j’adior

18+

[kisscenes]

★ what happens in vegas.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. there’s a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?

tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.

word count: 7.1k

a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 – ARSON.

For the record, none of this is your fault.

It’s all Satoru’s fault, and you’re pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and he’s also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.

You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.

And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.

Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.

“I want a divorce,” you tell him.

“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”

“Forty-seven minutes too long.”

“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”

“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.

“You committed a crime first.”

“Getting married isn’t a crime—”

“Fraud is.”

Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.

Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” you’d asked.

“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.

You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.

So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.

You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.

The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.

After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.

Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.

“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”

“There are photos?”

“Francis had a camera.”

“What?”

“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”

You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.

“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”

“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.

“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”

“Then we can’t go there.”

“I called ahead.”

You gape at him. “Three months ago?”

“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”

“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”

“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”

“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”

“That’s your fault by proximity.”

“That’s not a legal standard.”

“I’m making it one.”

Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.

“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”

“You’d better not,” you say.

“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re really not.”

“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.

The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.

“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.

“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.

What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.

“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”

“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”

“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Satoru—”

“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”

“Vegas,” you echo.

“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”

“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”

“I said what I said.”

The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.

“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.

“I was nervous,” he says.

Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!

“Were you,” you say.

“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”

“Of course.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Of course.”

The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.

“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.

“We’ll see.”

“Satoru.”

“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.

The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!

“Fuck,” you groan.

“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”

“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”

You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?

“He might live here,” Satoru says.

“Francis?”

“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”

“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.

“It’s nearly one.”

“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”

“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”

He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.

“No,” you say.

“There’s a window.”

“I see that.”

“It’s open!”

It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.

“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”

“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”

“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Obviously.”

“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”

“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”

“I’m not being a lookout.”

“You just said—”

“I’m coming with you.”

He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.

“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.

The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.

“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.

“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because we’re trespassing.”

“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”

“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.

“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”

You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.

“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.

The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.

Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.

The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.

In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.

Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.

“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.

“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”

“Were you?” he asks.

“Yes. Were you?”

“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”

In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.

“We should take them,” Satoru says.

“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”

“They look pretty developed to me.”

“Satoru, they’re damp—”

“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”

“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”

“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”

There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.

“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”

“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”

“What?”

“I’m asking genuinely.”

“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”

You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.

You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.

You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.

“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”

“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”

You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.

“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.

There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.

The difference is that you are currently married to him.

“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.

“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”

The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.

“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.

“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”

“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”

It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.

“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”

“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”

“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”

You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.

“I want to see them again,” you announce.

Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”

You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.

“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.

“About which part?”

“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”

“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.

“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”

You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.

You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.

“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”

“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”

His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.

You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.

He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.

When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.

“Hi,” Satoru says.

“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.

“I said hi.”

“Hi,” you say.

He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.

“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”

“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”

“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.

The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.

You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.

“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”

You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”

“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.

He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.

His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.

He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”

“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.

“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him. 

“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”

He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”

“I need you to, hah, just—”

Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.

“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.

He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.

“Satoru… please, I’m—”

“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.

The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.

“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”

He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”

“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh. 

He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”

Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.

“Ride me?” he asks.

The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.

You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.

“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.

You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”

You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.

“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.

Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.

It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone. 

Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.

You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.

The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.

You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.

The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.

You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.

But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.

The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.

“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”

He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”

You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.

He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last. 

“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.

He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.

You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached. 

“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”

“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.

Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details. 

You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.

Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.

“Morning,” you say.

“My credit card,” he says.

“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”

“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”

“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.

Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”

“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”

“I liked those rings.”

“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”

You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his. 

“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”

“Yep.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”

Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.

Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.

“We came back,” you confirm.

Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”

You produce the white box.

“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”

Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:

You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.

Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.

You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.

You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.

Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”

The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.

Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.

Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.

“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”

“We forgot something the first time,” you say.

Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.

a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!

[narutwitter]

[frieto]

pretending to help pay the bill w/ nanami !

nanami always adored dinner dates—they were an excuse to have you all dolled up and pretty, with him sitting across the table in his crisp suit, with candles adoring the middle of the table while your face was lit in the pretty moonlight.

ever the gentleman that he is, he always refused to let you pay, fighting you for the check to near violence, because having you in his presence is just enough for him. and treating you to good food is something that he wants to do for you, watching the way your eyes light up when you eat a dish you enjoy is enough to have him drop his entire wallet at your every beck and call.

this little setback didn’t stop you from having your own fun, of course.

right as the waiter dropped the bill at your table, nanami’s taking out his wallet—you’ve given up fighting him for the bill now, the moment you clutch your own purse, zipping it open to fish around it, seemingly to look for you own wallet has nanami pouting like a child for a. moment.

“my love, what on earth are you doing?” he questions, right before you grab what looked like lipgloss and a handful of seashells before setting it down on the table.

“im helping you pay the bill, of course.”

your face was stoic, almost dead serious, with the container of lipgloss and three pretty shells that rested before you.

“will this not cover it?” you say before setting down mermaid shells, and the tiniest jar of glitter on the table before you tilted your head in confusion while staring right into his eyes.

he tries to be serious for a second—he’s used to your antics by now, but something about the way you’re eyeing him while your collection rests next your purse is barely holding him back from bursting into a fit of giggles.

merely seconds later nanami’s snickering, trying to cover his face with his hands while you let out a soft giggle, watching his face tinge in pink while he slowly laughs at your previously dead serious expression while you set down trinkets on the table like a cat.

“gods, i’m gonna marry you some day.” is all he says, before paying the bill and setting it aside, all the while you can see the dimples crease his face at your stupid joke.

“if this was all it took, i would’ve started doing it ages ago.”

old fic i kinda liked idk. @yoonsucks @sugusplaything

dividers: @/pixopix .

all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.

[satomiu]

king of chrysanthemums !

✿　married off to the feared RYOMEN SUKUNA : you spend your days avoiding your new husband at all costs — until discovering a hidden garden changes everything. ⎯⎯  𓊆ྀི ❤︎ . wc: 3.7k  𓊇ྀི ࣪ ˖  

you were the wife of ryomen sukuna. the strongest and most feared sorcerer of your time.

there was no grand love story about how the two of you met. your marriage was arranged, a political agreement between your clan and his influence, meant more for stability in the world of jujutsu than sentiment. you had no understanding of why he chose you from all others: the daughter of an apothecary house, of no notable lineage nor distinguished standing.

when you first arrived at his estate, you tried to run. not once. not twice. but quite a few times. you made it about two days before you were caught wandering too close to the outer gates, looking very much like someone who was ( absolutely ) definitely not trying to escape. he located you without any real difficulty, which, admittedly, was humiliating.

but, you had mastered the art of evasion within a week of your marriage.

if he walked east, you went west. if he lingered in the main hall, you claimed sudden interest in incense inventory all the way on the other side.

it wasn’t fear, you told yourself, it was just you being practical . . .

at first, it seemed like the two of you were just not compatible in the slightest. and to your delight, sukuna made no attempt to chase after you, he simply let you be, maybe he just had no desire to get to know you. but you weren't complaining.

you cleared your throat, seated opposite him at the excessively vast dining table, attendants stationed at each corner, ever poised to respond to the slightest summons or command.

“… this weather is… quite pleasant.” you muttered, attempting to make conversation with him while you poked your food around your plate. the quiet click of wood against porcelain being the loudest sound in the room. second to that of your heart hammering in your chest.

when you looked up from your plate you noticed his gaze on you, his eyebrows slightly raised, but hardly by an inch. you were certain that he had no other expressions available.

“it is raining.”

oh. you glanced to your right and noticed the gray sky, and, as if on cue, a loud crack of thunder rolled across the horizon. you were so in your head about what to say to him that you had no idea of the chaos going on in the outside the dead estate.

“ah. you are... correct”

silence settled between you once more, thick and deliberate, you could’ve swore you heard a few servants snickering, as they found your suffering amusing.

you decided that perhaps you should eat more, that way you could leave faster; so you stuffed your mouth full of steamy white rice, praying that either you finish before him, or he finish before you. and soon.

“must you sit so far away”

“huh?” you choked, steam tickling your throat. quickly covering your mouth and stifling your soft coughs. doing your very best to remain proper in front of your newly wedded husband, hoping he would not have you executed for your lack of manners.

“you’re acting like i’m going to attack you.” he lazily blinked at you before taking a slow sip of his tea, placing the cup down with a quiet clink that echoed faintly against the wooden walls, looking at you expectantly. “it's how you've been acting the entirety of your stay.”

a clap of thunder followed almost immediately.

“well… i am only sitting where i was told to, my lord.” you hummed, a small pout taking its place on your plush lips.

“lord? i am your husband, not your master.” he titled his head almost as if uninterested. “despite all that, you continue to run from me. why? do you think i am going to harm you?”

you froze for a brief second.

“…i am sorry?” you blinked at him incredulously, heat slowly rising to your cheeks.

you weren’t entirely sure if he was genuinely curious on why you've been evading him.. or if this was him being nice.

if it was, it was the most confusing attempt at benevolence you had ever encountered… considered the whole "malevolent" vibe was his thing.

to your dismay, he didn’t elaborate. just took another slow sip of his tea, a mix of yomogi and mitsuba filling up the room.

you huffed quietly, straightening your posture even more as if to prove a point. “i am not running from you. i'm here now. see.” you repeated, downing another heap of rice along with your steamed vegetables.

“only because i called you here.”

you swallowed. “that is … not true.”

“uh huh...”

he studied you for a moment, then he stood. the legs of his large chair scraped softly against the floor, the sound startling in the otherwise quiet dining hall. your eyes widened slightly. he brushed past your chair, muttering “enjoy your meal.” in that gruff tone of his. you could’ve sworn you caught a glimpse of his sharp canines as that handsomely wicked smile took form on his lips.

the door slid shut behind him, leaving you alone with your chopsticks still resting besides your hardly touched plate.

you sighed, scarfing down one last spoonful of white rice, that was now no longer appetizing after what felt like agonizing hours of silence and humiliation.

you waddled back to your quarters, defeated at another failed attempt to bond with your newly wedded husband, pale garments dragging softly along the well polished floor as you walked.

sukuna didn’t force you to share a bed with him, nor did he ask you for anything intimate.

you figured it was because he understood your need to adjust, or maybe he just preferred his own space and had no time for the expected marital practices. or bonding for that matter. either way, you told yourself it was probably the nicest thing he had done so far.

inside your chambers, the afternoon light was warm and quiet, as the storm finally passed over. at first you didn’t notice it.

the small bundle sitting neatly on your resting mat. a neatly folded kimono.

you walked closer and crouched slightly to look at it. the fabric was a deep, muted green. pale cherry blossoms painted along the bottom hem, thin lines of gold swirls stitched into the fabric.

it was beautiful. and just your size. you were certain he had it made just for you. but you didn't want to get ahead of yourself.. it could be something he had just lying around.

but deep down you knew that wasn't true.

beside it was a small slip of paper. you picked it up. two words were written in firm, simple strokes.

"wear this."

how charming for a king.

the silk felt smooth between your fingertips, light and cool, soft enough that you found yourself rubbing it absentmindedly, just to feel the quiet glide of the fabric. it was nothing like the garments you had back at home which were primarily cotton.

normally, you spent most of your time in your quarters, sketching the view outside your window, the quiet garden trees swaying gently in the wind, a small cluster of pale flowers growing near the stone path, and the way sunlight filtered through leaves in soft patches on the ground.

but not today. today you decided you would explore. you slipped on your new outfit and your silk shoes.

you began wandering through the estate halls, the soft clack of wood against floorboards following you as you walked. the place was still big and a little intimidating, but you were getting better at remembering the path and shortcuts.

you wondered if sukuna would care if you had ended up getting trapped in some forgotten closet or something… he’d probably think you tried to escape from him and have you executed once he found you.

orrr.. probably not. that was a little extreme. but still, you’ve heard many stories about your husband. many said he was cruel, dangerous. impossible to please. you weren’t entirely sure how much of that was true… yet. and you certainly didn’t want to test those rumors any time soon.

after what felt like hours—which was really only a couple of minutes—of wandering and mentally marking walls and turns, you heard the familiar, heavy clack of wooden sandals approaching from the other side of the corridor… two sets of footsteps actually.

sukuna and—

“uraume.”

he began, his voice was low and steady, the kind of tone sukuna always used when he was being serious about something he was very clearly annoyed about.

“yes, master sukuna?”

“why does this woman still avoid me? does she not like me??”

there was a short pause.

“i'm beginning to tire of this. since her arrival i have even been taking those 'herbs' that are supposed to ease your nerves, as opposed to acting so brazen.”

uraume sighed. “oh? so that is why you've been so uncharacteristically calm. well, for one.. maybe she thinks you want to eat her,” humming sarcastically.

well, perhaps he did. just.. not in the traditional sense.

you rolled your eyes at his comment, mentally scoffing. what is his problem.. was he actually relying on herbs to not frighten you off with his ill attitude?

silence followed. 　　“uraume. do you think i'm handsome?”

the footsteps stilled, and you could hear uraume giggle. “you're asking me.. if i think you are handsome? or if she thinks you are handsome?”

sukuna sighed dramatically. “i'm serious… have my looks been lacking? usually other women and concubines flock to me.. but i have given that up.” he murmured, his pout audible from miles away.

he groaned, “actually scratch that. that can’t be it..."

you could hear the snap of his thick fingers as he had a 'eureka' moment. "do you think she's caught wind about the stomach tongue??”

stomach what?

from behind the corner of the wall, you felt your ears grow warm. did he think you found him unattractive? that was certainly not the case.. not even in the slightest, in fact you were ecstatic at the fact he was handsome man.

and… was he sulking? in the candlelit hush of the manor, you had to swallow the urge to laugh at how openly petulant he was being, all narrowed eyes and brooding silence like a disgraced warlord denied his due.

you weren’t entirely sure, but the thought of sukuna being worried—truly worrying—that you didn’t find him desirable made something in your chest tighten in a way you pointedly refused to examine.

but more importantly, the footsteps drew nearer down the corridor, steady and unhurried, and you found yourself suddenly uninterested in entertaining your “husband” and his ever-present right hand man at this particular moment in time.

the low, steady cadence of his voice threaded through the corridor like something inevitable, followed by uraume’s calm, unbothered reassurance that you “simply required time,” both of them drifting closer with the kind of composure that made your stomach sink in slow recognition.

you jolted.

suddenly, you were very aware of yourself. the angle of your stance. the fact that you were not hidden in any meaningful way. the fact that anyone with even half a mind could connect the dots between this exact spot and a certain level of eavesdropping that would be… diplomatically unwise.

you froze like a court attendant caught reading a forbidden scroll.

whipping your head around for some form of escape, you notice a small wooden gate sat between two stone walls, almost hidden by overgrown vines. it wasn’t locked, but it didn’t look like something people were meant to enter without permission.

you rushed in, sliding the door shut behind you, only to realize you had stepped straight into a garden. the corridor had connected the estate to the outdoors, revealing a quiet, carefully kept space lined with smooth stone paths and clusters of chrysanthemums blooming in soft whites and pale pinks.

a small pond rested off to the side, koi fish gliding lazily beneath the surface while trimmed shrubs and low maples framed the edges with deliberate care. it certainly wasn't abandoned.

it looked maintained.

meticulous, even. and most importantly it was beautiful.

you took a slow step forward, wooden clogs pressing lightly against stone, eyes scanning the neat rows of plants and the way everything seemed too deliberately arranged to be accidental.

