, “if you ever need inspiration again—”
“James,” you warned, cheeks burning.
He grinned, eyes warm. “Hey. At least now I know I was your type before I was your boyfriend.”
JUHOON
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Movie night was supposed to be easy. You had planned it all out—comfy clothes, lights dimmed just right, snacks stacked dangerously high on the coffee table.
Juhoon was sprawled on the couch, already halfway under a blanket, scrolling through Netflix like this was his apartment and not yours. You were in the kitchen, shaking a bowl of popcorn and humming, feeling very proud of yourself.
“Hey, babe,” Juhoon called lazily. “It logged you out. What’s your Netflix password?”
You rolled your eyes, dumping popcorn into a bigger bowl. “It’s saved in my notes app. Just grab my phone.”
“Got it,” he said easily, already unlocking it like it was muscle memory.
A few seconds passed. Then a few more.
“…I can’t find it, baby.”
“It’s there,” you said, focused on arranging snacks like it was a competitive sport. “Just scroll more down.”
Juhoon did exactly that.
And immediately wished he hadn’t.
Instead of a password, his screen filled with folders. Not subtle ones. Not mysterious ones. Ones titled “Scenarios w Juhoon”, “Names for children with Juhoon”, “How to get Juhoon to notice me”, “Upcoming cortis concerts & events”, and—his personal favorite—“Things Juhoon might like (DO NOT DELETE)”.
He froze.
Like, fully froze. Thumb hovering. Brain short-circuiting.
Is this… about me?
Children?
Notice me??
This girl planned me.
His chest felt warm and panicky at the same time. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him was weirdly flattered. Another part of him was trying very hard not to spiral over the fact that you had apparently manifested him with using the notes app.
You walked back into the living room balancing snacks like a champ. “Okay, I’m ready—what happened? Can you still not find it?”
Juhoon looked up at you slowly, eyes wide in a way you’d never seen before. “…Yeah,” he said, voice suspiciously calm. “I, uh. Found something else.”
Confused, you leaned over—and then you saw it.
Your soul left your body.
“Oh my—” You snatched the phone from his hand so fast popcorn almost flew everywhere. Your face dropped. Full shutdown. “You were NOT supposed to see that.”
Silence. Then—
Juhoon laughed. Not mean laughter. The soft, breathy, trying not to embarrass you further kind. He leaned back into the couch, running a hand through his hair.
“So,” he said carefully, “you’ve been planning our children… before I even knew you?”
You groaned, collapsing beside him and burying your face in a pillow. “I’m actually going to pass away right now.”
He gently tugged the pillow away so he could see you, eyes still amused but warm. “Hey,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Relax. I’ve seen worse. Fans once mailed me a spreadsheet.”
That made you peek up. “That’s not helping.”
“But this?” he continued, holding your chin lightly so you had to look at him, “this is kinda cute.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “Cute?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “You were… prepared. Dedicated. A little insane—but in a charming way.”
You covered your face again. “Please stop talking.”
Instead, he scooted closer, pulling the blanket around both of you. “For the record,” he added casually, “you spelled my name wrong once in the ‘scenarios’ folder.”
You shot up. “YOU READ THAT FAR?!”
He grinned, completely unbothered.
You smacked his arm, mortified, and he laughed again—then softened, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Hey,” he murmured.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed. You liked me. Now I’m here. Mission accomplished.”
Your heart melted against your will.
He grabbed the remote, pulling you into his chest.
SEONGHYEON
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Y/N had been staring at her phone for a full minute before finally typing the text.
I’m so sorry, something came up 😭
I can’t make it back home today.
She sent it, immediately followed by another message.
You don’t have to help my mom with the closet, really. She can do it later.
Seonghyeon read it while standing in the hallway of her childhood home, sleeves rolled up, already surrounded by dust and old cardboard boxes. He replied almost instantly.
It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I can head out.
Then he looked over at her mom, who was already climbing a step stool with a determined sigh, and sent another message.
Actually… I’ll stay and help. It’s fine.
The closet was exactly what Seonghyeon had expected from someone who hadn’t cleaned it in years—boxes stacked all the way to the ceiling, random childhood trophies, and things labeled in messy handwriting. Y/N’s mom stood on the step stool, carefully sliding boxes forward while Seonghyeon waited below, arms raised to catch them.
“This one’s heavy,” her mom warned.
“I’ve got it,” Seonghyeon said easily, taking it from her hands and setting it aside. He was polite, attentive, and trying very hard not to imagine Y/N as a tiny child crammed into this same space.
Box after box came down. Old clothes. School notebooks. Stuffed animals sealed in plastic. Then, as her mom reached for the very back corner of the top shelf, a smaller box slid forward. Seonghyeon caught it automatically—and then paused.
Written on the lid in slightly faded marker were the words: “my loves.”
He stared at it longer than necessary. Curiosity tugged at him, quiet but persistent. When her mom stepped down to adjust the stool, he lifted the lid just a little.
Inside were neatly stacked posters, photo cards, and albums. His breath caught when he recognized his own face almost immediately. And then—Cortis. Multiple eras. Carefully organized. Some older, slightly worn, like they’d been handled a lot.
“Oh,” her mom said, noticing his expression. Then she laughed softly. “You found that one.”
Seonghyeon looked up, ears already warm. “Uh… I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she waved him off. “She adored you. Both of you, really. That box used to move everywhere with her.”
His heart thumped a little harder. “She… did?”
Her mom smiled like she’d been waiting years for this moment.
“Oh, you have no idea. She saved for months just to go to that one showcase. Camped out online for tickets, cried when they sold out, cried harder when she got them.”
Seonghyeon let out a quiet laugh, half disbelief, half something softer. “Really?”
“Mm‑hmm. She made banners, too. Stayed up all night once repainting one because the color was ‘wrong.’”
He shook his head slowly, smiling despite himself. “She never told me any of this.”
“Oh, there’s more,” her mom said cheerfully.
And there was.
Stories about train rides, handmade signs, deleted drafts of messages she never sent, how she practiced what she’d say if she ever met him—and then panicked and said nothing when she finally did.
By the time the closet was finished, Seonghyeon felt… full. Warm. A little stunned. The idea that Y/N, the girl who teased him now and pretended not to care, had once cared that much made his chest ache in the best way.
Later that evening, he texted her.
I’m gonna stop by your apartment.
When he arrived, everything was normal.
Too normal. Y/N immediately launched into apologies, words spilling over each other.
“I’m really sorry I couldn’t come, I feel bad you had to help my mom, I swear I didn’t plan—”
“Hey,” he interrupted gently, watching her pace. “It’s okay.”
She finally stopped, looking at him. He tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips.
“I didn’t know you were such a fan girl.”
She froze. “What do you mean?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You know. The posters. The albums. The box labeled my loves.”
Her soul left her body. “She did not.”
“She did,” he said, nodding. “Extensively.”
Y/N groaned, covering her face. “I want to disappear. Right now. Like actually evaporate.”
Seonghyeon laughed, soft and fond, stepping closer. “You practiced speeches?”
“Stop.”
“You repainted banners?”
“Please.”
“You cried over ticket sales?”
“Okay, I’m breaking up with my mom.”
He reached out, gently pulling her hands away from her face. Her cheeks were bright red, eyes refusing to meet his. His teasing smile softened when he saw how genuinely mortified she was.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s kind of… amazing.”
She peeked at him. “You’re not judging me?”
“Not at all.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “I think it’s sweet. And a little unbelievable that youwere cheering for me like that.”
She groaned again, but this time she leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around her, chin resting lightly on her head.
“I’m glad it was me,” he murmured. “And I’m really glad I get to be here now.”
She sighed into his chest, still embarrassed—but smiling.
KEONHO
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Keonho woke up before his alarm, heart already racing like it was his birthday instead of yours. He carefully slipped out of bed, moving as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t wake you.
Today mattered.
He’d planned everything down to the smallest detail—the breakfast menu, the little handwritten signs taped around your apartment, the neatly wrapped gifts lined up on the counter… even the exact number of kisses he intended to give you throughout the day.
In the kitchen, he worked with a soft smile, flipping pancakes, cutting fruit into neat shapes, and plating everything the way you liked. He placed a tiny candle into one pancake because of course he did.
Around the apartment, pastel sticky notes waited: Happy Birthday, I love you.
When he finally stepped back to admire everything, he felt that warm, satisfied ache in his chest—the kind that only came from loving someone this much.
Then came the worst part. Waiting.
He sat on the couch, phone in hand, trying not to check the time every thirty seconds. To distract himself, he scrolled mindlessly—until a photo stopped him cold. His thumb froze. His breath caught.
It was you.
Years younger, grinning next to a very obvious Cortis-themed cake… and right beside you stood a full-size cardboard cutout of him. Of Keonho. The caption read something like “anything is possible”, and the comments were already brutal and viral. “From sasaeng to girlfriend”, “She won the lottery”, “Manifestation final boss”. His name trended in the replies.
Keonho stared at the screen, stunned. Shock hit first—pure, dumbfounded disbelief. Then curiosity. Then something softer. Warmer. He felt his ears burn as he imagined you back then, probably laughing, probably never thinking this moment would actually exist.
The idea that you’d once admired him from afar, that fate had somehow twisted so hard it landed you here—in his bed, on your birthday—made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
Before he could spiral any deeper, the bedroom door creaked open.
You shuffled out, hair messy, eyes sleepy—and then you froze when you saw everything. The breakfast. The signs. Keonho standing there with the softest smile you’d ever seen. “Happy birthday,” he said gently, walking over to press the very first kiss of the day to your forehead. Kiss number one.
The morning unfolded perfectly. You laughed over breakfast, unwrapped gifts that were way too thoughtful, and groaned when he proudly announced he’d already given you sixty kisses out of one thousand.
He kept count too—tapping your nose, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, every time mumbling number as if he was counting kisses.
Later, when you were cuddled together and he suggested taking a photo, you leaned in without thinking. But the moment he opened his camera roll, that picture popped up again—bright, unmistakable, incriminating.
Your soul left your body.
You yelped, buried your face in a pillow, and absolutely lost it. “TURN IT OFF. TURN IT OFF. I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO SEE THAT EVER AGAIN.” You refused to look at him, rolling onto your side and groaning into the couch cushions. “That was a PHASE. A PRIVATE PHASE.”
Keonho blinked once… then burst out laughing.
Not mocking—warm, incredulous laughter. “A phase?” he teased gently, trying to catch your eye. “You had a cake. And a cutout. That’s commitment.” When you groaned louder, he softened immediately, sliding closer and wrapping his arms around you. “Hey,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay.”
You peeked at him, still mortified, cheeks burning. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
He shook his head without hesitation. “I think it’s kind of uhm.. nice,” he admitted.
“You liked me… and now you’re here. With me. On your birthday.” He smiled, thumb brushing your cheek. “I don’t mind at all. If anything, I feel lucky.”
You finally looked at him fully then, and he leaned in to steal another kiss. “Sixty-three,” he whispered, smiling against your lips. “And I’ve got… nine hundred and thirty-seven more to go. So you’re not allowed to hide.”
And somehow, just like that, the embarrassment melted—replaced by warmth, laughter, and the quiet realization that sometimes the universe really does let fangirls win.
(My request are open! Also lmk if you wanna be tagged in my next posts!)
summary: in which you do the “seeing if they melt into the kiss” trend with your cortis boyfriend
𝒻ℴ𝓇ℯ𝓋ℯ𝓇
MARTIN
➶➶︎︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎
The apartment was a mess. Shopping bags were scattered across the living room floor, new clothes draped over the backs of chairs, and half-empty coffee cups sat on the table.
You had just come back from a spontaneous day of shopping with Martin, both of you laughing endlessly as you carried your purchases home. Now, you were sprawled on the couch scrolling through your phone, while he was tossing clothes onto the bed, humming to himself.
A good idea popped into your head, one you had seen trending online. You glanced at Martin, who was completely oblivious to the scheming look on your face, and smirked.
“Hey,” you called out, a little too sweetly for no reason.
“Hm?” he looked up from the pile of shirts, his brow furrowed.
“Stand up,” you commanded, gesturing with your hand like some sort of sergeant.
He tilted his head, confused. “Uh… okay?”
He slowly rose, glancing down at you like you’d suddenly grown two heads.
“Now… arms up. Reach high,” you instructed, making him stretch like a toddler.
Martin raised an eyebrow, a small chuckle escaping him. “You’re being weird. What is this?”
“Just… trust me,” you said, suppressing a grin. You leaned forward, cupped his face lightly in your hands, and pressed your lips to his.
The moment your lips touched his, something shifted. His usual calm, playful smirk melted entirely. His hands instinctively rested on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a moment, it felt like time had slowed. You could feel him soften completely against you, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a way that made your heart stutter.
A few seconds later, he lifted you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as you dangled like a monkey.
“I love you so much” he whispered against your lips, voice breathless. You laughed into the kiss, feeling the warmth of his arms as you both collapsed on top of the couch, you were practically lying on top of him.
You were both breathless, the room filled with the aftermath of laughter and the soft thump of hearts racing. Martin kept his hands on your sides, teasing, “I’m going to need that video later. Send it to me, okay?”
Curious, you leaned over to peek at his phone later that evening, only to see him carefully sliding the clip into a folder labeled “loml❤️.” Your chest tightened at the sight—it was cheesy, yes, but the pure sincerity behind it made your stomach flip.
“You really are ridiculous,” you said, nudging him playfully.
“I know,” he murmured, grinning, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But you love it.”
You smirked, letting yourself snuggle closer, still giddy from the moment.
Somehow, amidst clothes everywhere and piles of shopping bags, the apartment felt warmer than ever, just the two of you, tangled in each other and in the simple, perfect chaos of being together.
JAMES
➶➶︎︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎
You and James had just gotten back from dinner, still laughing about little things from the restaurant—the way he tried to impersonate the waiter, how the breadsticks disappeared faster than expected, the inside jokes that only the two of you shared.
The apartment was quiet now, except for the occasional chuckle or sigh of peace. You were sprawled across the couch with your phone in hand, scrolling absentmindedly while he leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, grinning at something you’d just said.
A playful idea popped into your head—the “seeing if he melts into the kiss” trend you’d seen online. It seemed like the perfect moment: relaxed, lighthearted, with just the two of you.
“Hey,” you said, nudging him gently.
“Stand up for a sec?”
He raised an eyebrow, smiling, and got to his feet. “Alright,” he said casually, still chuckling from the dinner conversation.
You set your phone on the coffee table, positioning it to record, then gave him a quick instruction. “Hands up.”
James raised them, his expression curious but relaxed. For a split second, he flinched, and the movement made you laugh. You leaned in closer, and before he could react further, your lips met his.
The kiss started soft and casual, testing the waters, then deepened slightly as he relaxed into it, his flinch fading into something more natural.
Your hands found their way to his shoulders, his hands resting lightly on your waist. It was intimate without needing to be over the top—just a moment where the playful energy of the night shifted into something warmer, more connected.
When you pulled back slightly, both of you were smiling, catching your breath.
“You flinched,” you said, pointing at the phone where the camera had caught everything.
He shook his head. “I thought you were gonna tickle me,” he admitted, a slight laugh in his voice. “I wasn’t ready for that.”
“Yeah, I should’ve just tickled you,” you said, replaying the footage.
He leaned down, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to your forehead, and the playful mood softened into something quieter. “It would’ve ended with me kissing you anyway,” he murmured.
You laughed quietly, settling back on the couch next to him. The rest of the night drifted by in calm, warm conversation, occasional teasing, and the comfortable silence of two people who didn’t need words to enjoy each other’s company.
JUHOON
➶➶︎︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎
You were lying on Juhoon’s bed, scrolling through your phone while he leaned back against the headboard, headphones in, casually tapping along to the music. The room smelled faintly of his cologne mixed with vanilla from the candle he’d left burning. It was quiet, relaxed—the perfect kind of lazy afternoon.
You laughed softly at a meme, and he peeked one eye at you. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, just a stupid trend,” you said, hiding your smile behind your phone.
But then, a video caught your eye: “seeing if they melt into the kiss.” You stared at it for a second, and before you knew it, you were already plotting how to try it with him.
You shifted closer without making it obvious, keeping your tone casual. “Hey… can you stand up for a sec?”
He looked at you, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Stand up… why?”
“Just… stand,” you said, a little quicker now, gesturing. “And put your hands up high.”
Juhoon raised an eyebrow, smirking a little, but didn’t argue.
“You’re acting kinda weird,” he said, still calm as ever.
You leaned up and kissed him. At first, he froze, but only for a second before melting into it. His lips curved into a soft smile, and he tilted his head slightly. One hand moved to cup your cheek without him even thinking about it.
When you pulled back slightly, catching your breath, he groaned quietly. You barely had time to laugh before he leaned back in—this time, moving just enough to cover the camera with his hand so the kiss was partially hidden from view.
After you finally pulled back again, your lips tingling and your chest warm, you noticed his hand still covering part of your phone’s camera. Only a sliver of the room was visible now. You blinked, then laughed softly, tugging at his wrist.
“Hey, why’d you cover the camera?” you asked, half-teasing.
Juhoon glanced down at your phone, then back at you, calm and unbothered. “Don’t want anyone seeing us like this,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek lightly.
You blinked at him, heart doing a little flip. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said simply, shrugging like it was no big deal. Then he pulled his hand from the camera and rested it at your waist instead, keeping you close.
You leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, holding you easily. The room was quiet again, just the two of you, and it felt normal and right.
“You melted way to quick” you said teasingly, tilting your head.
Juhoon chuckled quietly, pressing his chin lightly to your head. “You already knew I was going to,” he said.
You smiled, settling closer into his side, and let the quiet comfort of the moment sink in.
SEONGHYEON
➶➶︎︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎
The sunlight poured gently through the kitchen window, hitting the countertops just right and casting soft golden lines across the floor. The morning had been slow and quiet—breakfast done, dishes half-washed, the smell of toast still lingering in the air. You were sitting on the kitchen stool, scrolling lazily through your phone, while Seonghyeon moved around efficiently, putting plates away and rinsing cups.
He hummed softly under his breath, the kind of content, almost imperceptible hum that made your heart squeeze a little. There was something comforting about these ordinary mornings with him—the way the world seemed to pause, just long enough for the two of you to exist in a tiny bubble of domestic bliss.
Then, the perfect idea struck you. You glanced at your phone, quickly setting it up on the counter to record, angling it so it could capture both of you. Your pulse quickened with anticipation. The “seeing if they melt into the kiss” trend… now or never, you thought, biting back a grin.
“Seonghyeon,” you called softly, standing from your stool. He turned, raising an eyebrow as he wiped his hands on a towel.
“Um… could you do me a tiny favor?”
“Anything,” he said instantly, his tone warm, his eyes soft as they settled on you.
“Just… stand here,” you said, gesturing to the spot near the counter.
“Hands up, like this.” You demonstrated, stretching your arms just above your head. “I… uh… want to try something.”
He raised his hands obediently, his posture perfect, his expression composed.
He knew you well enough to trust you, even when you drag him into doing weird trends.
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your lips as you stood close to him, heart beating a little faster than it should have.
You leaned in slowly, pressing your lips gently to his. At first, he stayed calm, lips barely moving against yours, like he was testing his own patience. You could see the control in his posture, the slight tension in his shoulders—but you also saw the softness in his eyes, the way his gaze softened as he held back a sigh.
And then, subtle at first, he let go. His shoulders slumped a little, a soft exhale escaping as he melted into the kiss. His lips pressed more firmly to yours, warm and insistent, and when you pulled away just slightly, he tilted his head, chasing your lips with his, eyes half-lidded, giving in completely to the moment.
You laughed softly against his lips, pulling back just enough to reveal the camera. “It’s a trend!” you said breathlessly, cheeks warm from excitement.
Seonghyeon froze for a second, ears turning a faint shade of pink. Then a shy, proud smile spread across his face, eyes lighting up.
“You… you recorded that?” he asked, voice playful but tinged with embarrassment.
“Of course I did!” you giggled, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him, still hovering close to you.