…was this his?

no… it couldn’t be. sukuna was terrifying, cruel in the his crimes would be told for generations, but also the same man who had just been sulking at the mere possibility that you might not find him attractive. the contradiction sat in your mind like a coin spinning between two impossible sides.

even so, you wandered deeper into the shockingly large garden, where soft wind chimes trembled in the breeze and small animals moved freely between the paths. it was unexpectedly beautiful—so much so it almost made your chest ache.

you noticed a cluster of chrysanthemums near the edge of the path that looked… particularly miserable. their petals sagging toward the soil like they had quietly surrendered to fate. with a small frown, you crouched beside them, already convinced they were in desperate need of water, reaching for the wooden pot nearby.

close.

too close.

before you could properly commit, a warmth brushed the shell of your ear.

“what do you think you’re doing?”

there he was. sukuna. crouched beside you, one eyebrow raised, equal parts exasperated and faintly entertained.

“you can’t just sneak up on someone like that!” you snapped, rubbing your elbow.

his elbow rested lazily on his thigh, hand propping up his chin. dark robes pooled around him like ink settling into stone, utterly unbothered by your indignation.

“i called your name three times before i approached you,” he replied evenly. “you were too busy trying to waterboard my children.”

his children..?

you pushed yourself up with a huff, smoothing down your silk kimono like dignity could be restored through the expensive fabric alone. he stayed crouched by the flowers, fingers already brushing one of the drooping leaves.

“i see you found my gift.”

you paused.

“…gift?”

oh.

right. the garments.

“yes,” you said quickly. “it is rather nice.. thank you.”

his gaze flicked up to your face this time.

“it suits ya.”

your ears warmed again.

“…how did you even get my measurements?”

“i got them while you were sleeping,” he said flatly, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

you stared.

“sorry, what?”

he exhaled, almost bored. “relax. it wasn’t me. it was your handmaiden.”

“that’s not any better!” you shot back, scandalized. “you’re such a degenerate..”

sukuna finally looked up properly then, one brow lifting as if you were the strange one in this conversation.

“…it’s fabric,” he said simply. “not a crime.”

he stood then, unfolding to his full height until he was once again towering over you. he studied your offended expression for a moment; your puffed cheeks, the way you refused to meet his eyes.

a faint smile tugged at his mouth. you were adorable. despite the fact you tried to call him perverted.

“fineee,” he mused, dragging the word out. “next time, i will simply ask you. no need for hysterics.”

you crossed your arms with a huff. “bastard. there will not be a next time.”

his head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet calculation.

“so…” he began, far too calmly, “it’s not acceptable to take your measurements while you sleep?”

“no?!”

his smile widened, just slightly. you were suddenly aware of how little distance there was between you two. the faint heat radiating from him, impossible to ignore.

“why are you here anyways?” you muttered, as you began to walk with unnecessary speed down the stone path. “did you follow me here? creep…”

as if you weren’t the one who had just been eavesdropping on his entire conversation and retreating into his private garden like it was an emergency exit. an accident. obviously.

behind you, his sandals clicked against stone at an infuriatingly unhurried pace.

“here we go again.. you run, and then you accuse.” he drawled.

before you could snap back, a strong hand caught your arm and tugged. hard and firm. you stumbled back straight into him, solid, unmoving. he didn’t even shift an inch. your breath hitched. his chest was warm, too warm.

“i have told you already,” he said, voice low, leaning down just enough as if he wanted you to feel it rather than hear it. “do not run from me.”

he dipped closer, just a little—close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your cheek, tilting his head innocently.

“and besides,” he added, almost amused, “this is my garden. if anything, you are the one intruding, fool.”

“your garden?” you scoffed, falling into step beside him, closer than before, though you refused to acknowledge how natural it felt. “no doubt you have a thousand attendants tending to it.”

without warning, he stepped off the stone path — pulling you gently but firmly with him.

“hey—!”

“quiet.”

he led you through a narrow break in the hedges you hadn’t noticed before. the space opened into something hidden, what you assumed to be his private sanctuary. cherry blossoms arched overhead, petals drifting lazily across a much larger pond that reflected pale pink against the water.

he stopped beneath one of the trees.

with barely any effort, he reached up and plucked a blossom from a low branch, the movement smooth, deliberate. the pale petals rested between his thick fingers as he held it in front of your face. a faint, sweet, powdery scent brushed your senses.

“this,” he said calmly, “is a cherry blossom.”

“i know that—”

his eyes rolled up at you from the flower, giving you a stern, but not unwelcome, glare that shut you right up.

“they bloom for a brief span,” he continued, twirling the stem between his fingers, “in the early spring. they demand harsh winters to enter proper dormancy. if the air be too mild, the bloom weakens. it requires great patience to cultivate them rightly.”

petals drifted down between you with each cool breeze.

“they are not tended by servants,” he added evenly, “they are tended by my own hand. were it otherwise, I would know nothing of them.”

he lowered the blossom slightly, eyes settling on yours, your gaze flickered between the blossom and his features. you couldn’t help but notice how his sharp looks softened in the natural lighting of the outdoors.

you didn’t notice him move until his hand lifted.

warm fingers brushed lightly against your hair, careful in a way that felt strangely deliberate. you froze.

“what are you—”

he didn’t answer.

instead, he tucked the cherry blossom he had been holding into the side of your hair, adjusting it slightly with slow, precise movements as if making sure it would not fall out.

his hand lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, brushing your outershell before dropping away.

“there,” he said.

you blinked. for such a large man he was surprisingly gentle.

“…what was that for?”

“what? it matched your garments,” he replied nonchalantly, as if he wasn’t all giddy inside. “it would be wasteful not to put it to good use.”

you squinted at him. "that was not a very useful explanation…"

but he was already looking away, gaze drifting toward the pond as if the conversation was finished. and yet the corner of his mouth was doing that very faint, very annoyingly smug thing again.

“well– thank you..” you chirped, the words coming out softer than you expected.

a comfortable silence stretched between the two of you, the breeze bristling in between the leaves and branches of the cherry blossoms, the occasional raindrop creating a ripple in the pond. an after effect of the storm that had passed by.

“you know, you're much more tolerable when you stop pretending you don’t want to be here.”

translation: you are more pleasing to look upon when you are not fleeing from me as though i were plague.

your chest felt strangely tight, but you decided to blame it on the pollen. “well.. maybe if you didn't act so...” you said, ignoring the butterflies that fluttered around in your chest..

“what? moody? fearsome?” he cut in without even looking at you, already turning back toward the flowers as if he had finished reading your thoughts before you spoke them.

“i was going to say weird,” you muttered, softer now. “i do not find you scary…”

you rocked back and forth, shifting your weight from heels to the tips of your toes.

“and besides…” you glanced at him, sheepish, before muttering under your breath, “you have a stomach tongue…”

his head snapped toward you.

“what?”

“nothing!”

a quiet huff left him, almost laughter, paired with a slow roll of his eyes. how absurd. he let the silence settle for a moment, gaze lingering on you as if weighing whether you were serious or simply beyond help.

then, at last, he spoke again.

“would you like your own part?”

“huh?..”

“your own space. within my garden.”

you blinked.

“…you are.. serious?”

he exhaled softly through his nose. “yes. entirely serious… woman.” his gaze stayed on you, steady and unblinking.

“whatever you desire,” he added after a pause, “name it.”

you couldn’t help it—your face lit up instantly, words spilling out before you could temper them.

“oh! perhaps orchids!! or peonies?? can you get more chrysanthemums? i know you have many but they are very beautiful! and maybe a small stone bench so i may sketch whenever i—”

his hand came down on your shoulder, firm.

“slow down,” he said, faintly exasperated.

then, after a beat:

“only on one condition.”

“.. huh?”

he stepped closer, yanking you forward with one hand.

suddenly you were too aware of everything; of the strength beneath his robes, the steady heat radiating from his body the way he simply did not move when you collided with him.

“you…” he began.

he leaned down slightly, voice dropping until it brushed the shell of your ear once more.

“need to learn to stop running away from your husband.”

your heart gave a very unreasonable, very traitorous little flip.

and in the quiet that followed, something in you settled instead of panicking.

then, with soft, growing certainty, you decided you were very excited to be the wife of ryomen sukuna.

super old fic for part of a series i never completed or announced lolz

[fre4krena]

a trip to the mall with nobara ends up with you confirming all jujutsu high suspicions of you and sorcerer!sukuna

“senpai,” she said casually, poking the straw of her drink around the ice, “does ink-face have a crush on you?”

“huuuUUUh?” your reaction was so exaggerated it nearly echoed down the corridor. you turned toward her slowly, painfully slowly, eyes shadowed and expression sinking into something so ominous it made nobara’s shoulders stiffen.

‘she’s making the same face as sukuna-senpai… scaryyy…’ she thought, swallowing around the sip of soda she’d just taken.

nobara cleared her throat, pretending to be unfazed as she kept walking beside you.

“i mean,” she continued, waving her hand loosely in the air, “it’s just… something i noticed.” she took another long sip before finishing, quieter now, “i always find you two somehow together. and even when i don’t, you’re giving each other these weird… lovey-dovey hatred eyes.”

the last words dissolved into a mutter she hoped you didn’t catch.

you immediately started waving both hands in front of you like someone trying to swat away the very concept. “no, no— you’ve got it all wrong.” an awkward laugh slipped out as you shook your head. “he hates me.”

nobara slowed her steps, eyeing you with narrowed suspicion “is that so…?” she hummed.

“yes!” you insisted quickly.

you took a long slurp from your drink, the fizz biting sharply at your throat. “the least interaction we have is because we’re peers and end up paired on missions,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “and geto-sensei always pairs up hakari and kirara hoshi for missions.”

nobara snorted. “of course he does.”

“right?” you groaned. “he practically encourages them to go on dates while exorcising curses.”

a group of teenagers brushed past behind you, their laughter trailing down the corridor as the nearby arcade chimed and beeped with bright electronic sounds.

nobara went quiet for a moment, her brows knitting together slightly as she sipped her drink. you could almost hear the gears turning in her head.

then something clicked.

“…senpai,” she said slowly, glancing sideways at you. you hummed absently, still fiddling with the lid of your soda. “do you have a crush on him?”

the question hit you like a brick.

“ah— no i don’t,” you blurted quickly, the words tumbling out a little too fast. “i mean i did a long time ago but everybody knew that…”

your grip tightened around the soda cup, plastic crinkling slightly under your fingers. a thin line of sweat curled along your temple as you forced out an awkward laugh. “plus it’s sukuna,” you added with a helpless shrug. “i mean, who hasn’t had a crush on him—”

nobara stopped walking so abruptly you nearly ran into her.

she slowly raised a hand and pointed at herself with a deadpan expression. “i haven’t.” then she wrinkled her nose in visible disgust. “neither has maki-senpai.”

her lip curled slightly as if the very idea offended her. “feels weird thinking somebody would have a crush on that barbarian of a man.”

you stared at your soda instead of her, swirling the drink gently so the ice clinked softly against the plastic.“ha-ha… yeah.” your laugh came out just a little strained.

nobara suddenly slapped a hand dramatically against her chest like she’d just realized something deeply offensive. “honestly,” she scoffed, “thinking about him getting a girlfriend before i get a boyfriend would fucking frustrate me.”

you snorted immediately. “anybody getting one before you would frustrate you, nobara.”

“BECAUSE THEY SHOULDN’T!”

her voice shot up so fast a few nearby shoppers glanced over in surprise before quickly pretending they hadn’t heard anything. a mother tugged her child along a little faster as nobara threw her hands up toward the ceiling like she was addressing the universe directly.

“such a beauty as me should not be losing to barbaric men like him— or anyone for that matter!” she continued indignantly. “men at jujutsu high are barbarians!”

you burst out laughing, the sound bubbling out of you so suddenly your chest hurt. nobara tried—tried—to maintain her serious expression, lips twitching violently for a solid two seconds before she gave up entirely.

you drifted deeper into the mall, conversation melting into easy chatter again as storefronts rolled by in a blur of color.

nobara slowed when a clothing store caught her eye. “oh,” she breathed. she drifted toward the display window like a moth toward a flame, eyes sparkling as she immediately started inspecting the outfits on the mannequins with intense interest.

“wait here,” she muttered absently, already halfway inside the store. “this place looks promising.”

you lingered just outside as shoppers flowed around you in slow waves. your gaze wandered lazily across the opposite side of the corridor. your eyes snagged on the toy shop window.

you blinked. “…huh?”

a small display stand sat near the glass, piled high with soft pastel plushies— bears, rabbits, sleepy-looking cats. and sitting right in the center of them was a tiny pink tiger.

you stepped closer.

the plush was small and round, with stubby legs and tiny ears. its stitched expression looked oddly grumpy, thick little eyebrows angled downward over bead-like eyes. darker stripes wrapped across its back and forehead in a pattern that looked… strangely familiar.

you squinted, then leaned closer to the glass. “…gahhh…” your nose almost bumped the display window as you studied the thing like it had personally offended you. one hand slowly came up to your chin, fingers tapping thoughtfully. “…this reminds me of somebody…”

“who?”

the voice appeared right beside your ear; low and dangerously amused. you jolted so violently you nearly slammed your face into the display window.

“sukuna!” you half-yelped, barely catching yourself before your voice carried across the whole corridor. the last syllable came out as a frantic whisper as your hand flew to your chest.

standing close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of his presence through the cool mall air, tall and relaxed, his hands rested comfortably in the pockets of his uniform, shoulders loose, posture lazy in the way that only someone completely unbothered by their surroundings could manage.

he looked down at you with that familiar smirk rested on his lips, though… it was noticeably gentler than the usual one he wore.

“w-what are you doing here?” you whispered urgently, already whipping your head toward the clothing store entrance.

nobara hadn’t come out yet. thank god!

you turned back to him immediately, eyes wide.

sukuna didn’t seem remotely concerned. “finished my mission with hakari,” he said simply.

he pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it with an idle flick of his thumb before holding the screen out between you. “your location said you were nearby,” he continued casually. “so i decided to stop by.”

your brain short-circuited. you immediately started waving both hands at him like you were trying to shoo away a stray cat. “you shouldn’t be here!” you hissed under your breath, “nobara is already suspicious enough— she’s been interrogating me!”

sukuna leaned one shoulder casually against the toy shop window beside you, he tilted his head slightly, watching you panic with quiet amusement dancing in his eyes. “what did she ask you?” he sounded far too calm about this.

you groaned and dragged your hands down your face. “if you have a crush on me,” you muttered into your palms.

you peeked at him through your fingers. “and if i have a crush on you…”

sukuna’s eyebrow lifted slowly. “and?”

you squeezed your eyes shut. “…and my dumbass admitted i had a crush on you.” shoulders hunching as if the embarrassment might physically crush you.

the distant smell of caramel popcorn drifted through the corridor from the food court while shoppers passed by behind you, completely unaware that your social life was imploding beside a toy store window.

for a moment sukuna said nothing. then his brow creased. “…HuH?" he straightened slightly. “HAD?”

a faint scowl tugged at his mouth, his hand moved to clutch his chest with theatrical offense.

“and here i thought my feelings were reciprocated all this time,” he sighed dramatically, leaning back against the glass like a man who had just suffered a devastating betrayal. his fingers pressed against his heart as if he might collapse at any moment.

“you wound me!”

you lowered your hands slowly and stared at him. unimpressed. “…i see gojo-sensei is rubbing off on you.” the words slipped out under your breath.

sukuna’s eyes narrowed slightly. “don’t compare me to that idiot.”

you were about to roll your eyes when something else caught your attention.“…wait.”

sukuna raised a brow. you leaned closer before he could question it, eyes narrowing as you focused on the faint smear along his cheekbone. “did you get hurt?” without thinking much about it, you quickly licked your finger and reached up to wipe it away.

his hand shot up and caught your wrist mid-air. “ew,” he said flatly, grimacing like you’d just threatened him with poison. “get your saliva away from me.”

you stared at him in disbelief. “haaaHHH?” your face twisted in exaggerated offense as you yanked your hand back. “this same saliva you’re going to taste in a few hours!”

“yeah, but it’s different—!” he snapped back instinctively, scowling.

“it is literally the same!”

“the context is different!”

“that’s not how biology works!”

you huffed and stepped closer before he could keep arguing. with a quick motion you smacked his cheek lightly, not hard, just enough to make him blink in surprise, your hand stayed there, fingers spreading as you squished his face slightly to hold him still while your other hand reached up to wipe the dried blood away properly

his lips puckered under the pressure, his scowl deepening as he glared down at you. “unbelievable,” he muttered through the squish. but he didn’t move. in fact, he actually slouched a little so you could reach him easier.

the realization made you bite back a laugh.

his expression right now; puffed cheeks, annoyed glare, slouched posture. looked so ridiculously similar to the angry pink tiger plush from the toy store window that you almost lost your composure.

you wiped away the last faint smear of blood and leaned back to inspect your work. “there.” you released his face with a satisfied nod and without much thought, you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

his reaction was instant, he recoiled slightly, sticking his tongue out with exaggerated disgust as if you’d just contaminated him. “disgusting.” sukuna rubbed the cheek you’d kissed with mock irritation before shoving his hands back into his pockets. “hakari keeps pestering me too, you know,” he said after a moment.

you glanced up at him. “what do you mean?”

he sighed, tilting his head back slightly as though the thought alone was exhausting. “i think he’s caught on.”

“already?”

“too much for me to even try convincing him otherwise,” he muttered. “especially when i just dipped on going back with ijichi-san and said i’d take a walk.”

his tone made the excuse sound even weaker than it already was. he rubbed the back of his neck, irritation slipping into his expression. “i can’t do this anymore.”

you blinked. “what?”

his gaze dropped to you, something more genuine slipping through the usual sarcasm. “it hurts acting like we hate each other,” he admitted with a quiet exhale. then his mouth curved slightly. “when hours later i’m making love to you—”

“SUKUNA!” you smacked his shoulder and he burst out laughing immediately.

the sound was loud and bright and completely unbothered by the public setting. before you could hit him again, his hand caught your wrist and he leaned down quickly, pressing a warm kiss against your cheek.

your skin instantly flushed pink. you shoved at his chest lightly, half embarrassed and half smiling. “you’re insufferable—”

“you guys…”

the voice cut through the moment like a knife.

both of you turned.

sukuna was still slightly hunched from kissing your cheek when your eyes landed on the source of the voice.

nobara stood just outside the clothing store entrance. four shopping bags hung from her hands.

or… they had.

because the second she’d clearly processed what she’d just seen, the bags slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor with a soft cascade of crinkling paper.

her expression was frozen somewhere between horror, betrayal, and absolute disbelief. her eyes slowly moved between you…your flushed cheeks. sukuna standing way too close. the very obvious kiss you’d just received.

the silence stretched.

then nobara inhaled slowly, her face twisting.

“are fucking disgusting.”

𝙗𝙤𝙣𝙪𝙨!

later that evening the dorms had finally settled into the quiet lull that came after a long day of missions, lectures, and far too many people yelling in the hallways.

sukuna’s room was dim except for the soft glow of his phone and the faint wash of moonlight slipping through the half-open window. cool night air drifted inside, carrying with it the distant hum of cicadas and the muted sounds of someone walking down the hallway outside.

you were already half asleep against him.

your face was pressed into his chest, cheek warm against the fabric of his shirt while one arm was curled securely around the small pink tiger plush you had insisted on bringing back from the mall. the toy’s stitched scowl peeked out from under your arm, its angry little eyebrows somehow managing to look exactly like him even now.

sukuna had complained the entire way back. he still hadn’t convinced you to get rid of it.

his arm rested loosely around your shoulders, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your upper arm while his other hand held his phone above him. the blue light reflected faintly against the ceiling as he lazily doom-scrolled through whatever nonsense appeared on his screen.

every now and then his thumb slowed, but his attention wasn’t really on the phone, it kept drifting back to you; the soft rhythm of your breathing against his chest. the way your hair tickled his collarbone. the faint warmth of your body tucked against his side.

his fingers paused briefly, adjusting the blanket over your shoulder when it slipped.

then his phone buzzed, the vibration was quiet, but noticeable in the still room.

a notification lit the screen: hakari durden sent you a message! sukuna sighed slowly through his nose and tapped the notification open. the first popped up:

hakari durden: she hates you, huh?

sukuna’s eyebrow twitched, before he could even react, another message appeared beneath it.

hakari durden: liar, liar i’ll set your fucking pants on fire! hakari durden: i knew it. i fucking knew it.

sukuna stared at the screen for a long moment, his expression slowly flattening into pure annoyance. his thumb hovered over the screen, another message arrived;

hakari durden: also you dipped from ijichi like a guilty husband hakari durden: next time at least try to lie better

sukuna let out a long breath through his nose, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. his thumbs moved over the keyboard:

sukuna: mind your business.

the message sent and he tossed the phone aside onto the nightstand without waiting for a response. against his chest, you shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm tightening instinctively around the plush tiger as you murmured something unintelligible.

sukuna immediately stilled. his hand moved back to you automatically, adjusting your position with quiet care so you settled more comfortably against him. after a moment he shifted himself too, sliding lower against the pillows before dipping his head down into the curve of your neck.

he breathed in slowly. your scent lingered there; faint soap, warm skin, and something that was unmistakably you. his arm tightened slightly around your shoulders. within minutes his breathing slowed too, the phone message forgotten on the nightstand.

sukuna had never been a very convincing actor.

especially when it came to pretending he hated you.

probably my favorite au after modern au because i enjoy the delusion that everyone can actually get along for five minutes.

[matchaveins]

SEASON 2 MEGUMI😂😂😂😂✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️PLEASSEEE LET ME HIT😂😂😂😂😂😂

[musatoru]

gintsugi

gojo and you met during world war II.

» gin = silver; tsugi = repair (silver joinery).

early 1945

the world was crumbling amidst agonizing screams and desperate prayers. destruction was absolute, and the stench of scorched earth and hatred drifted through the air faster than the smoke of the air raids.

“careful.” a soldier barked, gripping one end of the stretcher while another hauled it toward the entrance of the makeshift field hospital, hidden in the dim shadows of a reinforced basement.

you had lost count of the mangled bodies brought in. they arrived one after another, each in worse condition than the last, victims of the relentless firebombing.

“did we lose him?” someone asked from behind, their voice thick with genuine panic. “did we lose the asset?”

“we can’t lose him. he is the pride of the imperial army. the strongest soldier in the entire division.”

you ran alongside nurse ieri toward the commotion, clutching a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of fresh gauze. word of his injury had reached the ward minutes before. in the ranks, he was a legend; the strongest soldier, the invaluable weapon, a man spoken of as if he were a modern-day war god.

but lying there on that blood-stained cot, with a tourniquet cinched tight around the stump of his right arm and dozens of scars tracing his body, he didn’t look like a god. he looked like a ruin. a mummy, wrapped in bandages that covered half of a face caked in soot and dried blood.

“soldier, i’m going to remove the bandages.” you said, your sterile hands reaching for the nape of his neck to undo the knots.

“careful, nurse,” you heard him mutter, half-conscious, his left hand twitching over his chest. “my face is far too expensive for a world in this condition.”

you frowned, wondering if his words were a joke or merely a delirium brought on by the lack of proper medication.

“we will do the best we can with what we have.”

a heavy cough racked his body, a consequence of the smoke inhalation from the front lines. as the gauze fell away, his features emerged: singed eyelashes, a fine, straight nose twitching as it adjusted to the stagnant air of the basement, and thin, perfectly shaped lips –save for the raw gashes that now marred his skin. it was a miracle he hadn't lost an eye in the blast.

“nurse ieri, another casualty!” someone shouted from the stairs. she immediately bolted toward the entrance to receive the new arrival.

“tell me the truth, nurse,” the soldier spoke, barely cracking an eye open. the movement was fleeting, but you caught a glimpse of a striking, crystalline blue –a color that seemed out of place in this gray, dying world. “how much of a monster do i look like now?”

he gestured with a trembling finger toward the empty space where his limb used to be.

it wasn't your first time seeing amputations up close, yet it was the first time a soldier had asked you something with such detached vanity. it was clear that before the war, he had been a man of immense ego, yet he seemed to have accepted the loss of his arm with a terrifying, cold speed. others would have been broken; he simply observed his own destruction.

a faint, playful smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, revealing sharp, white teeth.

“that silence tells me everything.”

“no, no,” you stammered, regaining your composure as you worked. “i was just... surprised, that’s all.” you dampened a cloth with antiseptic to begin cleaning the wounds, dabbing gently over the bruised skin. “you are not a monster. think of it as a mark of your courage for defending the empire.”

he let out a dry, weary laugh that lacked any true conviction.

“i didn't do it for the empire. i did it because i’m the best at it.”

he was losing consciousness. his words began to slur, and the strength was fading from the arm he had kept pressed against his chest all this time.

“soldier, talk to me. tell me your name.” you demanded, your voice firm to keep him anchored to reality as you administered an injection of morphine.

“gojo… gojo satoru.” he mumbled.

his breathing finally evened out, becoming slow and rhythmic before he succumbed to a deep, drug-induced sleep.

-

when gojo satoru finally woke, he was impeccably clean; bathed, changed, his stump expertly bandaged, and sulfonamide powder had been applied to his exposed wounds to promote healing and ward off infection.

you had done it all yourself. as one of the most dedicated and empathetic nurses in the unit, the high command had personally entrusted you with his care. it hadn't been an easy task, particularly when it came to moving him. gojo satoru was not only exceptionally tall but also heavily built; his muscles seemed to weigh as much as three of the patients lying across from him, who were slowly wasting away from cholera and malnutrition.

“good morning.” you greeted him, carrying a small tray of meager rations. “it is time for breakfast.”

“i thought being gravely wounded would at least earn me five more minutes of sleep.” his voice was raspy and sarcastic, yet surprisingly gentle. his eyes opened slowly, revealing irises as clear as crystal, possessing a terrifying purity. thank heavens he still had the pair.

“how are you feeling, gojo-san? where does it hurt?” you asked, setting the tray on the bedside table to help him sit up against the stiff, uncomfortable mattress.

“would it be madness to say –ouch– to tell you that the arm i no longer have is the one that hurts?” his gaze drifted down to the empty space where there was nothing left but a stump. he stared at it for a few seconds before looking directly at you. “i feel as if it’s still there. like my fingers are cramping. and it’s frustrating, miss, because i can’t do a damn thing for them.”

you nodded, sitting on the edge of his bed, careful not to press against his legs. “that is normal, gojo-san. it is called a phantom limb. doctor silas weir mitchell discovered it back in 1871.”

gojo raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “oh? and what else can you tell me about this doctor?” he asked. he had always been a man of immense curiosity and intellect; nothing fascinated him more than gathering interesting facts, especially in a field so far removed from his own expertise.

you brought a spoon to his lips, waiting for him to part them to receive his portion of food. “not much, though i know his studies later influenced sigmund freud. before the world knew of psychoanalysis, freud actually translated mitchell’s work, using his observations on how the mind clings to what the body has lost to help form his own theories on the unconscious.”

he nodded, digesting both the information and the mouthful of food. “so why does it happen, nurse? what is going on inside my mind?”

you looked at him squarely, letting out a soft, weary huff. you couldn’t remember when exactly you had agreed to be subjected to a knowledge examination. “theory says the mind possesses a permanent blueprint of the body, an image etched into the brain, and it refuses to accept the physical loss. but i am not entirely sure of all the evidence gathered; psychiatry is not my field.”

gojo grinned from ear to ear. it was a painfully beautiful smile for someone who had suffered such a catastrophic accident. perhaps, you thought, he was the kind of man who forced himself to smile in the face of any adversity.