After a moment, he cupped your face in his hands, thumb brushing across your cheek.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured, leaning in for another kiss, slower this time, more intentional.
“You still love me though, ” you respond.
His grip tightened slightly, like he was making sure you didn’t slip away, his nose nuzzling yours as he pressed one last, lingering kiss to your lips.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing a little heavier than before.
“I do,” he whispered, shaking his head with that perfect mixture of exasperation and adoration.
You laughed, heart full, watching him go back to the dishes—but now, every glance he shot your way carried that same warm, teasing pride. And you knew, without a doubt, that even a silly little trend could turn into a memory you’d both treasure forever.
KEONHO
➶➶︎︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎➶︎
It was one of those slow afternoons where time didn’t feel real. Keonho’s place was quiet except for the low hum of the AC and some random playlist playing softly from the speaker. You were curled up on his couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling aimlessly while Keonho sat on the floor with his back against the couch, absently leaning into your knees as he fiddled with his phone. Nothing special planned.
Just being together.
You’d been like this for a while—comfortable silence, occasional teasing, Keonho stealing glances up at you with that lazy smile he always got when he felt at peace.
He reached back at one point, lacing his fingers with yours without even looking, squeezing gently like muscle memory. It made your heart do that stupid little flip it always did.
That’s when an idea sparked.
You shifted slightly and said casually,
“Wait… can we do something real quick?”
Keonho looked up immediately, eyes lighting up. “What kind of something?”
You slid off the couch and grabbed your phone, trying to act nonchalant even though you were already smiling.
“Just stand up for me. Like—right here.” You pointed to the open space in front of the couch.
Keonho raised an eyebrow but did exactly as you said, standing in front of you with an amused grin.
“You’re being suspicious,” he said, sing-songy.
You ignored that and added, “Put your hands up. Like—all the way up.”
The second you said that, his expression changed.
“Oh,” he said, eyes instantly sparkling.
“Ohhh. That trend.”
You froze for half a second. “What trend?”
He laughed, soft and excited, already lifting his arms above his head. “The kiss one. The ‘seeing if I melt’ one, right?”
He looked way too pleased, like he’d been waiting for this moment.
You tried to stay serious as you set your phone against a book on the shelf, adjusting the angle just right. “Don’t overthink it,” you said, walking back toward him. “Just stay like that.”
Keonho nodded eagerly, arms still raised, shoulders relaxed, smiling like a kid who knew he was about to get candy.
You stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel his warmth. He looked down at you with that soft, fond look—the one that always made you feel like you were the only thing in the room. Then you leaned in and kissed him.
He melted instantly.
There was no hesitation, no restraint. The second your lips touched his, his arms dropped around you like gravity finally kicked in.
One hand slid to your waist, the other resting between your shoulder blades as he smiled into the kiss, completely forgetting the “hands up” part of the trend. He leaned down into you, deeper, softer, like the kiss mattered more than anything else.
When you pulled away, laughing quietly, Keonho didn’t even open his eyes right away. He rested his forehead against yours, still holding you close. “That’s unfair,” he murmured. “You knew I’d melt.”
You smiled. “That’s literally the point.”
He opened his eyes, grinning wide. “Then I passed. Easily.”
Later, when you were both back on the couch—this time with Keonho’s arm slung around you and your legs draped over his lap—he insisted on watching the video. He replayed it once.
Then again.
Then again.
“Wow,” he said dramatically, shaking his head. “I didn’t even last one second.”
“You dropped your arms immediately,” you teased.
“Because it was you,” he shot back without missing a beat.
Before you could say anything else, he was already tapping away on his phone.
“I’m posting it.”
You jolted upright. “Keonho—wait—”
Too late.
He posted it with a simple caption—something cheesy and unmistakably him.
Within minutes, his phone started buzzing nonstop.
Notifications flooding in. He glanced at the screen, smiled to himself, then locked it and tossed the phone aside.
Instead of looking at it again, he pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.
“Worth it,” he said quietly.
You rested against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, realizing that yeah—if melting was a choice, Keonho would choose it every time.
summary: in which another girl attempts to flirts with your cortis boyfriend
𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁
MARTIN
✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎
The award show feels louder than usual, even through the TV speakers. The camera pans across the crowd—idols in tailored suits, dresses shimmering under the lights, practiced smiles plastered on their faces.
You sit curled up on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, one of Martin’s hoodies hanging off your shoulder. You told him you were fine watching from home. He told you he wished you were there anyway.
When the announcer calls CORTIS to the stage, your heart jumps like it’s your name they said.
You sit up straighter, volume up, eyes locked on the screen.
The boys rise from their table, exchanging quick looks of disbelief before clapping each other on the shoulders. Martin stands in the center, dressed sharp in black, hair styled just the way you like—clean but not stiff. He looks calm, but you know him too well. His jaw is tight. His fingers flex once at his side as they walk toward the stage.
The presenter steps forward—a popular female soloist, stunning, confident, smiling a little too brightly. At first, everything looks normal.
She hands the award to Martin, her hand lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Then another.
Her fingers slide up his wrist.
Your stomach twists.
She leans closer than the camera angle justifies, body angled toward him, her shoulder brushing his chest. Her hand shifts again, this time settling against his forearm like it belongs there. The smile she gives him isn’t professional—it’s personal. Familiar. Intentional.
Your breath catches.
Martin’s reaction is immediate.
He steps back.
Not dramatically, not rudely—but clearly.
He gently but firmly removes her hand, guiding it away from him, his expression polite but closed. When she tries to lean in again, he angles his body toward his members instead, placing space where she keeps trying to erase it.
The camera catches it all.
So do you.
Your heart pounds, emotions colliding—
anger, anxiety, pride. You know how moments like this get twisted. A second too long, a wrong angle, and suddenly headlines write themselves. You clutch the sleeve of his hoodie in your hands like it might ground you.
Martin accepts the microphone, nodding briefly to the presenter without another glance. When he speaks, his voice is steady, calm, unmistakably his.
“First of all,” he says, bowing slightly,
“thank you so much for this award. We didn’t expect this at all.”
The crowd cheers. His members stand behind him, listening.
He continues, thanking the company, the staff, the producers. His words are thoughtful, sincere—nothing rushed. But you notice the way his shoulders relax only after he’s created distance, after the moment has passed.
Then his tone shifts—just a little.
“And lastly,” he adds, eyes lifting toward the audience, then toward the camera, “I want to thank the person who supports me even when I’m not here.”
Your breath stops.
“Being in this industry isn’t easy,” Martin says, voice softer now, more personal.
“There are nights I come home exhausted, unsure of myself. And there’s someone who reminds me why I do this—not for trophies, not for attention, but because I love what I create… and because I’m loved honestly.”
The crowd murmurs. Some cheers. Some surprised gasps.
Your eyes sting.
“So,” he finishes, the smallest smile tugging at his lips, “this award isn’t just ours. It’s hers too. Thank you for believing in me.”
He bows again.
The camera cuts away, but not before catching the way he exhales, like he’s been holding that breath all night.
Your vision blurs as tears finally spill over.
You press your hand over your mouth, overwhelmed—not just by the words, but by what he did before them. The quiet boundary. The refusal to play along. The choice to make you visible in a space that often pretends people like you don’t exist.
Your phone buzzes almost immediately.
Martin: Did you see it?
You laugh through your tears, thumbs shaking as you type.
You: Yeah. I saw everything.
A pause.
Then another message.
Martin: I meant every word. I wanted the world to know who I’m standing with.
You lean back against the couch, heart racing, pride warming your chest.
On that stage, under all those lights, he didn’t just accept an award.
He chose you—clearly, publicly, without hesitation.
And for the first time all night, watching from home doesn’t feel like distance at all.
JAMES
✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎
You told James you were okay with it the moment he explained the situation. Cortis had been assigned a collaborative stage with another group—one of those big, end-of-year performances that mixed idols from different teams for a special concept. James, as one of Cortis’s main performers, was paired with a female idol from the other group for a duet section.
You listened carefully, nodded, and reminded him that it was his job. That you trusted him. And you meant it.
So when the night of the show arrived, you were in the audience, surrounded by lightsticks from multiple fandoms, Cortis’s colors glowing proudly in your hands. Seeing all of Cortis walk out together still gave you chills.
James looked confident, focused, completely professional as always. Your chest filled with pride—this was his world, and you were happy to be there supporting him.
The performance started strong. Cortis moved seamlessly with the other group, formations blending smoothly. Everything felt balanced, intentional. When James’s duet section began, you watched closely, heart steady. The choreography was meant to be close—paired footwork, mirrored movements—but still clearly professional.
Then you noticed the difference.
The female idol began stepping closer than the choreography required. At first, it was small—her shoulder brushing his arm, her hand lingering when it should’ve pulled away.
You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as your instincts kicked in. The spacing kept shrinking, and with each count, her movements felt less rehearsed and more personal.
Your gaze snapped to James.
His expression had changed. His jaw was tight, brows pulled together just slightly.
He adjusted his steps, creating space whenever possible, angling his body away during transitions. He never stopped dancing—never broke formation—but you could tell he was uncomfortable, doing everything he could to avoid unnecessary contact without disrupting the stage.
Your stomach twisted painfully.
This wasn’t something he could stop. Cortis was on stage with another group, cameras everywhere, millions watching.
He couldn’t call it out without risking backlash—not just for himself, but for Cortis as a whole. So you stayed seated, hands clenched in your lap, watching him endure something he clearly hadn’t agreed to.
When the final pose hit and the crowd roared, Cortis bowed alongside the other group.
As they straightened and waved, James’s eyes scanned the audience instinctively—until they found you. The moment your gazes met, guilt washed over his face. It was quick, but unmistakable. He held your eyes for a beat longer than necessary, silently apologizing. You nodded back, letting him know you understood, even though your chest ached.
Later, the big screen switched to backstage footage, giving fans a glimpse behind the scenes. You hadn’t expected much—until you saw it. The female idol stepped toward James with a bright smile, arms opening to hug him in congratulations.
James stepped back immediately.
He lifted a hand politely, shaking his head while saying something low and firm. His expression was serious, professional, unmistakable. The idol hesitated, laughed awkwardly, and stepped away. The camera cut shortly after, but the message had already been clear.
By the time you made it backstage, your emotions were tangled—pride, relief, lingering unease. You barely had time to register the hallway before James was there, sweat-damp hair, stage clothes still on, eyes locking onto you like you were the only stable thing in the room.
He crossed the distance in two steps and pulled you into him.
His arms wrapped around you tightly, almost desperately, like he needed to ground himself. You felt his breath against your shoulder as he exhaled shakily, holding you closer than usual.
“I hated that,” he murmured. “I swear I did.”
You pressed your forehead into his chest, hands gripping the back of his jacket.
“I know,” you whispered. And you meant it. You had seen it in his body language, his eyes, every attempt to create space.
“I kept wishing it was you,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Every step. Every count. I kept thinking it should’ve been you I was dancing with.”
That was what broke you.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glossy but steady. “I trust you,” you said softly. “But you didn’t deserve to be put in that position.”
James nodded immediately, guilt shadowing his features. “I should’ve said something sooner. I just—” He swallowed. “I didn’t want it to become a thing.”
You reached up, cupping his face gently.
“You handled it,” you said. “You protected your boundaries. And ours.”
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a second before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you,” he said, firm and certain. “And next time I’m on that stage, I want it to be with you watching—or dancing right next to me.”
You smiled, resting your head against his chest again. “I’ll be right here,” you whispered. “Just like always.”
JUHOON
✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎
The invite comes in on a random Tuesday afternoon. Juhoon mentions it casually while you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through your phone. “It’s just an interview,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing. Martin will be there too, which already makes it feel safer, lighter. A familiar duo. A controlled environment. You smile and tell him to do well, press a quick kiss to his cheek, and don’t think twice about it.
The interview starts off exactly how they expected. Clean studio, soft lighting, three chairs lined neatly in a half-circle. Martin is relaxed, joking easily, and Juhoon looks comfortable—hands folded, posture calm. The interviewer, a woman around their age, laughs at the right moments. She asks about music, upcoming projects, creative inspiration. Juhoon answers smoothly, professionally, like he always does.
Then the questions start to shift.
It’s subtle at first. She tilts her head, smiles a little too knowingly.
“So, Juhoon,” she says, “fans are always curious—what’s your ideal type?”
Martin raises an eyebrow, glancing sideways, clearly sensing it too. Juhoon hesitates for just a fraction of a second before smiling politely. “I don’t really think about that,” he replies. “I’m pretty content where I am.”
She doesn’t drop it.
“Well, okay,” she laughs, brushing it off like a joke, “then what about dates? Are you more of a quiet dinner guy or something more romantic?”
Juhoon’s smile tightens—not uncomfortable, but deliberate. “I like dates that are meaningful,” he says. “Spending time with someone important to me.”
He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give her anything extra to work with.
The interviewer leans forward slightly, intrigued. “Someone important, huh?” she presses. “What makes them special?”
That’s when Juhoon finally decides he’s done playing along.
“My girlfriend,” he says simply.
The room goes quiet for half a second—not awkward, but sharp. Martin’s lips twitch, clearly trying not to grin. The interviewer blinks, then laughs a little too brightly.
“Oh,” she says, waving a hand. “Well—hypothetically—if I were your girlfriend, what kind of dates would you plan?”
Juhoon’s expression changes immediately.
He straightens in his seat, gaze firm but calm, voice steady as he replies, “But you’re not.”
There’s no anger in it. No drama. Just a clear, unmistakable boundary. Martin lets out a low cough that suspiciously sounds like a laugh, and the interviewer stumbles through the next question, visibly flustered.
The rest of the interview passes quickly, the tone permanently shifted back into safe, professional territory.
Juhoon doesn’t mention it when he gets home that night. He kisses you like he always does, asks about your day, curls up beside you on the couch. To him, it was just another interview—another moment handled and forgotten.
A week later, the clip goes viral.
You’re in bed when you see it, phone glowing in the dim light. A short edit. Juhoon’s calm face. The interviewer’s question.
His response. But you’re not. The comments are flooded with praise—green flag, protect him at all costs, his girlfriend won.
Your chest tightens in a way that’s warm and overwhelming all at once.
When Juhoon walks into the room later, you don’t say anything. You just launch yourself at him.
He laughs in surprise as you cling to him, arms wrapped tight around his waist, face pressed into his chest. You pepper his jaw with kisses, his cheek, his lips—soft, grateful, a little emotional.
“Okay,” he chuckles, hands settling on your back. “What did I do to deserve this?”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes shining, and hold up your phone.
He watches the clip, expression unreadable at first. Then he exhales softly, shaking his head. “That thing?” he says. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
You shake your head immediately. “It was,” you say. “To me.”
His arms tighten around you then, forehead resting against yours.
“I wasn’t going to let anyone talk like that,” he murmurs. “Not when I already have you.”
You smile, leaning in for another kiss, feeling impossibly safe in the space he creates so effortlessly.
Viral clip or not, the message was always meant just for you.
KEONHO
✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎
The studio was louder than usual that day, filled with camera shutters, stylists calling out adjustments, and the low hum of music meant to set a mood. Keonho stood under the lights effortlessly, dressed in the brand’s newest collection, sharp and polished in a way that made everyone pause when they looked at him. You weren’t there in person, but you knew this shoot was important—new brand, bigger exposure, higher expectations.
Everything was going smoothly until the creative director clapped their hands and announced a “new idea.” Couple shots. Dual photos. Keonho felt his jaw tighten almost immediately when another model was brought in—a beautiful female model with confidence written all over her posture. He stayed professional, reminding himself this was work, nothing more.
As they positioned them closer together, the model leaned in just a little too comfortably. Her smile lingered too long, her hand brushed his arm more than necessary, and her voice dropped in a way that felt intentional.
Keonho adjusted subtly every time—turning his body away slightly, keeping space where the camera wouldn’t catch it, making sure nothing looked intimate beyond what was absolutely required.
Between shots, she laughed and complimented him openly, calling him charming, saying she’d love to “work with him again sometime.” Keonho only nodded politely, keeping his answers short and neutral.
Every time the photographer asked for something that felt too close, he made sure to clarify boundaries, suggesting alternate poses that still worked creatively without crossing lines.
When the shoot finally wrapped, Keonho didn’t hesitate. He approached the staff quietly and asked that certain photos be removed—the ones where she had leaned too close, where her hand rested on his chest longer than necessary. He was calm but firm. Professional, respectful, and clear about what he was comfortable releasing.
As everyone began packing up, the model caught up to him near the exit. She smiled again, this time more personal. “Maybe we could grab dinner sometime?” she suggested casually, as if it was no big deal.
Keonho didn’t even need a second to think.
He shook his head gently and replied, “I have a girlfriend. I’m not interested—but thank you.” Then he walked away, heart already pulling him home to you.
When he finally stepped through the door later that night, exhaustion melted off his shoulders the second he saw you. He smiled immediately, crossing the room to pull you into a hug that lingered just a little longer than usual. “I missed you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair.
Later, curled up together, he showed you the photos from the shoot. Your eyes widened as you scrolled—he looked unreal. Confident, elegant, magnetic. You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head.
“You look too good,” you admitted, half in awe, half teasing.
When you reached the photos with the female model, you paused—but only briefly. You didn’t feel upset. You understood.
“It’s just modeling,” you said honestly, handing the phone back. “I trust you.” That was all he needed to hear.
He smiled softly and added, “One day, I’ll do a photoshoot just for you. No brands. No concepts. Just me showing you off—because you’re mine.”
Your heart swelled before he could say anything else. He leaned in, peppering your face with gentle kisses, laughing when you tried to dodge them. He pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you securely, like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.
That night, surrounded by warmth, soft laughter, and quiet promises, you knew one thing for sure—no camera, no spotlight, and no model could ever compare to the way he chose you every single time.
SEONGHYEON
✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎✈︎
The day had started the way you liked it most—quiet and intentional. Hood pulled low, mask snug against your face, Seonghyeon walking beside you with a cap and glasses that didn’t quite hide his familiar presence. No bodyguards. No schedules. Just the two of you blending into the crowd like any other couple out for the afternoon. His hand brushed yours as you walked, fingers occasionally hooking together as if to reassure himself that this was real.
You spent hours wandering—ducking into little shops, laughing at overpriced accessories neither of you needed, him insisting on buying you something small anyway. Every now and then, he’d lean down and whisper a comment in your ear, something dry or teasing that made you laugh harder than you meant to. You grabbed street food from a stand, shared bites, and wiped sauce off the corner of his mouth while he pretended to complain.
For once, everything felt untouched by the world you usually lived in.
It wasn’t until you were leaving a store that you noticed it—the pause. The way a small group of girls across the street suddenly went quiet. The way their eyes widened just a fraction too much. Seonghyeon felt it too; his shoulders stiffened subtly, and his hand tightened around the strap of the bag he was carrying.
They approached carefully, almost nervously, voices hushed when they asked, “Excuse me… are you Seonghyeon?”
He smiled anyway. That familiar gentle smile he always gave fans. “Yeah,” he said softly, “but let’s keep it low, okay?”
They nodded quickly, clearly thrilled but respectful. No screaming. No phones immediately raised. You felt relieved as he included you without hesitation, pulling you slightly closer when they asked for pictures. “We can take them together,” he said, glancing at you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
At first, you stood beside him, smiling behind your mask. But as more photos were taken, something in your chest tightened. This wasn’t your moment. This was theirs. You quietly stepped back, shaking your head gently when he looked at you questioningly. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “I’ll wait.”
He didn’t argue—but his jaw set in a way you recognized.
The fans grew bolder. One of them wrapped an arm around his shoulder a little too comfortably. Another stood close—too close—laughing loudly as if they’d known him for years. Seonghyeon didn’t reciprocate. One hand stayed in his pocket, his posture polite but distant, eyes flicking toward you more than once as if checking whether you were okay.
Then one of them asked for a group photo.
She smiled sweetly, then glanced at you and said, “Can your friend take the picture? I want this to be just us.”
For a split second, Seonghyeon froze.
You felt that familiar instinct kick in—the one that told you to smooth things over, to not make a scene. You nodded quickly. “Yeah, I can—”
But before you could finish, Seonghyeon spoke.