"i like you, nurse. i think we can learn a great deal from one another."

it wasn't a question. it was a direct statement. an invitation to continue these nourishing talks every time you helped him eat.

-

over the following days, the two of you fell into long, heated discussions about the eventual surrender and the kokutai, fearing that the very soul of japan was being sacrificed for a lost cause. you debated the nature of the kami and the shinto faith: why one should believe in gods that remained silent while the cities burned, or if the emperor was truly a god or merely a man trapped in a golden cage. but above all, you spoke of the 'overman' and the morality of violence –and if a soldier's true purpose is to be a protector or merely a refined instrument of slaughter.

“you know, it’s funny,” gojo said, tilting his head slightly after swallowing a spoonful of food, that sharp smile never leaving his lips. “from where i’m standing, i just see piles of meat being fed into a grinder. and i can’t bring myself to pray to something that stays silent while the sky turns red. down at the front, i realized that gods are just an invention for people who can't handle the loneliness of a fight. in the end, war isn’t about politics or spirituality; it’s humanity’s way of admitting that our only real talent is destruction. i don’t pull a trigger for the 'empire' or for a faith that doesn't answer back. i do it because if the world is nothing but a chaotic heap of ruins, i’d rather be the one who decides what stays standing. it’s not about duty. i simply refuse to be anything less than the master of my own fate. i am alone the honored one.”

“that is a very arrogant summary, soldier. do you truly consider yourself a god?”

gojo thought about it for a long minute, sipping his barley tea.

“a god is someone who can do what others cannot, right? well, look at me and tell me if, in my entire career, i have performed a single feat that fits the mold of an average soldier, let alone an average civilian. don’t bother answering; i’ll do it for you: no. people are not willing to look at situations with eyes of ice and take the drastic measures necessary, whether it’s striking at another person, another nation, or even one's own body. i’ll tell you something.” he leaned in slightly, as if he were about to share a state secret. “the dying soldier who arrived after me, the one they couldn't save, was my best friend. did it hurt to end his life? probably. did i hesitate? not for a second. why? because he was a traitor. and traitors, under the gaze of the gods, do not deserve even the slightest shred of mercy. so, tell me, nurse... is your forgiveness limitless, or does it have an ethical clause?”

you thought about it for a moment, setting the empty bowl on the tray on the floor before visually scanning the ward. those who weren't sleeping were either agonizing or losing their minds. some might have been morally corrupt, others morally good; the reality was that in this enclosed space, no one knew them deeply enough to judge what they truly deserved in the end.

“i don’t know,” you replied firmly. “but i do know that i do not have the right to take a life.”

“why? because of your hippocratic oath, because of the rules of social conduct, or because you believe you’ll go to hell?”

“none of the above, soldier. it’s not about behaving appropriately before eyes that judge without reason, nor is it about whether i stain my conscience with the blood of others or my own. it has to do with the fact that wise biology took charge of creating the zygote, triggering the dance of mitosis to multiply those forty-six chromosomes until they wove the fabric of a human being. a being who then becomes responsible for their own decisions and principles. but a human is never black and white, nor are they perfect. biology is what's perfect. our task is to understand one another, isn't it? why is it that to learn, we must make mistakes as children, but we aren't allowed that grace as adults? because of ‘acquired experience’? experience may be a foundation, but it is never the same in any other context; every experience is unrepeatable. so, is to err synonymous with failure, with death?”

“quite the opposite, my dear nurse.” gojo shifted onto his side, his blue eyes piercing through your very spirit. “to recognize an error is the mark of the wise. to hide and disguise it is the mark of a coward. and a traitor is always a coward. so, i ask you again: is your forgiveness limitless?”

“no.”

“and why not?”

“because the people who do the most harm are the ones who already know exactly what they are doing.”

“exactly. precisely.” gojo leaned back against the headrest of the cot, satisfied. “in the end, everyone can say whatever they want, deceive themselves however they please. but deep down, they know they would sacrifice anyone to escape the abyss. and i? i would sacrifice the entire nation just so i wouldn't have to rob anyone else of their youth.”

“and wouldn’t that make you a traitor yourself?” you crossed your arms over your chest, as if he had finally fallen into his own trap. but as usual, he turned it around.

“not at all. a traitor is someone who goes against their own convictions for the sake of money, power, or pleasure… i do none of those things. i gain nothing for myself.”

“but you mentioned pleasure,” you pointed out again. “no act of austerity is free from narcissism, soldier.”

“i’m not looking for praise,” he countered.

“no, yet here you are, self-proclaiming as a god and telling me your grand ambitions. to what end? are you waiting for me to applaud or flatter you?”

“it was merely one example among many.”

“examples in which i haven't mentioned myself. and by declaring yourself a deity, you are seeking someone willing to serve and worship you. there isn't much science behind it. but if there is anything equivalent to the repulsion one feels for a traitor, it is the skin-crawling distaste for hypocrisy.”

gojo opened his mouth to say something more, then closed it again. and he smiled, once more.

“i am staggered, nurse. i think i am falling in love with you.”

you stood up from the bed, gathering the food tray and the rest of the waste.

“are you delirious again?” you asked, pressing a hand to his forehead, which was perfectly regulated in temperature. “because i can administer more morphine once i’ve finished bathing you.”

“since you have already seen me stripped of these rags, is there any possibility that you found me attractive?”

you let out a low laugh at his inappropriate question, shaking your head.

“that cannot happen. you are my patient, and i am here to care for you.”

“but you could care for me much better at my home.”

“nonsense.”

“promise me you’ll think about it when i leave this place.”

you didn’t answer him; you simply walked away with a small smile, your heart fluttering like a hummingbird trapped between your hands.

-

the soap suds squeezed from the sponge fell softly onto his bare back. he sat there, offering no resistance, watching you as if you were a sacred entity performing a miracle upon him. his burnt eyelashes fluttered with the frantic energy of a fish out of water. your soft, warm hands made subtle, direct contact –a touch he intentionally sought by leaning in or tilting his head. he never stopped smiling.

“nurse. i’d like to ask what your greatest desire is, but i’m afraid your answer might disappoint me. so instead, i’ll ask: where do you see yourself in five years?”

a bucket of water cascaded gently over his head.

“i see myself at peace, in my own home, married to a good man and happy.”

gojo pursed his lips. “no luxuries? no titles? just that bit of sentimentality?”

you shrugged, rinsing away the very last tiny bubble the soap had left behind.

“love is what the world is lacking, soldier. what good would it do me to pray for opulence if the war continues and innocents keep perishing? and titles? i’ll have them, i assure you, but what use are they if i have no one to admire my merits?”

“love is boring.” he declared. that earned him the final bucket of water, but this time delivered with aggression, sending a splash out of the tub.

“and you? where do you see yourself in five years?”

gojo feigned deep thought, but the spark in his pupils gave him away.

“in my home, happy, married to you.”

you rolled your eyes, helping him out carefully so he wouldn't slip. you dried him with a towel, taking the opportunity to ruffle his long, soft white hair and catch a close glimpse of the fine stubble beginning to darken his face. he didn’t look twenty-nine. he looked like someone who had fought in the great war only to watch the world condemn itself all over again through intolerance. in a way, he was.

“you said love was boring.”

you wrapped a towel around his body, and he leaned against you, supported by a crutch on his left side as you began the walk back to his bed.

“these times don't allow us the luxury of being bored, do they? that is the definition of boredom to me. and i want to be bored with you.”

-

you had finished changing bandages, treating wounds, applying poultices to gangrenous limbs, and ironing a fresh batch of clothes for the patients. nurse ieri had not missed the growing closeness between you and soldier gojo, and her advice had been anything but decent.

you were walking down the long corridor, holding a candelabrum, when a distant voice called to you from the shadows. it wasn't the playful tone that usually provoked you; it was serious, pained.

you quickened your pace, mentally rechecking the dosage of medicine and the tea you had prepared in case you’d missed something. no, everything was in order.

when you brought the lamp closer to his face, his features were twisted in distress.

“nurse,” he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed. “i had a nightmare. would you sing something to make me laugh?”

to make him laugh. even in his darkest moments, he never missed a chance to make jokes that no one found funny. except you –although you’d never admit it out loud.

“what kind of nightmare?”

a minute of silence passed before he answered. for a moment, you assumed he had fallen back asleep, until his only hand reached for yours and held it with uncharacteristic courtesy.

“i was back out there, and i was being torn in half. i couldn’t share my dreams, let alone fulfill them.”

you sighed, setting the lamp on the edge of the bed and brushing the pearlescent strands of hair away from his charming face.

in your eyes, his scars were never defects to be hidden; they were a silent, silver-tongued history of survival. they reminded you of gintsugi –those delicate fractures in ancient celadon where the damage is not erased, but sanctified with threads of liquid silver. to look at him was to trace the frost-veins that map a winter field, a landscape that had endured the biting cold and refused to wither. he was a shattered masterpiece, held together by the very light of his wounds, proving that a soul is never more breathtaking than when it has been broken and chosen to remain whole.

“i didn’t expect to hear that from gojo satoru.”

his expression relaxed, and he let out a deep breath.

“i’m actually very sensitive.”

his thumb pressed softly yours before leaning his forehead against it, the scent of lavender soap and old paper lingering between you.

“you see,” he whispered, his breath vibrating against your skin, “if this was a different time, i’d take you to a dance. i’d wear a suit that didn't smell like ether. and i’d buy you a ring that didn't come from a scrap pile.”

your heart skipped a beat, and your breath fractured, clumsily pushing the air from your lungs.

you wanted to tell him that, even if the world ended tomorrow under a rain of ash, this moment, this breath shared in the penumbra, was enough in itself.

"we’re here now, satoru." you murmured, kissing the back of his hand. "and now is all we need."

that was the last word spoken in the vast room that night. what followed, echoing between the four walls, was the sweet humming of ‘akatonbo’. the melody vibrated in your throat and lingered behind your closed lips. that gentle lullaby rocked him until he forgot he was a soldier whose innocence had been stripped away; it made him feel more like a memory of a childhood he’d never truly had.

-

soldier gojo walked the perimeter with a taciturn expression. three weeks had passed since his admission to the unit, and now he had to return to the base to draft his reports and monitor the operation. his pocket watch dangled from his hand, that restless tick-tock-tick-tock that refused to let time stand still. oh, if only time would stop right now, it would be the closest thing to happiness he would ever know.

except for you. you, who approached with your crisp uniform, smelling of alcohol and damp earth, changing the flowers in the vases you had placed with such affection to give a touch of color and perfume to the ward.

“nurse.” he greeted, pocketing his watch and raising a hand.

you stopped half a meter away, contemplating his crisp, olive-drab officer’s uniform. he had arrived only to leave; and while his petulant presence had brought you arduous work, his modest absence would now be a distraction from your duties.

“soldier.” you gave him your best smile, the kind that only appears when life is noble enough to keep you under its mantle. “ready to keep flying?”

“not entirely, if i’m honest.” he took two clumsy steps forward with his crutch. just enough steps so that your chests were nearly brushing. his bruised fingers trembled as they reached for the pocket where several medals hung presumptuously. from there, he pulled out a small, crushed wildflower, tucking it tenderly into the strands of hair your cap hadn't quite hidden. a satisfied smile cut deeper than his garnet-colored scars. “how can i take off, when moving away from you feels like clipping my own wings?”

you took his hand in yours. it was cold, restless.

“you’ll be alright.” there was a thin line between pride and the sadness that enveloped you in that instant. “there is no greater heroic act than saying goodbye to what must be left behind.”

“i’ve already told you, i don’t want to be a hero. i want to be yours.”

his chapped lips brushed against your knuckles to press a dry, bitter kiss. the seal of a silent promise.

“listen. i have lost everything in this war. my arm, my belongings, my reserves, and even hope. i am half a man, not even a shadow of who i once was. i am barely more than nothingness itself. but i assure you, if you take me, if you accept me as your companion, i swear by the most sacred things that exist –which are neither amaterasu nor hachiman, but my own insatiable spirit and my pride in tatters– that i will spend the rest, not of my life, but of yours, making you celebrate this decision. even beyond my death. for death is worth nothing if it isn't your tears that weep for it.”

tears fell down your face the same way they fall from a watered leaf: in silence, without haste, illuminating the surface.

“soldier gojo…”

“if you haven't imagined it, if there isn't even a glimmer of affection for me, i will withdraw, and you won't have to remember this disfigured face. my name won't haunt you even when unconsciousness surfaces in your dreams. but tell me, because i need to know before i cross those gates if i’ll have the strength to end this absurd fight, or if i’ll have to forge myself from a steel other than my illusions.”

the prickling in your throat stung. the answer had been there since your bandages first healed his cracked skin, since the stories and songs lulled his misfortunes, since complicity had moved in without permission.

“i want you, soldier. of that, i do not waver. just as i do not waver in knowing the only drastic measures we’ll take in the aftermath will be deciding which flowers to plant.”

“then it is enough, nurse. i will send you a letter when the danger has passed and our horizon has cleared. we will have a farm and ten cows, or if you ask it of me, we will have an entire village for our children. but wait for me, because i will come back for you, and the next time we meet, it will be so you can become my wife.”

a single, slow nod was your only response –a small gesture, yet it carried the weight of a thousand lifetimes. the unyielding certainty that they had found one another in every life before this one, and would do so in every life to follow.

nurse ieri watched from the shadows with a gaze that had softened into something like reverence; patients, those broken witnesses of history, watched too, sensing that for the first time in these desperate times, life was winning.

your eyes met his one last time, and in that lingering silence, you consumed one another –drinking in the ghosts of who you were and the radiant, quiet promise of who you were meant to be. a silent vow that you would pray every night for his safe return, weaving your hopes into the darkness until they found their way to him.

-

the letter arrived in late 1946. it was a new beginning for the land of the rising sun... and for you as well.

[saetiate]

please eat enough and drink enough water and get enough sleep. this is so that you have enough energy. because we need you to be writing and drawing porn on the internet

[naomiiocha]

Gojo commission I did recently, had to put pants on him for this post booo 👎

[pillsatoru]

A FEVER YOU CANT SWEAT OUT - INTRODUCTION

synopsis ꩜ the cute emo boy from your college is completely enamored with you and your pretty outfits, so when he hears you and your shitty boyfriend finally broke up, he wastes no time in planning how to make you his.

pairing ˎˊ˗ emo! choso x girly! reader

warning / tags ⟢ fem! reader, MDNI 18+, this will be a bit angsty, yuki is ooc here, cheating, miscommunication, friends to lovers, inappropriate use of drum sticks, blowjobs, pussy eating, hair pulling, subby choso, yes he will whimper, fluff, tba… header art by @/arina_vah

series masterlist 〢 no the taglist isn’t open pls don’t ask

Club rush could count as Choso's favorite holiday. If it was a holiday.