“You mean my girlfriend,” he said calmly, voice steady but unmistakably firm. “If she wants to, she can.”
The air shifted instantly.
The smiles faltered. Arms dropped. Space reappeared between them and him. A few of the fans apologized quietly, stepping back as if suddenly aware of a line they hadn’t meant to cross. You couldn’t help it—you laughed softly, the tension breaking as you lifted the phone to take the picture.
After a few more awkward but respectful goodbyes, they left just as quietly as they’d come.
The moment they were out of sight, you turned to him. Before he could say a word, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands and pressing quick, playful kisses all over his cheeks and nose. “I love you so much,” you murmured, smiling.
He laughed, eyes crinkling as he leaned into your touch. “I love you more,” he said softly
And just like that, the world faded again—leaving only the two of you.
ARGUMENTS WITH CORTIS MEMBERS
——————————-as your boyfriends————————
(＃＞＜)(＃＞＜)(＃＞＜)(＃＞＜)(＃＞＜)
MARTIN
ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ♪♪♪ ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ
The argument starts quietly, which somehow makes it worse.
Martin is over at your apartment, standing in the kitchen as he cooks ramen, earbuds in, listening to who knows what. The soft clatter of utensils and the low hum of the stove fill the space.
You’re sitting on the edge of the couch, phone in your hand, mindlessly scrolling—until a viral clip of your boyfriend pops up.
Normally, you avoid his content. You know how easily things can be taken out of context, twisted by fans and media alike.
But Martin’s laugh rings out from the screen, warm and familiar, and it makes your thumb pause.
It’s easy. Charming. The same effortless smile he wears on stage.
He’s sitting at a table across from a fan—older than most, from the looks of it. His posture is relaxed, eyes soft, voice lowered as he leans in slightly.
“You are my type,” he says smoothly. “I love you, noona.”
Your stomach drops.
The tone. The expression. The warmth in his eyes. You thought those were things he saved for you.
You tell yourself not to overthink it and keep scrolling. One more video won’t hurt, right?
Wrong.
Your feed floods instantly—clip after clip of
Martin flirting, smiling, laughing with different girls.
“You’re my girlfriend.”
“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Let’s get married.”
You let out a bitter breath, shaking your head.
I mean… the bills can’t be that high.
You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t even hear Martin calling out that the food’s ready.
“Hey,” he says gently, tapping your shoulder. “I added more spice—just how you like it.”
You look up at him, and the smile he was wearing falters when he sees your expression.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, concern slipping into his voice.
You don’t look at him when you speak. “Do you have to do that?”
Martin freezes where he stands. “Do what?”
You finally turn the phone toward him. “That. The flirting. The way you look at them like—” Your voice cracks, betraying you.
“Like they matter more than I do.”
His brows knit together immediately. “That’s not fair.”
And just like that, the room shifts.
“You don’t get to decide what’s fair,” you snap.
“I sit here watching you give pieces of yourself away every day. Smiles. Words. Gestures you used to save for me.”
“That’s my job,” he says, too fast. Defensive. “You knew that when we—”
“I knew you were an idol,” you cut in. “I didn’t know I’d feel like I was sharing my boyfriend with thousands of people.”
Silence slams between you.
Martin runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. “It’s fan service. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“But it means something to me,” you whisper. “And you didn’t even ask if I was okay with it.”
That’s when he stops.
Really stops.
He looks at you—not like he does on stage, not polished or composed—but like he’s seeing something fragile he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I didn’t think it hurt you,” he admits quietly. “I thought… I thought you were stronger than that.”
The words sting instantly, even as regret flashes across his face.
“So now I’m weak?” you ask, standing.
“For wanting boundaries?”
“No,” he says quickly. “For wanting me. Just me.”
The fight escalates then—voices raised, old frustrations spilling out. You tell him how lonely it feels watching him belong to everyone else.
He tells you how suffocating it is to feel like he’s failing you no matter what he does. At one point, he turns away, fists clenched, breathing hard.
“I don’t know how to win here,” he mutters.
You swallow. “I’m not asking you to win. I’m asking you to choose.”
That’s when he leaves the apartment—not in anger, but in defeat.
Hours pass.
Ramen definitely got cold.
When he comes back, it’s late. He’s changed into soft clothes, hair still damp from a shower, eyes tired in a way that has nothing to do with schedules. He doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he kneels in front of you.
“I thought about everything you said,” he begins. “And everything I didn’t want to hear.”
You stay quiet.
“I can’t stop being an idol,” he continues.
“But I can stop crossing lines that make you feel invisible. I didn’t realize I was doing that—and I hate that it took hurting you to see it.”
He pulls out his phone and opens a notes app.
“These are boundaries I wrote down. Things I won’t do anymore. Touching. Certain phrases. Eye contact that feels too intimate. I already talked to my manager.”
Your breath catches. “You… already did?”
He nods. “Because saying sorry isn’t enough if nothing changes.”
Then, softer: “And I need you to tell me when it hurts. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s inconvenient.”
Tears blur your vision.
Martin reaches out, slow, careful, waiting for permission. When you nod, he takes your hands and presses his lips to your knuckles.
“You’re not competing with anyone,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one I come home to.”
The argument doesn’t magically disappear. The insecurity doesn’t vanish overnight. But something shifts—something steadier replaces the hurt.
Later, when he pulls you into his arms, it feels intentional. Chosen.
And for the first time in a while, you believe him when he whispers, “I’m yours—offstage, always.”
JAMES
ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ♪♪♪ ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ
The argument starts almost accidentally.
James has been under a lot of stress lately. He was assigned to choreograph Cortis and ILLIT’s upcoming performances—definitely not a task for the weak. It explains why he’s been distant, though it doesn’t make it any easier to feel.
Wanting to ease some of that pressure, you stop by his rehearsal. The frustration is obvious in the way he repeats counts, rewinds the music, and runs the same section again and again.
The entire time, you’re thinking about how you can make things easier for him, maybe even cheer him up. But when practice finally ends and you head down to ask him out, it becomes clear he has other plans.
James corners you in the practice room after rehearsal, sweat still clinging to his collarbone, hair pushed back with restless fingers.
“Hey,” he says, voice casual but eyes sharp with focus. “Can I ask you something?”
You nod, already sensing where this is going. He plays the track again and runs through the section he’s been struggling with.
“Be honest. Does this choreography hit, or does it feel… off?”
You hesitate, because you know how much work he’s put into it. But he asked. So you choose your words carefully.
“It’s good,” you say slowly, “but I think the transitions are a little rushed. Maybe if you let the counts breathe more, it’ll feel heavier. Right now it feels like you’re trying to prove something instead of letting it land.”
The air shifts instantly.
James straightens, jaw tightening. “So you think I’m overdoing it,” he says, not asking—deciding.
You blink, surprised. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just think—” He cuts you off with a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Right. Because you’d know what my style should look like.”
That stings more than you expect.
“I’m not attacking you,” you say, voice firm now. “You literally asked for my advice.”
He scoffs, pacing. “Advice or criticism? Because it sounds like you’re saying it’s messy.” You stand up, irritation creeping in.
“I never said that. You’re twisting my words.” He stops pacing and looks at you sharply. “Then say what you mean.”
Your patience snaps. “Fine. It feels like you’re dancing angry instead of intentional.”
Silence slams into the room.
James’ expression hardens, pride flaring like a match struck too close.
“You know what? Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked you. You always act like you see things clearer than everyone else.” That accusation lands heavy, unfair.
“That’s not true,” you shoot back. “And you know it. I support you all the time.”
He shakes his head. “Support doesn’t sound like tearing something apart.”
The argument spirals fast after that.
Voices rise. Old frustrations slip out—about pressure, about expectations, about always being compared, about never feeling like enough. You tell him he never listens once his ego gets bruised. He fires back that you don’t understand what it’s like to have every move dissected by millions.
The words get sharper, aimed instead of accidental. At some point, he throws his towel onto the floor and turns away, breathing hard. “I’m done,” he mutters. “I don’t want your input anymore.”
You leave before you say something you can’t take back.
The hours after are miserable. You replay the argument over and over, wondering where it went wrong, hating how your chest still aches with things unsaid. You know James—how deeply he feels, how criticism hits him like rejection no matter how gently it’s phrased. And you know yourself, how blunt honesty sometimes slips past softness when emotions run high.
When there’s a knock on your door later that night, you already know it’s him.
James stands there quieter, shoulders slumped, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.
“Can I come in?” he asks, voice low. You step aside. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then he exhales shakily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I took it the wrong way. I was already frustrated, and I made it about my pride instead of what you were actually saying.”
Your throat tightens. “I’m sorry too,” you admit. “I should’ve explained better. I wasn’t trying to tear you down. I believe in you. That’s why I said anything at all.”
He nods, eyes softening. “When you said I was dancing angry… it hurt. But after I cooled off, I realized you weren’t wrong. I am angry. And I was letting that control the choreography instead of channeling it.”
He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Guess that’s why I asked you in the first place.”
You step closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “We’re allowed to mess up,” you murmur.
“Just not push each other away when we do.” His arms wrap around you instinctively, grip tight, grounding. “Next time,” he says quietly,
“don’t stop being honest with me. Even when I’m difficult.”
You smile against his chest. “Next time, don’t ask for advice if you’re not ready to hear it.”
He laughs softly, tension finally dissolving. And when he pulls you in for a kiss, everything felt warm and sincere, you know the argument didn’t break anything—it stripped something raw and real down to the truth.
That you trust each other enough to clash.
And love each other enough to come back and make it right.
JUHOON
ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ♪♪♪ ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ
The argument doesn’t start with yelling. It starts with silence.
You were only there to drop off Juhoon’s jacket—he always forgot it when rehearsals ran long—but you stopped short when you heard your name. Not whispered. Said plainly. Casually. Like it didn’t belong to you at all.
“She’s sweet,” one of the company staff said, “but as Juhoon’s girlfriend? Not exactly… ideal.”
Another voice sighed. “Fans won’t take her seriously. She doesn’t fit the image we’re building for Cortis.”
You froze. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of the jacket as your chest burned. And then you heard Juhoon’s voice—low, familiar, unmistakable. He didn’t argue. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even hesitate. There was a pause, and then he just said, “I understand.”
That single sentence hurt more than everything else combined.
You didn’t wait to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, heart pounding, ears ringing, the jacket forgotten on a chair by the wall.
By the time Juhoon came home that night, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had personally betrayed you.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently, slipping off his shoes. One look at your face and his expression shifted. “Y/N?”
“You didn’t defend me,” you said quietly.
The words hit him harder than shouting ever could. He frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard them,” you continued, finally looking up. Your eyes were glassy but steady. “Your company. Talking about me like I was a liability. Like I was something embarrassing you had to tolerate.” Your voice cracked. “And you just… agreed.”
Juhoon’s mouth opened, then closed. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?” you snapped, standing up now. “Because from where I was standing, it sounded like you chose your career over me without even thinking twice.”
He felt the tension creeping into his voice. “You don’t understand how those meetings work—”
“No, you don’t understand,” you cut in. “I didn’t need you to fight the company. I needed you to fight for me. To say something. Anything.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.
Juhoon ran a hand through his hair, frustration written all over his face—but beneath it was something worse. Guilt. “I was scared,” he admitted quietly.
“Every word I say gets monitored. One wrong move and—”
“And I get sacrificed?” you finished for him, tears finally spilling over. “Is that what I am to you? Something expendable?”
“No,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Never.”
But the damage had already been done.
That night, you slept facing the wall, and Juhoon barely slept at all. He replayed the moment over and over—the way he’d stayed silent, the way your face had fallen when you realized he wouldn’t speak up.
By morning, he knew an apology wouldn’t be enough.
He showed up at your place later that day with trembling hands and a determination you’d never seen before. He didn’t bring flowers.
He brought honesty.
“I talked to them again,” he said the moment you opened the door. “And this time, I didn’t stay quiet.”
You didn’t respond, so he kept going. “I told them you’re not an image problem. You’re not a phase. You’re my girlfriend, and if they expect me to keep pretending you don’t exist, then they don’t actually understand who I am as an artist—or as a person.”
Your breath caught.
“They weren’t happy,” he admitted with a small, nervous smile. “But I don’t care. Because losing your trust would be worse than anything they could threaten me with.”
“I should’ve defended you when it mattered most,” he said softly. “I can’t change that moment. But I can promise you I’ll never let you feel alone like that again.”
“I just wanted to know you’d choose me,” you whispered.
He pressed his forehead to yours. “I choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
And for the first time since that hallway, your heart finally felt like it could breathe again.
KEONHO
ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ♪♪♪ ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ
Y/N’s day had been nothing but sharp edges. Missed calls, a failed meeting, spilled coffee on her favorite shirt—every little thing stacked on top of the last until her chest felt tight with it all. By the time she finally walked into Keonho’s place, her head was pounding and her patience was threadbare. All she wanted—needed—was to be held, to feel like at least one thing in her life was steady.
Keonho looked up from the couch the moment she entered, a grin already forming. “Heyyy, there she is,” he said, popping up dramatically. “Rough day? You look more worse than my hair when it’s under a beanie”
She forced a weak smile, dropping her bag by the door. “Can we not joke right now?” she muttered, shoes kicked off with more force than necessary. Her voice was tired, raw.
Instead of noticing, he leaned into it. “Whoa, okay, scary,” he laughed, raising his hands. “I’ll behave. What happened? Did my beautiful princess wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
She sat on the edge of the couch, hands clenched together. “Keonho… I’m serious. Today was really bad.”
He plopped down beside her, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Hey, bad days build character. If you want we can read my TikTok comments for a good laugh.” He smiled, waiting for her to laugh with him.
She didn’t.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. “Why are you like this?” she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.
Keonho blinked. “Like what?”
“Like nothing I say matters,” she snapped, finally looking at him. “I’m telling you I had a horrible day and you’re acting like it’s a joke. Like I’m just being dramatic.”
His smile faltered. “I’m just trying to cheer you up.”
“That’s not cheering me up,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s you not taking me seriously. I needed you today. I needed comfort, not jokes.”
He leaned back, defensive creeping into his posture. “So what, you want me to be all sad and serious? That’s not how I deal with things.”
“Well, it’s not how I deal with things,” she shot back. “And for once, it would’ve been nice if you cared enough to meet me where I am instead of brushing it off.”
“I'm not brushing it off,” he said, frustration rising. “I just don’t know how to fix it.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix it!” she cried. “I just wanted you to listen. To hold me. To say, ‘I’m sorry you had a bad day.’ Is that really too much?”
Her eyes burned, tears finally spilling over.
That was the moment it hit him—how hurt she actually was. Not annoyed. Not overreacting. Genuinely breaking.
Keonho stood up abruptly, pacing once before stopping in front of her. “I messed up,” he admitted, voice quieter now.
“I thought making you laugh would help, but I see now that I just made you feel alone.”
She wiped her cheeks angrily. “You did.”
He crouched in front of her, hesitation clear.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, this time without a hint of humor. “I hate seeing you like this, and I hate that I caused it.”
She didn’t respond right away, but she didn’t pull away when he gently took her hands.
“Tell me about your day,” he said softly. “I’ll listen. I promise.”
She hesitated, then slowly began to talk. About everything. The frustration, the disappointment, the exhaustion. He didn’t interrupt once. No jokes. No teasing. Just quiet understanding, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
After, he pulled her into his chest, holding her tightly. “I should’ve done this from the start,” he murmured. “You deserve to be taken seriously. Always.”
Later that night, he surprised her with her favorite takeout, a cozy blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her comfort movie queued up. No words—just presence. When she leaned into him, he pressed a kiss to her hair.
“I’m still me,” he whispered, “but I’ll do better for you. I swear.”
And this time, she believed him.
SEONGHYEON
ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ♪♪♪ ヾﾉ♪♪♪ヾ`ﾉ♪♪♪ヾ´ﾉ
The argument started because of the news that reached you by accident.
You’re scrolling on your phone late at night, half-asleep, when a short clip from a fan account pops up—an insider post about Cortis’ upcoming songs.
It talks about how Seonghyeon was offered a bigger vocal part. More lines. A chance to finally show the range fans have been begging for. The comments are excited, proud, buzzing with anticipation.
Except there’s one reply pinned at the top.
“Apparently he turned it down.”
Your thumb stills.
You sit up slowly, rereading it like it might change if you blink. Turned it down. No explanation. No reason. Just speculation. And somehow, without anyone saying it outright, you already know why.
Because your anniversary is next week.
Because you remember him mentioning a recording schedule conflict and brushing it off with a smile. Because he never told you. Because he never would.
The guilt settles heavy in your chest, thick and suffocating. You imagine him in the studio, headphones around his neck, hesitating before saying no. You imagine the looks from producers. The whispers. The silent judgment. Ever since he got a girlfriend…
By the time he comes home, you’ve worked yourself into a quiet storm.
He finds you sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, eyes unfocused. One look at your face and his smile fades.
“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, dropping his bag.
You don’t answer right away. When you finally look at him, your voice trembles despite your best effort. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His brows knit together. “Tell you what?”
“The vocal part,” you say. “The one you turned down.”
The room goes still.
Seonghyeon exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You weren’t supposed to find out like that.”
“So it’s true,” you whisper.
He nods. “Yeah. It’s true.”
Your chest tightens. “Why?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Because of our anniversary.”
The words hit harder than you expect.
“You—” Your voice breaks. “You gave that up for me?”
“I didn’t give anything up,” he says quickly.
“I made a choice.”
“That’s the same thing,” you snap, standing up now. “You’re always choosing me over things that matter to you. Over your career. Over opportunities people would kill for.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, hurt flashing across his face.
“What’s not fair,” you fire back, tears burning, “is you sacrificing yourself and pretending it’s nothing. Do you know how much hate you already get for dating me? Do you know what people say? That I’m a distraction. That I’m holding you back.”
He stiffens. “Is that what you think?”
You swallow hard. “Sometimes… yeah. I do.”
The silence that follows is heavy, dangerous.
Seonghyeon’s voice drops, raw and sharp.
“Don’t ever say that again.”
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t work this hard,” he continues, stepping closer, eyes shining, “just for you to reduce yourself to a burden in my life. Loving you isn’t something I ‘sacrifice.’ It’s not a mistake. And it’s definitely not something I regret.”
Tears spill over before you can stop them.
“But what if one day you do?”
He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Then that would be on me. Not you. But don’t decide my feelings for me. Don’t punish yourself for loving me.”
Your shoulders shake as you lean into his touch. “I just don’t want to be the reason you lose things.”
“You’re the reason I gain things,” he says quietly. “Peace. Stability. A place that feels real when everything else feels fake.”
Later that night, he shows you the email thread, pointing out that the producer already offered him another chance to record later. He tells you he wants to celebrate your anniversary because it matters, but that he also won’t keep opportunities from you anymore—or from himself.
A few days later, on your anniversary, he surprises you.
Not with something extravagant—but with a private playback. A demo track. His voice layered, raw, emotional. At the end, there’s a quiet spoken line, meant only for you.
“I chose this. I choose you. And I choose myself too.”
When you look at him, eyes wet, he smiles softly. “See? No one’s holding anyone back.”
And for the first time since you found out, you believe him.
(Members of NINE: Jiwoo (leader), Hana, Lina, and Minseo)
previous
Time didn’t move the way Y/N expected it to.
At fifteen, days dragged. At sixteen, weeks blurred. And somewhere between her seventeenth birthday and the quiet, creeping approach of her eighteenth, everything began to feel… accelerated.
Like the world had decided she was running out of time to be soft.
She noticed it first in the mirror.
Not in a dramatic way—no sudden glow-up, no overnight transformation—but in small, undeniable details. Her shoulders sat differently now. Her gaze didn’t drop as quickly when spoken to. Her smile didn’t automatically soften to make others comfortable. She still laughed loudly, still joked too much, still exaggerated everything—but there was weight beneath it now. Intention.
She wasn’t trying to grow up.
She just was.
Mornings were still early, but she woke with less panic and more resolve. The anxiety that used to jolt her awake had mellowed into something steadier, quieter.