What better way to kick off the school year other than joining the one and only music club that he's been leading for the past 2 years, right? Incoming freshmen or returning students could bond over instruments and emo culture.

"Yo, pass me that vinyl." Suguru pointed to the protected record. The table had been set up with music ranging from "Brand New Eyes" to "Pretty. Odd."

Choso handed it over to his friend carefully, watching as he sat it carefully up. Other students were putting up their booths as well. Some were under canopy tents to protect them from the summer sun.

"I'm fucking sweating like a pig." Choso rasped out, pinning his neck length hair up in two buns. "Told ya we should've bought a canopy."

"With what money, dude." Suguru took a step back, admiring their set up. "Where's Sukuna? He was supposed to print out the flyers an hour ago."

Just on cue, the pink haired boy reached the other two, papers in hand. "Got 'em." He held the papers up.

"How many did you print out?" Choso grabbed them from Sukuna's hand, seeing how the design came out.

"Couple dozen. When does this shit start? I got to pick up my brother from school today."

"Ain't he in high school? He can go on the bus." Suguru snatched a flyer from Choso's hand. "You didn't get them in color?!"

Sukuna frowned, slipping his box of cigarettes in his back pocket. "Hell nah. It was like a dollar extra."

"It's whatever," Choso interrupted. The last he needed was his two bandmates getting into an argument. "People are starting to come." Soon enough, a crowd began to form around the quad, students visiting the booths of interest.

You walked around with you low heels clicking on the ground. Definitely not the best choice of attire but it was you. A vintage Von Dutch purse was sat right on your shoulder, swinging with every step.

"Whatever happened to the fashion club?" You asked between chewing your bubble gum. Shoko lifted her head from her phone, confused at your question. "Girl, you made them disband. Remember?"

You let out an 'ohhh' as if you found out mind blowing news.

"Not my fault they were so poorly uneducated on Vivienne Westwood. Did they seriously have the audacity to ignore the fact that she was punk? What the hell were they on about saying that the brand was for clean girlies? Ummm hellooooo?" You raised a brow that was recently threaded.

"Right.. anyways." Shoko looked around, eyes setting on the medical club. "I'll be right back, I have to go sign up."

You nodded, blowing a goodbye kiss.

There weren't any new organizations this year that you know of other than the one your ex boyfriend was apart of. The sight of him just made you want to role your eyes.

The asshole had broken up with you over text and is going around saying you were the one who broke up with him.

Like, who the hell even does that?

You pushed yourself deeper into the crowd, making your way towards the heart of the quad.

"Music club is over here guys!" Choso yelled out as he handed people flyers. "We will be meeting on the second Monday of every month. Feel free to recommend us to your friends!"

Usually, you'd ignore anything that has to do with music. Not your forte.

But the washed out print on his shirt caught your eye.

A Fever You Can't Sweat Out.

That's the album you listened to non stop in your high school years. Your iPod was full with every version of it. The original, the demos, and even Live in Denver.

You listened to it so ofter that it burned onto the screen.

"Cool shirt." The words slipped from your mouth, surprising both you and Choso.

Because no way was a girl like you complimenting a boy like him. And over his shirt out of all things. "Uh, thanks." He stuttered, a crooked smile creeping on his lips.

He darted down to the papers in his hands, offering one to you.

You hesitated before accepting it. "Music club?"

Choso nodded. "Yeah, we mostly focus on emo music to be honest but we're always open to do other genres." God was he sweating? It felt like he was. Have you noticed? "You a Panic fan?"

You hummed, skimming through the small summary of the club. "Not really, just of that album. Well not anymore but high school me."

"No way. I mean, um, you have a favorite song?"

"I guess I liked Camisado."

"Oh shit, I love that one." Choso's eyes brightened. "You know the story behind it?"

You snorted. "Duh."

The way you spoke was soft and pretty to him, it made his heart beat like a teenagers.

"I'm Choso.." He mumbled.

"Hi Choso." You smiled up at him, exchanging your name as well. "I'll try and come."

He nodded, gulping. "We'll see you then.." His eyes stayed on your frame as you disappeared almost in a trance at the sway of your hips. "Suguru." He hit his friends' chest. "Fuck did you see that?"

"See what?"

"The goddess that just came up to me."

"Is the heat getting to you man?" Suguru pressed his hand on Choso's forehead, feeling the thin layer of sweat before hurling away in disgust.

"Surprised you didn't scare her away."

Choso smacked his shoulder playfully, returning back to distributing the flyers like the local newspaper. That dorky smile still evident on his face.

That was yesterday though.

And Choso hasn't shut up about you since.

"Do you think she'll actually show up to the meetings?" He ran the brush through his hair, undoing any knots made while sleeping. His broad chest was bare, showcasing all his tattoos. And not to mention the nipple piercings.

Sukuna groaned along with Suguru. "Bro, let it go already. Just cause she spoke to you for less than a minute-"

"It was over a minute, actually." Choso corrected.

"It doesn't matter. No offense man, but you're not her type. She dated Toji and they recently broke up. Doubt that she's already trying to get into another relationship."

Suguru yawned, standing up to grab another beef from the mini fridge.

"But ay, maybe you can change her."

A sigh fell from Choso's lips, feeling all of a sudden unmotivated. "She's so pretty."

"What would you even do if she did end up showing up? Woo her with your guitar skills?"

Choso paused.

"I mean.. yeah?"

Another collective groan escaped from the other two.

a/n - short chapter to start things off ! the rest of the chapters are gonna be longer lolz

[yayamrata]

[surethingmoto]

OH MY FUCKING GODDDDD (@neverrisa on titkok)

[someonenamedray]

@sweethearticism have some nerdjo and fratjo as a compensation for people being mean to you my queen 🛐🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

[sweethearticism]

THANK YOU MY BABBBYYYY THIS IS SO <3

[martinflms]

HOW TO LOSE AN IDOL IN 10 SHOWS — martin edwards.

SYNOPSIS. ever since martin’s debut, he’s been touted as a master of fanservice, but he's got something to prove: that his flirting does work on anyone. meanwhile, you desperately want to turn your internship at stereo into a full-time job. the best way to do that is by writing something so eye-catching to the point where your boss will have no choice but to keep you on: an article on dating and losing an idol. so when martin spots you at their comeback showcase, the scene is set. he’s going to make you fall in love with him in 10 shows. you're going to make him dump you in that same timeframe. you’ve got your agenda. he’s got his. game on. 

or alternatively, the question: “Does Martin know how to flirt??” is answered. 

GENRE. crack, fluff, angst, idol! martin, inspired by 'how to lose a guy in 10 days'

WORD COUNT. 20.2k (I'M SORRY I CAN'T HELP IT)

WARNINGS. swearing, mentions of drinking (james is drunk), questionable journalism practices for plot (as a journalist, i do NOT endorse what y/n is doing), reader is the same age as martin and is implied to be shorter

AUTHOR'S NOTE. yes this was inspired by seonghyeon's weverse reply. Does Martin know how to flirt?? enjoy this cheeky long fic as a gift to u all bcos i'm going to be working a bit so may b a bit more ia :p really loved this and i don't want to keep u guys waiting so i'm dropping it with no teaser. i hope yall like this!! <3

feedback and reblogs are much appreciated! <3

“Eom Seonghyeon, what the hell is this?” 

Martin Edwards storms into his dorm room, holding his phone up. His brows are furrowed in mock anger as Seonghyeon peers at his screen from his spot on the bed. 

“Wait, I can’t read it. I’m also too lazy to get up. Can you read it to me?” Seonghyeon’s buried under his blankets, head resting on his pillow as he squints at Martin’s screen.

Keonho, who’s lazily sprawled across his own bed, looks up from his phone to listen in on the conversation. Knowing him, Keonho’s probably watching some funny dog videos or going through his album of Cookie photos. 

“What the hell do you mean by ‘does Martin know how to flirt?’ I have to find out that you think I have zero game from a Weverse reply?” he exclaims, exasperated. Seonghyeon and Keonho both explode into a fit of laughter, and Martin simply stands there, unamused. 

Seonghyeon’s words ring heavy in Martin’s ears – look, although Martin hadn’t dated before, he does think he can flirt. He’s seen the discourse online.

Sure, was it a little corny sometimes? Yeah… a little. But most of the fans were eating it up, and Martin was more than happy to oblige if it meant that he would be making a little bit more money. Money didn’t fall from trees, and those clothes that Martin’s been eyeing for ages weren’t going to pay for themselves. 

“What?” Seonghyeon asks, laughing as he hugs his pillow a little tighter. “Come on, the fanservice barely counts. I know everyone’s been saying that you’re a fanservice king, but they're all basically in love with you anyways!” 

“Us,” Keonho pipes up. “They’re not only in love with Martin hyung. Also, you’re right – Martin, do you really know how to flirt?” 

Martin narrows his eyes at Keonho. “I think I know what you’re insinuating, and I don’t like it.” 

Seonghyeon and Keonho’s loud laughter somehow summon both James and Juhoon in the room, and Martin’s already preparing himself to become the laughing stock for the next 30 minutes. The life of a leader, he thinks. It's truly so difficult. 

It also wasn’t like Martin didn’t want love. He wanted it more than anything – he just didn’t exactly have the time for it right now, like most idols. He had so much to do every single day, from dance practices, to music shows, to producing music. Martin Edwards, despite having so much love to give, simply didn’t have time to do so. 

“James hyung, Juhoon hyung – do you think Martin can flirt?” 

James snorts. Juhoon makes a noise that’s a mix of a strangled laugh and a cough. At their reactions, Keonho laughs so hard his pillow falls right off his bed. 

Martin groans, turning his phone off and shoving it back into the pocket of his sweatpants. 

“I rest my case,” Seonghyeon says, grinning triumphantly. 

“I can flirt!” Martin says, defensively. He doesn’t know why he’s arguing so passionately for this – it wasn’t even that big of a deal. "Trust me, my flirting works on anyone."

He crosses his arms, letting out a deep breath as Seonghyeon lets out another laugh. He knows that the younger boy isn’t being malicious – they were just teasing each other like usual. 

"Anyone is a bit brave, Martin." Juhoon jokes. Martin rolls his eyes.

“Okay, Mr. Confident. Let’s see if you can make someone – a non-fan, by the way – fall for you before promotions end here in Korea,” James says, jokingly. But Martin can see the gears turning in Keonho’s head before that shit-eating smirk spreads across his lips. 

“James hyung, you’re a genius!” Keonho says, jumping up from his bed. “That’s 10 shows. Martin, if you get a girl to fall in love with you in 10 shows, we’ll officially say that you can flirt.” 

Martin furrows his brows. “That’s all I get out of it?” he frowns. “Seems like a pretty bad trade-off for something so risky, considering that we’re… idols?” 

“Fine. We’ll say that you can flirt, and Seonghyeon will pay for all your clothes the next time you buy something.” Keonho says, and Seonghyeon suddenly gets up from his bed. He looks at Keonho, shaking his head. 

“Me? You’re the one doing the bargaining, you pay!” Seonghyeon protests, and Keonho rolls his eyes. 

“Okay, new proposal. We all pay for your next shopping haul and we say that you can flirt. We’ll all chip in an equal amount so it’s fair, and so Hyeon can stop complaining,” Keonho grumbles. Seonghyeon sighs, nodding as he gives in to Keonho’s bargain. 

“Works for me,” James replies, putting his hands up. “I for one, don’t think I’m gonna lose any money.” 

“Oh, don’t be so confident,” Martin scoffs. Wow, his friends really had zero belief in him. It really made him all the more determined to prove them wrong. “You guys are so losing your money.” 

Keonho looks at Juhoon, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Juhoon hyung… you’re the only one left,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Come on, it’s not even going to be that hard. It's easy money, let's go.” 

“10 shows is still technically a lot, you know. It’s three weeks,” Juhoon hums, thinking it through. “Three weeks… well, Martin needs all the help he can get. Yeah, whatever – I’m in.”

“Juhoon!” Martin exclaims. 

The boy looks at him, shrugging. “I’m sorry! I’m just too curious to see how this will pan out – we need a little bit of excitement in our lives! Performing is exciting enough, but this is like a whole new level. I’m going to be entertained for weeks.” 

Juhoon drags the last word out, and Martin sighs. The air is thick with anticipation as the four of them look at Martin expectantly. 

Honestly, getting all his clothes paid for by his friends wasn’t exactly a bad trade-off. He’s just going to make sure to throw in a couple more expensive things in there for some payback before he officially starts the bet. And the girl would surely understand that dating an idol was difficult, and if it ended a little earlier… that was sort of to be expected, right? In three weeks he would be going to New York City anyways. No harm, no foul? 

“Fine,” Martin groans in exasperation, giving in. “Let’s see where this goes.” 

Keonho pumps a fist in the air triumphantly, and Martin rolls his eyes. “Okay, and if you don’t get a girl to fall in love with you in 10 shows… you pay for our clothes. And publicly say that you’re shit at flirting and have zero game.” 

“One piece of expensive clothing each. You’re four people, I’m one. If I paid for all of your clothes, I think I’d probably go broke.” Martin shoots back. Keonho shrugs, seemingly deeming it reasonable enough. 

“It’s a deal,” Keonho says, holding his hand out for Martin to shake. Martin does, albeit a little reluctantly. What the hell did he just get himself into? 

The room erupts into cheers so loud Martin thinks he’s suddenly transported back to MAMA. 

Seonghyeon’s already immediately searching for a new pair of shoes that he wants to buy. James has rushed back into his room to grab his phone to go on Gentle Monster to see which pair of glasses will suit him. Juhoon’s already pulling up photos of this jacket that he’s been talking about for ages. Keonho makes it a big show out of telling Martin the price of this bracelet that he wants. 

At their antics, there’s a fire lit up in the pit of Martin’s stomach. 

He was going to win this bet. Even if it was stupid. 

Your internship at Stereo is about to come to an end. 

You’re distraught. Most people would love for their internships to end – no more shitty coffee from the 10-year old dispenser that someone brought in as an ‘office gift’, no more tapping away at a dim-lit cubicle, and no more measly half-assed articles to write that are assigned haphazardly. But you’re not most people. 

Being a journalist at Stereo is your dream job. You get to write about the music that you love, review new albums, and you get exclusive perks and invites to music award shows every single week. You’ve been interning at Stereo for one and a half months now, and in just two weeks, you’re just going to be a high schooler in your final year. 

You’ve heard stories of Jisoo, your boss, giving an offer for a full-time job to interns before. You desperately want to be one of those people. 

You’ve heard her complaints behind closed doors about how Stereo’s latest content was becoming a little drab and boring, and that Stereo wasn't getting enough clicks online anymore. The most reads the publication had gotten recently was a review on Taylor Swift’s new album, but come on – it was Taylor Swift. 

You needed to find a way to write the most eye-catching, niche and exclusive article that the music world had ever seen. That way, Jisoo had to give you the job. 

Yoonchae, another intern who you’ve befriended, rolls her chair over so she’s sitting next to you. She taps her nails on your desk to get your attention. “So… last two weeks. How are you feeling?” 

Yoonchae started around the same time as you, but unlike you, Yoonchae wanted to get the hell out. She was tired of writing the weekly ‘Songs You Need To Know’ article. “I’m a gatekeeper,” she had said. “I don’t want people discovering the artists I like!” 

“Stressed,” you sigh, taking a sip out of your mug. “I’m trying to rack my brain to figure out how to write something so… fresh, I guess. Something that no other publication will be able to write.” 

Yoonchae raises a brow. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with keeping this job, (Name). What we’ve been writing really isn’t that interesting, is it? I just had to review some album from a rookie group that I don’t think anyone’s heard of yet,” Her voice drops low into a whisper. “It was like nails on a chalkboard. I threw away that pair of company-provided earphones because the memories of listening to it were so traumatic.”

You look at Yoonchae like she’s insane before diverting your eyes back to your laptop screen. You’ve just finished a review on ILLIT’s new album – you skim through your article, making sure that there’s no spelling mistakes or other errors before sending it to Lily, the in-house copy editor. 

“I love it though,” you say honestly. “I love music, I love writing about it – plus, Stereo’s the best place to get off the ground running if you want to work in this industry. I was at ILLIT’s comeback showcase literally last week – do you know how many people would die to have this opportunity?”

“I have to get that job offer from Jisoo.” Your voice is laced with determination, and despite Yoonchae not understanding why in the world you’d want to stay, she gives you a nod in support. 

In the cubicle across, you hear a loud noise from another intern – you can’t tell if it’s a screech or a wail, or something in between. You and Yoonchae’s eyes snap towards the direction of the noise. It’s Yuna, and she looks towards you two with absolutely zero shame on her face, even if the entire office was startled by the sound. 

“It’s my favourite idol! He’s dating someone! How could he?” She’s saying it like it’s the end of the world.

You’re looking at Yuna like she’s insane. You can’t tell if she’s being serious or not, and you blink at her. “Um… are you okay?” 

Suddenly, her demeanour changes, and she smiles brightly at you. “Yeah! I was literally just being dramatic, I couldn’t care less,” she says, and you let out a sigh of relief. You didn’t really want to be working with someone who was so incredibly parasocial over some guy who barely knew her. “It’s just crazy how he even has the time with how busy his schedules are.” 

You hear the sound of heels clacking on the marble floor, and your eyes widen. It must be Jisoo. 

“Was that you?” Jisoo asks, pointing at you. “The one who screeched?” 

“Oh,” you stammer. “No, Jisoo – it was Yuna.” You felt bad for throwing her under the bus, but you weren’t going to lie to Jisoo and take the fall. Jisoo's eyes divert towards Yuna, who gulps. 

“What happened?” she asks. Jisoo doesn’t sound like she really cares. She does have better things to be doing than partaking in conversations with interns who she probably won’t remember the names of in two weeks. 

“Oh, just some… idol… dating,” Yuna says, acting like she doesn’t care at all. It’s hard for her to pretend that she doesn’t when a photo of said idol in question is in a picture frame sitting on her desk. “Maybe we should report on it briefly, or something…” 

Jisoo takes in a sharp breath, sucking her teeth. You can hear the disapproval just from the noise, as if she’s already prepared to get rid of you three. “Alright. Get back to work.” 

You turn your head quickly back to your laptop, not wanting to be berated by Jisoo. The disapproving tone was already enough, and you feel embarrassed under her gaze. You click onto your calendar to see what you’ve got going on next week. You’ve got two comeback showcases to attend with Yoonchae – IVE and CORTIS, along with a couple of music shows. You pencil them in your notebook, along with the words ‘remind Yoonchae to bring the camera!’ 

“You know,” Yoonchae hums. “Speaking of dating idols, I do wanna know what it must be like to date one. It’s like Yuna said – they’ve always got so much going on, how would they have the time? Hey, maybe you should write an article on this.” Her words aren’t meant to be serious, but you take it as such. 

You can hear your pulse in your ears as your brain processes what Yoonchae has said. She’s tapping away at her laptop like she hadn’t just pitched the most amazing idea in the world. 

“Wait,” you pipe up, dropping your pencil on the desk. It clanks to the ground, and you don’t even bother picking it up. Your eyes snapping up from your notebook to look at her. “You’re onto something.” 

Yoonchae’s idea, if put into action, would give you an inside scoop that no journalist had ever had access to before – even if you were cordially invited to the shows and showcases of every group on the planet. Everybody wanted to know what it was like to date an idol, there was no doubt about that. 

If you turned this into a piece, you knew it would tick all the boxes. Exclusive? Check. Daring? Check. Eye-catching? Check. Three big fat checks. It was perfect.  

This… this was exactly the pitch that would land you a full-time job at Stereo. For someone who said they hated working in the news publishing industry, Yoonchae had just given you a golden ticket to a full-time job at Stereo. You’re just upset that you hadn’t come up with it first.

“What it’s like to date an idol,” you hum under your breath as you brainstorm, drumming your fingers on your desk. “Sure, it may be gossipy and scandalous, but Jisoo was saying that we’re not getting enough clicks, right? And after… I don’t know. 10 shows, maybe? I could just… dump him. Or find a way for him to dump me.” 

You say that so casually, and you wince when you’ve realised what you’ve said. You’ve never been one to be a heartbreaker, or one to get into casual relationships with an ulterior motive, but you really wanted this job. 

Finding someone to even be able to “date” for this article would probably be difficult. And once you got them to fall in love with you, getting them to dump you would likely be easy. Idols barely had time for relationships anyways, right? You wouldn’t necessarily be heartbroken at the prospect of losing him, because you had a job to do, and he wouldn’t really care that much. No harm, no foul. 

“That’s brilliant,” Jisoo breathes out. “That’s absolutely brilliant.” 

You thought she had gone back to her office by now. Your head snaps to look at her, fear evident in your eyes until her words register in your brain. Jisoo had just said the idea was brilliant. Your heart is beating so incredibly fast you think it might jump out of your chest. 

“Write it,” Jisoo says, and her lips quirk up into a smile. It’s like she can see the thousands, if not millions of views that your piece will bring in to Stereo already. 

“If you can, of course. You’ve got two weeks left here, but I’m more than happy to extend your internship if you need more time to work on the article. And if it goes well…” she trails off, and you swear that if you could read her mind right now, you’re sure she’s about to say something along the lines of: you have a place here permanently. 

You look at her, bright-eyed and with determination. “Of course, Jisoo. I’ll get right to it,” you stammer. Jisoo nods at you approvingly before she walks back to her office, heels clicking on the floor with a certain enthusiasm that wasn’t there before. She’s excited about your article. Your boss – the one who was notoriously difficult to appease, was happy with an article pitch of yours. Well, Yoonchae gave you the idea, but technically, you’d be the one to flesh it out. 

Yoonchae looks at you, eyes wide with a look of bewilderment. “What… what have you gotten yourself into?” she asks, her tone laced with disbelief. She wheels her chair over to you, grabbing onto your shoulders and shaking you. 

“How… How the hell are you going to go bag an idol in the two weeks that we have here? Are you crazy?” she hisses, and the realisation of how difficult your task was actually sinks in. Thinking about it was fine and seemed easy enough, but now… now you actually had to do something. 

“I… I’m going to figure something out, Yoonchae,” you say. “I have to.” 

You wanted this job. You were going to make it work. 

Jisoo would get that article, and it's going to be the best article that she’s ever read in her life. 

The CORTIS comeback showcase is buzzing with people. 

You scan your media pass at the entrance and wait at the side before Yoonchae comes through. You’ve got your notebook, pens and laptops in your bag, and the two of you head towards your designated seats at the front. 

The plastic chairs are arranged in an orderly fashion, with yours and Yoonchae’s names printed out on paper and stuck to the chair to tell you where you both will be sitting. Much to your delight, you two are seated in the front row. 

When the two of you sit down, you pull out your laptop, setting it on top of your lap. It’s been three days since you told Jisoo that you’d be writing that article, and as the days have gone by, you think you might’ve been a little too confident.

Music Bank was at the end of the week, and you think that you probably have your best shot there, but waiting was making you incredibly nervous. You didn’t want Jisoo to scrap the idea before you even started. 

“So… found an idol to date yet?” Yoonchae almost reads your mind, and you groan as you open up your notes app. You click to the note titled ‘CORTIS comeback’, and all the questions that you have prepared pop up right in front of you. 

“No, I haven’t,” you sigh, tapping your foot on the ground. “Thank you for reminding me, Yoonchae.” 

Yoonchae smiles with amusement, as if she’s somewhat entertained by the predicament that you’ve put yourself into. You groan as you think about the article once again, and you scan through your options. You really could only take your pick from some 4th gen groups and the 5th gen groups. 

This assignment was way easier in your head. The dating and dumping part was easy. The part where you had to get an idol to want to get to know you enough to move on to the dating stage was the hard bit. 

Backstage, Martin peeks behind the curtains to get a good glimpse of the crowd. Although their new album just released today, Keonho just had to remind him of the bet as they were getting dressed. 

Now, Martin has to actually find someone to make them fall hopelessly in love with him. Keonho had been ever so gracious to say that the comeback showcase didn’t technically count as a show, so in reality, Martin kind of had 11 shows. One more show couldn’t possibly make much of a difference, but 11 was a little less daunting than 10. 

So now, he's searching amongst the crowd to see if he can find someone who he thinks would help him win the bet.

Keonho joins him, and it's like he can read Martin's mind, because he instinctively does the same. “Okay, let’s see. Which girl…” he hums. His eyes are scanning the crowd with hawk-like concentration. 

“Okay, what about her?” Keonho says, motioning towards a brunette girl sitting in the second row. 

“No,” Martin replies quickly, shaking his head. “Looks like she’d ghost me, but tell all her friends that we dated for a month.” 

“Hard to argue with that,” Keonho replies. Seonghyeon catches wind of what’s going on and decides to join the two of them. Seonghyeon’s eyes land on a girl sitting not far away from the brunette, and she’s got dyed pink hair. He tilts his chin towards her. 

“Her?” Seonghyeon proposes.

“Nope,” Martin says. “Feel like she’d ask me if I can give her BTS’ phone number. Which I also wish I had.”

“Fine,” Keonho says, and his eyes land on Yoonchae. “What about her?” He gestures towards her, but Martin’s eyes land on you. 

You’re typing away at your laptop with determined focus, and Martin doesn’t know why he finds it so intriguing. You’ve got one earphone in your ear, the other dangling as you talk to Yoonchae. You’re wearing a striped zip-up jacket and jeans – you’re not trying to be noticed at all, but it makes you stand out even more to Martin. You’re sitting in the front row with a media pass around your neck, so Martin knows that you’re definitely not a fan. 

That checks the box. 

For him to actually win the bet, he should’ve made it easy for himself. But there’s something about you that makes Martin want to actually get to know you better. And truthfully, he did like a challenge.

Keonho notices how Martin’s gone silent. He’s looking in the direction that Keonho had originally pointed towards, but he sees that Martin’s looking at you, rather than Yoonchae. “Ah,” Keonho hums. “The one sitting next to her’s caught your eye.” 

“Sure,” Martin replies casually. “You could say that. You said any non-fan, right? She fits the bill.” 

“Alright, Martin hyung,” Keonho grins in amusement. “10 shows. It’s all you’ve got to make her fall in love with you.” 

“That's all I need,” Martin replies. 

Martin prays he’s right.

The comeback showcase goes well. 

You enjoy the music a lot – you liked CORTIS’ debut album anyways, so you weren’t really surprised that they had released something good again. Their stage presence was always insane from the videos you’ve watched online, and witnessing it in person was no different. 

However, you did seem to notice one of the members’ – Martin’s – eyes on you a little too often. You also had a hunch that perhaps they had talked about you, because whenever there was someone asking a question from your direction, Keonho would elbow Martin with a knowing smirk on his lips. 

“So, what was that?” Eight out of ten?” Yoonchae asks you as she begins to pack up her things. The fans have been told to leave by now, and the only people really left are media and industry professionals. You look at what you’ve written down, and you’ve practically given five stars to all of the songs. The lowest is a 4.5, and you’d like to think that you have a pretty high bar for greatness. 

“I mean… nine?” you hum. “There’s always room for improvement, right?” 

“High praises,” you hear a voice that’s not Yoonchae interrupting your conversation. It’s also a voice that you’ve heard far too many times tonight. You turn to look at the stranger, and you meet eyes with none other than the Martin Edwards. “It means a lot. Thank you.” 

Yoonchae opens and closes her mouth like a fish, stunned at Martin’s sudden presence. But then she remembers something the same time you do – the article. She purposely moves to stand behind him, mouthing at you: ‘he’s the one!’

You know Martin Edwards is exactly who he thinks he is. 6 '3, gorgeous dyed blonde hair, impeccable music-making skills and the coolest fashion sense in the industry right now. If you hadn’t seen more of him on your social media, you’d be genuinely a little intimidated by him.

But you know that he’s a sweet guy. He’s also a little bit of a goofball too – loud, likes making his friends laugh, and often gives in to a little too much of his fans’ requests. The fan call videos were certainly something, and you’re really wondering how much he gets paid to tell someone else ‘I love you, you’re my girlfriend.’ 

He’s still in his clothes from the showcase – silver jewellery hangs around his neck, with three rings on each finger. You observe his features for perhaps maybe a little too long, and his lips curl up in the slightest hint of a smirk.  