She stretched instead of freezing. Breathed instead of spiraling. When she walked into practice rooms now, she didn’t feel like she was trespassing in a space meant for older people.
She belonged there.
The members of NINE noticed before she did.
Jiwoo stopped reminding her to eat—she just trusted that she would. Hana asked for her opinion more often during vocal arrangements. Lina teased her less about being “tiny” and more about being “scary when serious,” which Y/N considered a win.
Even the staff shifted, subtly. Their voices lost that high-pitched concern. They still checked in, still hovered, but their eyes held expectation now. Not indulgence.
That scared her more than being babied ever had.
Her birthday was coming.
It sat on the calendar like a quiet threat. Not circled in red, not announced aloud—but always there. Eighteen. Legal. Adult. A word that carried more weight in the industry than any contract clause ever could.
Fans talked about it constantly.
“Can’t believe she’s almost 18 😭”
“She grew up with us.”
“Still baby though.”
“Watch her destroy everyone once she’s an adult.”
Y/N read the comments at night, legs tucked beneath her on the dorm couch, phone glowing softly in the dark. She laughed at most of them, screen-shotting the funny ones to send to the group chat. But some comments made her pause longer than she wanted to admit.
Still baby though.
She didn’t hate the word. She just didn’t want it to be the only thing people saw.
At practice one afternoon, the choreographer clapped to get everyone’s attention. “Alright. Let’s try something different.”
The music that started was slower. Heavier. The kind of rhythm that sat in the chest instead of the feet.
Y/N froze for half a beat.
She followed the steps anyway—muscle memory carrying her through—but something felt off. The movements weren’t inappropriate. Not explicit. Just… intentional. Grounded. They asked for presence instead of brightness.
When the music stopped, the room stayed quiet.
“Good,” the choreographer said. “We’ll refine it.”
Y/N nodded, swallowing.
No one said anything. No one needed to.
That night, she found herself back in the studio. Alone at first. The lights dimmed low, city noise humming faintly outside.
She opened a new project, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Her melodies came differently now.
Less playful. More honest.
She didn’t notice Martin standing in the doorway until he spoke.
“You’re still here.”
She startled, spinning around. “You scare me on purpose.”
“I announce myself,” he replied calmly.
“Five seconds too late.”
He smiled faintly and stepped inside. He looked the same—steady, composed, unreadable.
“Working?” he asked.
“Thinking,” she said. “Which is worse.”
He hummed in acknowledgment and leaned against the desk, eyes flicking briefly to the screen before returning to her. “You’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
She shrugged. “Comes with the age.”
He stilled.
“You’re not old,” he said immediately.
“I didn’t say I was.”
There was a pause.
Martin nodded once, like he was accepting something he didn’t want to dwell on. “Your birthday’s soon.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“You excited?”
She considered the question longer than expected. “I don’t know.”
He watched her carefully. “That bad?”
“No,” she said quickly. Then softer, “Just… different.”
He didn’t ask her to explain. He never pushed. That was one of the things she loved—liked—felt safe with. He trusted her to say what she wanted when she was ready.
But his eyes lingered on her longer than usual.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
She blinked. “Is that bad?”
“No,” he replied, too fast. “Just… noticeable.”
She smiled, crooked and teasing. “You make it sound like I replaced my personality.”
He exhaled through his nose. “You’re still loud.”
“Rude.”
“And still dramatic.”
“Extremely.”
“But,” he added quietly, “you’re steadier.”
Something warm settled in her chest at that. “Thanks.”
He nodded once, then straightened. “Don’t stay too late.”
She saluted. “Yes, dad.”
He shot her a look. “Don’t.”
She laughed.
As he left, she turned back to the screen, heart beating a little faster than before. She didn’t know why his words mattered more than anyone else’s. She didn’t question it.
Across town, Martin drove home in silence.
He told himself it was nothing.
That she was still the same kid he met years ago. Still the same chaotic, earnest girl who talked too much and laughed too loud and trusted too easily.
But the truth crept in anyway, unwelcome and persistent.
She wasn’t fifteen anymore.
And the world knew it.
♪♪♪
The closer her birthday got, the more the company talked.
Not to her—around her.
It started with small things. A meeting moved to a later date “for strategic timing.” A stylist asking questions that felt less playful and more calculated. A manager mentioning “post-birthday plans” with a tone that made Y/N’s shoulders tense even when she kept smiling.
She noticed it most during fittings.
The clothes weren’t revealing. They were beautiful, well-tailored, elegant. But they demanded a different posture. A different kind of confidence. When she stepped into them, she felt taller somehow. Sharper.
Less like the girl who used to hide in oversized hoodies and more like someone people expected to command attention.
“Do you like it?” the stylist asked, adjusting the fabric at her waist.
Y/N nodded automatically. “Yeah. It’s nice.”
The mirror showed a version of her she recognized but didn’t fully know yet. She tilted her head, studying herself. This wasn’t wrong. It just wasn’t familiar.
Back at the dorm, she flopped onto the couch beside Minseo, groaning.
“They’re acting like I’m a product that just unlocked a new feature.”
Minseo snorted. “Welcome to adulthood.”
Y/N rolled onto her back dramatically. “I want to return it.”
The members laughed, but there was a tension beneath it. They all knew what turning eighteen meant in the industry. None of them said it out loud.
Jiwoo sat across from her, arms crossed. “If anything feels uncomfortable, you tell us. Okay?”
Y/N met her gaze and nodded. “I will.”
And she meant it.
But part of her didn’t want to complain. She wanted to prove she could handle it. That she wasn’t just the baby they had to shield forever.
At the company building, Martin noticed the shift too.
He didn’t hear it in announcements or see it in memos. He felt it in the way staff looked at Y/N now. Assessing. Measuring. Anticipating.
He didn’t like it.
During a production meeting, one of the executives leaned forward. “After her birthday, we’d like to explore deeper concepts. More mature themes.”
Y/N sat quietly, hands folded, listening.
Martin’s jaw tightened.
“She’s still the same artist,” he said evenly.
“Of course,” the executive replied. “But audiences respond to growth.”
Y/N spoke up before Martin could. “I’m open to trying new things.”
Her voice was steady. Confident.
He looked at her sharply.
She avoided his gaze.
After the meeting, he caught up with her in the hallway. “You didn’t have to agree so quickly.”
She stopped walking, turning to face him. “I didn’t agree. I said I was open.”
“That’s not the same as wanting it.”
“I don’t know what I want yet,” she admitted. “But I want to find out myself.”
He searched her face, conflicted. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But I owe myself growth.”
That silenced him.
That night, fan projects started trending online.
Countdown posts. Birthday edits. Compilation videos of her “growing up.”
The comments were full of hearts and nostalgia and excitement—but also expectation. Anticipation.
She scrolled until her eyes hurt.
In the studio, she tried to focus on music. The melody she wrote was quieter than usual. Introspective. She layered it carefully, losing track of time.
Martin showed up later than usual, coat still on, hair slightly damp from the rain.
“You’ve been here awhile,” he noted.
“So have you.”
He smiled faintly and set his bag down. “May I?”
She slid her chair over without thinking.
He listened to the track in silence, eyes closed. When it ended, he didn’t speak right away.
“It’s good,” he said finally. “It’s… honest.”
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “I didn’t mean to write it like that.”
“That’s usually when it’s best.”
She glanced at him. “Do you think I’m ready?”
“For what?”
“For… everything.”
He hesitated.
“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re stronger than you realize.”
She smiled, grateful—but something in his tone made her heart twist.
“Is that a yes?”
He met her gaze. “It’s a ‘be careful.’”
She nodded slowly. “I will.”
As the night wore on, the clock crept closer to midnight. Her birthday was days away now. Each tick felt louder than the last.
As she waved goodbye and disappeared down the hallway, he stayed behind, staring at the screen.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to feel,” he murmured.
But the truth was unavoidable.
The world was ready to see Y/N differently.
And he wasn’t sure he was.
Feel free to leave critiques! Thank you for reading♡
(Members of NINE: Jiwoo (leader), Hana, Lina, and Minseo)
Y/N woke up every morning before her alarm.
Not because she was disciplined — she wasn’t — but because anxiety had a way of shaking her awake before dawn. Her dorm room was quiet, the air still, the city outside barely breathing. She lay there for a few seconds every day, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks, reminding herself to inhale slowly. You wanted this, she would think. You worked for this.
At fifteen years old, she was already living the dream people twice her age begged for.
She just didn’t feel ready.
The dorm smelled faintly like fabric softener and instant ramen. Somewhere down the hall, Jiwoo’s alarm would start blaring in exactly three minutes — Y/N had timed it before. She rolled onto her side, hugging her pillow, and let out a quiet groan. Her body was sore from the previous night’s dance practice, calves aching, shoulders tight. Her voice felt scratchy, like it always did in the mornings.
Idol life didn’t wait for comfort.
When Jiwoo’s alarm went off, it was aggressive and loud, followed immediately by her groggy yelling, “I’M AWAKE, I’M AWAKE—”
Y/N smiled into her pillow.
She slipped out of bed quietly, pulling on her oversized hoodie — one she’d stolen from Minseo — and padded into the shared bathroom. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror: bare-faced, hair sticking up in strange directions, eyes still soft with sleep. She looked young. Painfully young.
Sometimes she hated that.
Other times, she leaned into it because it was easier than fighting.
By the time she stepped into the kitchen area, Hana was already there, tying her hair up. She glanced over and immediately softened.
“Morning, baby.”
Y/N scrunched her nose. “Shut up”
Hana laughed, completely ignoring her.
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Define okay.”
That earned her a fond smile. Hana slid a protein bar across the counter toward her.
“Eat. You have vocal warm-ups in twenty.”
Y/N saluted dramatically. “Yes, ma’am.”
That was how it always was.
NINE treated her like glass — not fragile in a weak way, but precious. Something to protect. Something to shield. They teased her constantly, stole her snacks, used her as an emotional support human when schedules got brutal, but the moment someone else raised their voice at her or questioned her ability, they closed ranks instantly.
She was the youngest.
And the company never let her forget it.