Yoonchae clears her throat, giving you a wink. “So, I’m gonna go grab something for us at the convenience store nearby. (Name), I’ll be back in about 15 minutes.” 

Before you can protest, she’s already darted off. You curse under your breath before looking back at Martin, who’s eyeing you with a mischievous glint in his eye. You can’t quite place your finger on why that is, but maybe he caught you staring. 

“So… (Name),” he says. His voice is smooth, and his name rolls off your tongue like he’s testing the waters. There’s a certain cadence in his tone that sends butterflies straight to your stomach. “I’m glad you liked the album. We worked hard on it.” 

“I’m sure you did,” you beam. “Do you go thanking every member of the media after the showcase?” 

Martin’s airy laughter rings through the air, and his smile grows even wider. “Oh, no,” he says breezily, waving you off. “Just the pretty ones.” 

You’re knocked off your feet for just a split second. Was Martin Edwards flirting with you? And was it… dare you say… working? 

And suddenly, the article doesn’t feel so difficult anymore. With Martin Edwards standing right in front of you, you realise that you have the perfect candidate. 

His group was still new on the scene, but everybody wanted to get to know CORTIS just a little bit better. Your article would do that. Even if fans said that Martin was practically an open book, the boy standing in front of you now wasn’t necessarily the one you saw on stage mere minutes ago. 

Sure, he was still confident and assured. But there was the slightest difference in the way he carried himself – a little less guarded, a little less… idol-like. Perhaps it was the flirting, honestly. 

You come to your senses, quirking a brow at him. “Oh, so you think I’m pretty?” 

The air is electric, and usually you’d be nervous, but just this once, you think that it’s perfect. Martin’s grin somehow grows wider before he nods. 

“I do,” he hums. “Thought I said that before. And if my eyes didn’t deceive me just before your friend scurried off… you might’ve been staring at my face for just a smidge too long.” 

Your cheeks heat up. “I… I was not!” 

Martin lets out another laugh, clearly amused at how flustered you were. “I’m just teasing,” he replies. “Regardless, it’s not often I see someone working in the media that’s around the same age as us. And as I’m saying this, I’m hoping that you’re in your last year of high school.”

You nod at his words. “I am,” you reply. “Same age as you.” 

“Perfect,” he grins. “I’m glad I was right, or I would’ve embarrassed myself coming up to you.” 

“Right,” you chuckle. “So… any other pretty members of the media you want to thank?” you look around, and the exhibition hall is just about empty. Martin shakes his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “Just you.” 

“Way to make a girl feel special, Edwards,” you quip. Martin ignores how his heart flutters when you simply just call him by his last name. “What's the phone for? A selfie? Just a reminder that you're the idol there."

"You're funny," Martin replies. There's sincerity in his tone. "But, I was hoping that perhaps I could get your number.” 

You look at him, your lips curling up into a smile. “Ah, you’ve beat me to it,” you pout, jutting out your bottom lip. “I was hoping that I’d be the one to make that move.” 

Your words are awfully confident, making you sound completely unfazed at Martin’s flirtatious words. But inside, you’re internally screaming. You’re trying to hide your nerves, and Martin’s gaze on you is not helping as your thumb carefully presses the keys on the screen.

“There we go,” you say, pressing the ‘save’ button. “You should text me. I’d love to hear from you.” 

“You would?” Martin asks, almost in disbelief. He can’t believe how well the flirting is going. Keonho, Juhoon, James and Seonghyeon would so be losing their money. 

“Of course,” you beam. Your eyes tilt towards the exit, and you see Yoonchae standing there. She’s not hurrying you, but you know that it’s time to go. “Listen, I’ve got to head back home, but… yeah. Text me, and let’s hang out.” 

“Are you asking me out?” Martin says, a coy smile on his lips. 

“Maybe I am,” you reply. Your eyes dart back to Yoonchae again, and a sudden wave of boldness makes you inch closer to him, pressing a chaste kiss to Martin’s cheek. You watch as his cheeks flush bright pink, and you can’t help but feel satisfied with yourself. Got him, you think. “I’ll see you around, Edwards.” 

Before Martin can say anything, you’ve already rushed off. He instinctively brings a hand to his cheek, and he smiles triumphantly. 

“Oh, you’re already falling in love with me,” he says to himself, a wide grin on his lips. 

Meanwhile, as you’re darting off to the car, a similar expression graces your lips. “I’m gonna make you wish you were dead,” you whisper.

Conversation with Martin is surprisingly easy. 

He texts you as soon as he gets back to the dorm, and you reply just as quickly. You shoot off flirtatious messages every other second like a seasoned professional, and Martin replies with just as much enthusiasm. You just know he’s probably cheesing behind the screen. You don’t notice how you’re grinning at your phone like an idiot, though.

Martin is incredibly flirtatious, like you’ve seen online. You really thought it was all just fan service, but it turns out, Martin did really act that way. You’ve earned a new nickname now, thanks to him – pretty. 

Minutes turn into hours, and sure enough, the two of you found yourself talking to each other until four in the morning. It’s not until you remind him that he’s got a schedule tomorrow and that you’ve got work, and then you two say goodnight. 

Martin gives you recommendations of his favourite songs, and you rate them just like you usually do for Stereo. You find that your music taste is surprisingly similar, and Martin just tells you that ‘perhaps it’s a sign that we’re meant to be.’ You smile a little too wide at that response, and your heart flutters in the slightest way. You reply with a ‘I think so’, and Martin beams seeing those words on his screen. 

You didn’t think that it was that easy to get Martin Edwards to fall in love with you, but honestly at this point, you think that you’ve got him absolutely whipped. 

For three days, you and Martin talk non-stop. Whenever you’ve got a break, and he’s got a break, the two of you are talking about anything remotely that interests you. Bailey, another colleague of yours, tells you that you seem awfully invested in this considering that it’s just an article assignment. 

On the fourth day, you head into work and find that there’s a tray of iced coffees on your desk. Yoonchae looks at you with a knowing grin as you pick up the sticky note, and sure enough, it’s Martin’s handwriting. 

Hi, pretty. For you and the team. – Edwards.

You fail to hide the smile that’s unconsciously crept up on your lips. When Yoonchae points it out, you just tell her to shut up. This was all for the article, you remind yourself. You weren’t really in love with Martin Edwards. You hand out the coffees, and when you give one to Jisoo, she raises an eyebrow. 

“Did you bring this in?” she asks, and you shake your head. 

“Martin from CORTIS did,” you say. There’s a coy lilt in your tone, and Jisoo seems to remember the article. She smiles at you proudly, and gives you a pat on the shoulder before taking a sip of the coffee. 

“Good work,” she beams. “Can’t wait to see the article.” 

She then walks off, heels clicking on the floor. Yoonchae clears her throat to catch your attention, and you look at her, taking a sip of the coffee that Martin had bought you. 

“So… what’s the plan to get him to dump you? Because… getting him whipped seemed pretty fucking easy. Like, this is three-month relationship stuff.” she says, gesturing to the coffee on her own table. Bailey, who's curiosity is piqued at the sound of Yoonchae's words, rolls her chair over to you to join in the conversation.

“I’m going to be entirely too much, too overbearing and too clingy to the point where he has to break up with me,” you say. Your plan is absolutely fool-proof. “They’re heading to New York in three weeks. Let’s get this done in the 10 shows they have in Korea.” 

Bailey hums, nodding at your words. “Okay, but like… do you have any specifics?” 

“Calm down,” you reply. “I don’t have to move that fast. We’ve known each other only for four days. No sane person is going to ask someone to be their girlfriend in four days.” 

“You have three weeks, (Name) – you better hurry up…” Yoonchae replies, her voice trailing off. “Maybe just a date? Tonight? You know how they’ve got to basically be in the middle of the night though, right – because cameras are everywhere. Your sleep schedule is going to be fucked when you’re dating Martin.” 

“Well, you didn’t have to put so much emphasis on the ‘fucked’,” you raise an eyebrow. “But yeah, a date sounds good. I’ll text him now.” 

you | 7:32am thanks for the coffee, edwards it was really sweet of you can i thank you with a date? 

martin edwards | 7:33am  ah, i was waiting for that text from you of course!  tomorrow? after you’re done with work?

you | 7:34am  sounds like a plan wear something nice

martin edwards | 7:34am i always do gonna step it up to impress you though can’t wait to see you, pretty

Yoonchae peers over your shoulder. “Don’t they have to go to Inkigayo tomorrow? How will you two have time to actually… go on a date?”

“Shoot, you’re right,” you reply. You quickly type out a message to Martin, your fingers flying over the screen. 

you | 7:35am you have inkigayo

martin edwards | 7:35am  ah. right date at inkigayo? you could be my plus one you’ll be there anyways right? as media?

you | 7:36am  first date at inkigayo is highly unorthodox  i’m in, though only because it’s you 

martin edwards | 7:37am i feel so special  sneaking around is gonna be awfully romantic i’ve got dance practice now and i’m sure you’ve got work talk soon pretty 

“Well… first date at Inkigayo,” you say, almost in disbelief. So this was what it was like to date an idol – music show dates, late-night dates, probably getting blown off because dance practice takes precedence. You note that down in your notebook, because you’re sure that it’ll be of use to you later. “That’s settled.” 

“I suppose it is,” Yoonchae says. She’s still in disbelief at the entire interaction – she was peering over your shoulder the entire time. “Also, you should probably change his contact name to something other than his full name. It’s not that romantic.” 

“I… ‘Chae, he’s not my real boyfriend,” you say, pointedly. “Heck, he hasn’t even asked me to be his girlfriend. Which actually reminds me, I have to get on that.” You do take her advice though, and change his name simply to ‘Edwards’ with an orange heart emoji. It’s plausible enough, considering that you do call him exclusively by his last name. 

“I must say… this is going surprisingly well,” Bailey hums. “Even though I know it’s really new. Just… don’t go falling in love with him, or something. That would ruin the entire thing.” 

You laugh, dismissing Bailey's words as if they were ludicrous. “Don’t worry,” you hum, your tone laced with a little too much confidence.

“I’m not going to actually fall in love with Martin Edwards.” 

For someone who’s allegedly not invested in this ‘relationship’ at all, you do spend an awfully long time picking out your outfit for Inkigayo tonight. 

CORTIS had a reputation for being incredibly fashionable – if you were going to be introduced as ‘Martin Edwards’ talking stage and to-be girlfriend’ tonight, you had to at least look the part. 

You opt for something so outrageously Martin-esque to the point where you look like you could genuinely be the sixth member of CORTIS. So much so, that any random staff member would probably think that you pulled it out of his closet. 

Members of the media were supposed to be unassuming, trying to avoid the public eye at all costs – but just for today, you were going to break that rule. Just based off of your outfit alone, you wanted it to be glaringly obvious that you were talking to Martin. 

You pull on these black, chunky boots that you haven’t worn in forever (you even have to blow the dust off of them) lacing them up with a smile on your lips. Martin Edwards was so going to freak out when he saw you. You could just envision it. 

Yoonchae looks at you oddly when you jump into the car – this was certainly not your style at all. “Okay, Martin’s girl. You might as well just dye your hair blonde too,” she quips. Usually you’d tell her to shut up, but that was exactly the reaction you were looking for.

edwards 🧡 | 6:23pm let me know when you’re here we’re in dressing room 103

you | 6:24pm im on my way see you 🧡🧡🧡

“You go find Martin,” Yoonchae tells you, a playful smile on her lips. “I’ll tell you where we’re seated for tonight’s performances… if you’ll even be joining me here.”

You laugh, waving goodbye to her before you go off and find dressing room 103. You see a bunch of staff members at Inkigayo give you odd looks. They saw you here last week too, and you most certainly were not dressed like this. A girl you’ve made conversation with a couple of times – her name was Yoojung – mouths ‘Martin fan?’ at you, and you simply give her a wide grin before disappearing down the corridor. 

You knock on dressing room 103, tapping your foot on the floor. Your mind runs through the plan – too overbearing, too clingy, too boisterous. You’re going to make Martin go insane. 

Martin opens the door, since he was expecting you anyways. But what he did not expect was for you to be dressed in clothes that seemed like they were pulled from his closet. He looks you up and down, mouth opening and closing as if he’s about to speak – but all the words he has to say become strangled in his throat. 

“Hey,” you say, trying to sound casual. You want him to think that no, this outfit did not take me forever. 

“You look…” Martin stutters. 

Time to pack on the dramatics, you think. “Gorgeous? Stunning? Beautiful?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him. “Tell me something I don’t know, Edwards.” 

Martin’s brain almost short-circuits. He’s still at a complete loss of words, and for a split second he thinks that Seonghyeon may be right – does he even know how to flirt? He’s trying to rack his brain for a compliment, or anything that makes it known that he thinks you look good. 

Keonho clears his throat, and it brings Martin back to his senses – the bet. Time for him to make you fall hopelessly in love and make you weak in the knees, he thinks. He instantly puts a smile on his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “All of those things.” 

“Next time though, if you wanted to dress like me, you should’ve just said so,” he adds. He hopes Seonghyeon’s listening – he was about to deliver a masterclass in flirting. “Just wear my actual clothes instead.” 

Your heart flutters a little too much at those words, and for a brief second, Martin thinks that he can see your confidence falter ever so slightly. Bingo, he thinks. Another win. 

“Oh, so that’s an invitation for me to just wear all your clothes, isn’t it?” you ask. “Moving fast, Edwards.” You peek behind him to see the other four boys watching the two of you talk with curiosity. Keonho’s eyes are practically sparkling. 

You raise your voice a little before you say your next sentence. “Mind you, you still haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend.”

You don’t know which member it is that hollers loudly hearing your words. Martin turns around so fast you think he’s going to snap his neck. He glares at the four of them, before diverting his attention back to you. 

This was going exceptionally well. Four days in, and you already wanted to be his girlfriend. Anyone who said that he didn’t have game was going to regret it. 

“Right,” he says, dragging out the word as a smile plays on his lips. “Let me introduce you to the members first, and then we’ll talk about that, pretty.” 

He opens the door a little wider to actually let you into the dressing room, and the four of them blink at you, stunned when they see your outfit. Your outfit was almost a carbon-copy of something that they think they’ve seen Martin wear before. Was it a little tacky to dress almost identical to your talking stage? Probably. But their reactions were golden, and you hope to God that Martin’s cheeks are heating up in embarrassment. 