At the practice building, staff greeted her with bright voices that bordered on patronizing.
“Did you eat?”
“Are you tired?”
“Don’t push yourself too hard, okay?”
She nodded through all of it, smiling automatically, even when she wanted to scream that she could handle it. That she wasn’t made of glass. That she trained just as hard as everyone else.
Vocal practice came first. She stood in the booth, headphones on, fingers fidgeting at her sides. Her voice wasn’t bad — it was clean, pleasant, but not powerful yet. She knew that. She heard it every time the instructor gently suggested more support, more confidence, more presence.
“Again,” the instructor said.
She nodded. Again. And again.
Dance practice followed, and this was where her energy came alive. She wasn’t the sharpest dancer in the room, but she had something else — expression. Emotion. When she moved, she told a story with her face, her hands, the tilt of her shoulders. It made people watch her even when she wasn’t centered.
During breaks, she flopped onto the floor dramatically, limbs splayed.
“I’m actually going to die,” she announced.
Lina leaned over her, hands on her knees.
“Dibs on her shoes when she does.”
Y/N kicked her weakly. “You’re heartless.”
“But funny,” Lina replied.
Y/N grinned despite herself.
That was her magic. Even when she was exhausted, insecure, or scared, she filled the space with humor. She made people laugh when they wanted to cry. She teased the older members, exaggerated her suffering, made ridiculous faces at cameras. Fans adored it. Staff found it charming.
No one saw how much she doubted herself when she was alone.
The doubt grew tenfold the day the company called her into the meeting room.
She sat at the long table, feet barely touching the floor, hands folded in her lap. The executives smiled at her like they already knew something she didn’t.
“Y/N,” the CEO said, tapping a folder.
“We’ve decided you’ll be NINE’s main producer.”
The room went quiet.
Her brain short-circuited.
“I—” She laughed reflexively, thinking it was a joke. “I’m sorry?”
“You have exceptional potential,” he continued smoothly. “Your instincts are strong. You think musically.”
“I can’t… really compose,” she admitted, cheeks heating. “I mean, I try, but—”
“You’ll learn.”
That sentence hit her like a weight dropped onto her chest.
When she left the room, her hands were shaking. She found Jiwoo first, then Hana, then the rest of the members. They listened quietly as she explained, voices overlapping in disbelief.
“They’re insane,” Minseo said flatly.
“You’re fifteen!” Lina added.
Y/N laughed too loud. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
But later that night, alone in the studio, staring at unfamiliar software, her confidence cracked.
She clicked buttons randomly, created noise that didn’t sound like music, deleted tracks by accident. Her chest tightened. She pressed her palms to her eyes, breathing fast.
Why would they do this to me?
That was when the door opened.
She startled so hard she nearly fell off the chair.
“Sorry,” a calm voice said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
She turned around to see him standing there — tall, composed, dressed simply but stylishly. He looked older than seventeen somehow. Like he belonged in rooms like this.
“You’re Y/N, right?”
She nodded quickly, standing up and bowing too deeply. “Yes! Hi! I’m—”
“I know,” he said gently. “I’m Martin.”
That was the first time she met him.
And without knowing it yet, that moment would quietly shape everything.
Martin didn’t step fully into the room at first. He stayed near the door, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, eyes scanning the studio in a way that told Y/N he was already taking inventory—equipment, screen layout, the half-deleted mess of tracks she’d been panicking over seconds earlier. His presence alone made the room feel quieter, steadier, like someone had turned the chaos dial down without touching anything.
She was painfully aware of herself all at once.
Her oversized hoodie.
Her messy hair.
The fact that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing.
“Oh,” she said, voice cracking just slightly. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“Hi. Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was coming.”
“That’s okay,” he replied easily. His tone wasn’t rushed or annoyed. Just… calm.
“They asked me to stop by.”
She blinked. “Asked you?”
He nodded, finally stepping farther inside. “I’m supposed to help you.”
That made her laugh again—too fast, too loud. A defense mechanism. “Help me how?”
“With producing,” he said, like it was obvious.
Her stomach dropped.
“Oh,” she repeated, weaker this time.
Martin watched her carefully then. Not in a judging way. In an assessing one. He noticed how her fingers twisted together, how her shoulders were tense despite the forced smile. She didn’t look like someone who thought she belonged here. She looked like someone trying very hard not to disappoint people.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he added after a beat.
“I’m not,” she said immediately.
He raised an eyebrow.
“…Okay, I am,” she admitted. “But just a little. Like. A manageable amount.”
That earned him the smallest smile.
He pulled up a chair beside her, sitting close enough that she could see the screen reflected faintly in his eyes. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”
She hesitated, then gestured helplessly at the screen. “That’s the problem. I don’t… really have anything.”
“That’s fine.”
“No, like—nothing nothing,” she clarified. “I pressed buttons. It sounded bad. I panicked. I deleted it. And then I stared at the screen for, like, twenty minutes.”
“Also fine.”
She stared at him. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”
“I’m not,” he said calmly. “Everyone starts like that.”
She studied his face, trying to tell if he was just being polite. But there was no pity there. No condescension. Just patience.
Something in her chest loosened a fraction.
“Okay,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Teach me.”
That was how it started.
Their first session was… unbalanced, to say the least.
Y/N worked in bursts—sudden ideas, half-formed melodies she hummed aloud, clapping rhythms randomly, talking over herself as she tried to explain what she was imagining. Martin, on the other hand, worked methodically. He listened first. Then translated her chaos into something tangible.
“You mean like this?” he asked at one point, adjusting a beat.
Her eyes widened. “YES. Exactly like that.
How did you—?”
He shrugged. “You explained it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You did,” he repeated, unbothered.
She laughed, loud and disbelieving, throwing her head back so dramatically he had to look away to hide another smile.
She was… a lot. Not in a bad way. Just vibrant. Expressive. Impossible to ignore.
At some point, she climbed onto the chair sideways, knees tucked up, watching him work. She leaned closer without realizing it, chin resting on her sleeve.
“You make it look easy,” she muttered.
“It’s not,” he said. “You just get used to the mistakes.”
That made her go quiet.
She’d been expecting a joke. A deflection. Instead, she got honesty.
“I mess up all the time,” he continued. “You just don’t see it.”
She glanced at him, then back at the screen. “I mess up very publicly.”
He smirked. “You’ll learn how not to.”
Their dynamic settled into something strange and immediate. Comfortable, but not familiar. Like they’d skipped the awkward getting-to-know-you stage and landed somewhere safer.
She teased him relentlessly once she relaxed.
“You’re really serious for someone who makes beats all day.”
“You’re really loud for someone who’s supposed to be listening.”
“Wow. Hurtful.”
“You asked.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. He pretended not to see it.
By the end of the session, her head was spinning—but not from fear this time. From excitement.
When she left the studio that night, she ran straight into the dorm, bursting through the door.
“I HAVE A PRODUCER FRIEND,” she announced.
Jiwoo nearly dropped her phone. “A what?”
“He’s from Cortis,” Y/N continued, flopping onto the couch dramatically. “He’s tall. And calm. And he fixed my entire mess in, like, two seconds.”
“Tall?” Lina repeated suspiciously.
“CALM?” Hana echoed.
Y/N waved them off. “He’s like—old.”
“How old?” Minseo asked.
“Seventeen.”
The room froze.
“That’s not old,” Jiwoo said slowly.
Y/N shrugged. “To me, it is.”
The teasing started immediately. They called him her “music dad.” Her “babysitter.” Her “producer oppa,” which made her gag dramatically.
“It’s not like that,” she insisted. “He’s just helping me.”
And she meant it.
Over the next few weeks, studio nights became routine.
Martin always brought snacks. She always stole them. They argued about tempos, about basslines, about whether a beat felt too “sad” or too “empty.” She learned quickly—not just how to use the software, but how to trust her instincts.
Then one night, she messed up badly.
She deleted an entire track. Accidentally. Irrecoverably.
Her breath caught. Her eyes burned.
“I ruined it,” she whispered.
Martin leaned forward, studying the screen. Then he sat back. “No. You didn’t.”
“I did,” she said, voice shaking. “It took hours.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her.
“Y/N. It’s okay.”
She waited for frustration. For disappointment.
Instead, he rebuilt it. Piece by piece. Calm. Focused.
When he finished, he slid the chair back toward her. “Your turn.”
She stared at him, stunned.
“You’re not mad?” she asked quietly.
“Why would I be?”
“Because I’m bad at this.”
“You’re not,” he said firmly. “You’re learning.”
Something in her chest fluttered painfully.
The shipping rumors started shortly after.
Fans noticed how often they were seen together. How comfortable they looked. How easily they laughed.
Martin shut it down immediately. “She’s like my little sister.”
Y/N echoed it without hesitation. “He’s basically my big brother.”
And it was true.
For now.
That night, lying in bed, Y/N stared at the ceiling again. Fifteen years old. A rookie. A producer.
She smiled softly.
I’ll grow, she promised herself. Slowly. But I will.
Across the city, Martin sat alone in his studio, staring at a half-finished track.
“She’s just a kid,” he muttered to himself.
And quietly, firmly, he made a promise of his own.
He would protect her.
No matter what.
Hey! This is my first book and it would really help if you left some critics (shorter chapters, less/more details, etc.) Thank you for reading ♡
--------------Idol au! (Martin x y/n)-------------
She debuted too young, with too much responsibility placed on her shoulders.
Chosen as NINE’s main producer at fifteen, Y/N was labeled a prodigy long before she felt like one—still learning, still unsure, still growing into her own voice. To help her, the company brought in Martin: seventeen, already established, disciplined, and quietly brilliant.
What began as late-night studio sessions turned into a bond built on music, shared taste, and unspoken understanding. Fans saw the chemistry immediately. They didn’t. Or rather—they refused to. “She’s my little sister.” “He’s my big brother.” It was safer that way.
Three years later, everything changes.
Now eighteen, Y/N is no longer protected by the word rookie. Her company wants evolution—bolder performances, deeper choreography, a more intimate image. Watching her step into this new era awakens something in Martin he never allowed himself to feel: fear, jealousy, and a need to protect her from a world that takes before it asks.
But how do you protect someone who is choosing to grow?