“Guys, this is (Name),” Martin says, introducing you. You beam at the four of them just before lacing your fingers with Martin. The action comes out of nowhere, and Martin freezes for a split second before he closes his hand around yours. Your hand is warm, and Martin doesn't know why having your hand in his just feels oddly... right.

You swear Juhoon’s eyes pop out of his skull. Seonghyeon’s jaw practically drops. James puts his glasses back on to make sure that his eyes aren’t deceiving him. Keonho shrieks before falling to the floor dramatically. 

“I’m his…” your voice trails off. Suddenly, an idea pops into your brain. What did anyone in a talking stage hate the most? 

The dreaded ‘what are we?’ question. 

Martin would hate it even more if you asked that question right in front of his friends. It was perfect.

A devious grin threatens to creep up onto your lips before you turn to Martin. “What are we, exactly?” 

Seonghyeon chokes on his water while Juhoon has to suppress a laugh. Martin can’t believe you asked that question in front of everyone – you were impatient, alright. He was actually going to ask you to be his girlfriend, but in private. But considering your outfit choice today, perhaps you were someone who wanted to make your affection for him known. He knows that he should feel embarrassed, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. 

Four days is awfully fast to ask someone to be their girlfriend, but Martin wanted to win this bet. Badly. 

And the first step to actually make it known to his friends that he was going to win, was to loudly announce that you were his girlfriend. Martin can’t wait for Keonho to pay for those Rick Owens shoes that he’s been eyeing for ages. 

“She’s my girlfriend.” he says, a coy smile tugging at his lips.

The room practically explodes with questions, shouts and what you think are cheers. You weren’t exactly expecting this reaction from Martin, but it’s more than welcomed, considering the predicament that you’ve gotten yourself into. The first half of your job was done – you’ve gotten the idol. Now you just needed him to dump you. 

But for some odd reason, him telling everyone in the room that you were his girlfriend makes your chest tighten ever so slightly. You ignore the feeling, telling yourself that it’s just nerves. You’ll ease more into the role of annoying girlfriend as the days go on. 

You look at him, tilting your head with a small smile on your lips. “Didn’t even ask me,” you whisper in his ear. You hear Martin let out a light laugh amidst the chaos that those three words had created. 

“Isn’t that what you were hinting at me to do when you arrived at the door?” he replies, voice matching yours. Touché, you think. 

“Well,” you say, turning to face him. “That’s true. And I’m happy you did.” Your eyes quickly divert towards the four boys sitting on the couch – they’re still going on and on about how Martin actually has a girlfriend. They’re saying it as if they’re in disbelief that he’s actually with you. 

Believe it, you think. To really sell it, you dramatically plant a kiss on Martin’s cheek. You’re thanking yourself that you decided to wear lipstick that wasn’t transfer-proof today, and you can practically hear Keonho’s gasp. When you pull away, there it is – a glaringly obvious stain of your lips on the side of his cheek. 

“Oops,” you say, but Martin can tell you’re not really sorry about it at all. You bring a hand up to wipe the stain off, and Martin just shakes his head, gently clutching your wrist as if to tell you to leave it. 

“I’ll just use some makeup remover,” he replies, calmly. You’re surprised that Martin’s face isn’t heating up with embarrassment – maybe you just had to be even more dramatic than you already were. In fact, he was smiling like an idiot in love. Was he crazy? “Thanks for the good luck kiss, girlfriend.” 

It’s official. All Martin has to do is get you to stay with him until the end of the tenth show. All you have to do is get him to dump you before the tenth show. 

And as you squeeze Martin’s hand a little tighter before planting another overly obnoxious kiss on his cheek, you’re almost certain that you’re going to get that full-time job. 

Over the next week, Martin realises that first impressions are deceiving. 

You’re not who he thought you’d be when he first saw you at the comeback showcase – rather, you’re the complete opposite. Loud, boisterous, unrestrained. You’re overly sweet and romantic in a way that Martin thought only existed in rom-coms. It’s nice to be showered in love and affection, and Martin – despite his better judgment – allows his heart to flutter whenever you lean a little closer, or when his name rolls off your tongue like honey over the phone. 

You send him texts almost every single second now that you two are officially a couple (can he even call you his actual girlfriend when this was all a bet?). You also show up at almost every performance of theirs throughout the week. 

The members and the staff all get used to your presence rather quickly – it’s not surprising, considering that whenever you’re there, your presence somehow commands the entire room. Everyone’s eyes are on you, and he doesn’t know if he loves or hates the extra attention that you bring with you. In addition, Martin doesn’t even know how you have the time to basically cling to him like glue when you’ve got a full-time job. 

His phone pings again, and he already knows who it’s from. It’s you, sending him twenty messages in a row – each text is one word, and Martin would usually get a little frustrated, but it was you. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to actually get mad at you, which is the crazy part considering that this was all a bet. 

You send him four selfies of yourself sitting in the front row of the same exhibition centre where you guys had met. He’s admiring how pretty you look until he realises the article of clothing that you’re wearing is awfully familiar. It’s then when it hits him – you’re wearing his striped red and black zip-up hoodie. 

The one that he precisely wanted to wear today. 

Martin knows that the zip-up basically swallows you, because he’s seen you in his other clothes before. His heart does a flip at the thought. It’s just a bet, he reminds himself. 

You look pretty, he tells you. You respond almost immediately.

I know, is your response. Martin doesn’t realise how hard he’s grinning at his screen right now. 

Is that my jacket? he asks you. 

Your response? It’s mine now. 

His nostrils flare slightly at the fact that you’ve just claimed his favourite zip-up hoodie, but he relents and lets you have it anyway. You did look good in it, he had to admit. 

You practically demand his attention at all times, which is a little impossible considering his job. More often than not, whenever he’s practicing with the rest of the members, his phone would be buzzing so much to the point where it fell off the bench. Keonho only looks at him teasingly before Martin quickly shoots back a response to you, telling you that he’s got dance practice. 

You don’t seem to care, and you continue spamming him anyways. Despite this, Martin can’t seem to push you away. Or mute your contact. 

You’re sitting in the exhibition centre, confused as to why Martin hasn’t gone batshit crazy over the fact that you’ve taken his favourite zip-up without any warning. Keonho had warned you about how Martin didn’t like sharing his clothes. Perhaps you just had to take it a little further, then. 

So, a day later, Martin opens the door to his dorm to find you standing there. You hadn’t announced that you were coming, and Martin assumed that you had work anyways. What he didn’t know was that you’d asked Jisoo for some time off today to work on the article – it was going well, you had told her. At those words, Jisoo nodded, giving you time off without a single thought. 

“Hi?” Martin asks, stunned at the sight of you at his doorstep. 

“I thought you’d be a little happier to see me,” you pout, and Martin shakes his head. 

“No, no!” he says hastily. “I was just surprised to see you. Come on in,” he opens the door a little wider for you. You kick your shoes off at the door, and Martin winces a little when you just leave them there instead of putting it on the shoe rack. He decides to do it for you, like any good boyfriend would – placing your shoes next to a pair of his own sneakers. 

“Thank you, ‘Tinnie.” you beam, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Even though there’s nobody else there right now, you make it a big show and exaggerate every motion. You deliberately say ‘mwah’ when you pull away, admiring the lipstick print on Martin’s cheek. 

Oddly, Martin doesn’t wipe it off. Maybe he’s insane. Or maybe he’s just insanely whipped like Yoonchae said. 

“Tinnie is a new one,” he hums. “Finally moved on from calling me Edwards?”

You shake your head, bounding down the corridor like it’s your place rather than his. Martin follows you like a lost puppy. “Nope,” you reply, popping the ‘p’. “Just trying out something new. But, I wanted to grab some clothes.” 

Martin furrows his brows. “You want to go shopping?” he asks. “Sure, I’ll just go grab my coat.” 

You hold a hand out to stop him. “No, I want to wear some of your clothes,” you say like it’s the most casual thing in the world. It’s totally not like you two have only been dating for a week. “If that’s alright with you, of course?” 

Martin can’t say no to you. Not when he remembers how nice you looked in his striped zip-up. He nods reluctantly, and you squeal, dragging him towards his closet. 

You’re raiding Martin’s closet like it’s a department store sale. You’re grabbing hanger after hanger and asking him to hold onto them for you, and Martin can barely keep up. In five minutes, he’s somehow holding five of his own hoodies and three of his t-shirts, while you’re trying on another one of his zip-ups. 

You’re twirling around in it, looking at your own reflection in the mirror. You look at Martin for his approval, and he nods, giving you a thumbs up. “Looks great on you, pretty.” 

You really should be used to the compliments that Martin dishes out, but your cheeks heat up ever so slightly. Bailey’s voice rings in your head – don’t fall in love with him. You can’t believe you have to remind yourself. 

Seonghyeon walks in to grab a jacket, and he’s stunned at the scene. Martin’s got hoodies and shirts and jumpers draped over him as you pull out something else from his side of the closet. 

“What the…” he says, and Martin turns to look at him. 

“Hi,” Martin says. He can barely see. There’s a hoodie over his head, and he can’t bring his arm up to pull it off. “(Name) wanted some of my clothes.” Seonghyeon, who’s ever so kind, pulls the hoodie off Martin’s head. 

“Okay,” Seonghyeon giggles. “Have fun, you lovebirds.” Before he leaves, he mouths at Martin, 10 shows. Though your presence is awfully over-the-top, Seonghyeon doesn’t quite mind having you around. It was rather funny to witness yours and Martin’s dynamic. 

You take four more pieces of his clothing, and Martin helps you fold them all up neatly before placing them into a bag. “There you go,” he says, snaking an arm around your waist to pull you closer. “Happy?” 

“Very,” you giggle. You do feel a little guilty for stealing half his closet. “Thank you, ‘Tin. Do you want to watch a movie? I’ll let you pick, since I’ve taken so many of your clothes.” Though it was for an article, you weren’t a monster. You don’t realise how instinctively, you’ve leaned into his touch. 

Martin nods, grinning as he kisses your temple like he’s done this a million times before. It’s getting awfully easy for him to slip into the role of your boyfriend. “Sure,” he hums. “We can watch something on my laptop.” 

You curl up next to him on his bed, your head resting on his chest and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind playing on his laptop. Martin presses a kiss to the top of your head, his arms wrapped around you. 

This domesticity feels a little too natural. A little too real – like you two are actually two teenagers in love.

The slightest twinge of guilt pangs at your heart. You don't know it, but when the thought of the bet flashes through Martin's head, that same feeling strikes him in the chest too.

Martin’s eyes leave the screen for a split second to look at you, and he pushes the thought of the bet to the back of his head. 

His closet may be a little bit more empty now, but his heart feels the slightest bit more full.

“I think Martin is a lunatic.” you confess to Yoonchae at work one day. 

CORTIS had five more shows left in Korea before they were due to leave for New York City, and any logical person would have already broken up with you at this point.

But for some strange reason, Martin stayed. Not even just stayed – pulled you closer, even. He flirted with you more. Peppered your face with kisses. Proudly showed you off to his friends. 

He’s either insane, or he loves crazy girls. You don’t know which is worse. 

What you didn't know, of course, was that Martin was practically clinging on to this relationship for dear life. 10 shows, he reminds himself. He needed a girl to stay with him for three full weeks and to somehow put up with his insanely hectic schedule. Martin half-expected to barely see you, but you somehow managed to find a way to sneak into his life more often than not. It was welcomed, of course – he could show his friends that yes, he could flirt, and yes, an idol was able to date.

You were acting batshit crazy, and he still wanted you to be his girlfriend. Martin still hasn't dumped your ass, and that was absolutely shocking.

Idols were always busy, so you decided to do the very thing that all busy people hated: you spammed Martin all day. 

You sent him stupid TikToks, telling him to reply to each and every single one. You called him at random hours, sent him voice messages, and practically demanded his attention every single second. 

The crazy thing was, Martin would reply to every TikTok. He’d always pick up. He’d reply to every single voice message with his own, and you hated how you always smiled hearing his voice and his loud laugh through your headphones. 

You showed up unannounced to so many performances to the point where his manager would only sigh, and reluctantly let you in. You’ve embarrassed him by showering him with affection in front of quite literally everyone. You heard how Keonho tried – and failed – to hide a shriek when you made a big show of calling Martin ‘baby’ five minutes before they were due to head on stage. 

One night at his dorm, you’d even spent one whole hour asking the most basic questions about music production, forcing him to overexplain like he was teaching a toddler. You knew all the answers to the questions, but you’d asked them anyway just to rile him up. 

Martin thinks that for someone who’s working at Stereo, you should know. But regardless, he explains it all to you patiently, smiling like he’s glad that his girlfriend is actually interested in what he does – much to your dismay. 

Martin didn’t even bat an eye when you purposely stole all of his favourite clothes from his closet a few days ago. You’re sitting at your desk in the Stereo office, wearing Martin’s hoodie that is outrageously large on you. You’re shocked that he didn’t protest more, especially when you grabbed one of the expensive ones. Instead, he smiled, told you that you looked gorgeous, folded it up neatly and then gave it to you. 

You also realise that you don’t hate the affection that he showers you with. It feels quite nice, actually – to be cared for by Martin Edwards. 

But, this was truly not going well for your article. 

“Why is that?” Yoonchae asks. “Because he hasn’t dumped you?” 

“Yes!” you exclaim, as if it was the obvious answer. “He’s staying! Which is the crazy part! Idols don’t have time for this clingy, over-the-top nonsense, do they? So it’s either he’s insane, or he loves crazy girls.” 

“There’s another obvious answer,” Bailey chimes in, a smile playing on her lips. “He just likes you.” 

Bailey’s words hit you like a truck, and you ignore how your heart jumps at the thought. Martin Edwards likes you? You hate to say it, but that was truly… not implausible. But if Martin actually liked you – with all your craziness – surely, he had to be just the slightest bit insane. 

“I…” your cheeks heat up. “Okay.” you grumble, eyes diverting back to your laptop screen. You need to figure out a way to drive Martin absolutely up the wall – he had a strong resolve, there was no doubt about it. Something about music seemed right. 

Your eyes sparkle with delight when you remember that Martin said that he was going to be working on some music tonight in his studio. Something about recording some adlibs and some lines for their next album. Even while promoting music that was released recently, Martin was always working on something new. It was honestly incredibly admirable. 

So, you find yourself slumped on a chair next to Martin at 9:30 at night, watching as he works on a new song. There’s a microphone in front of his lips as he clips sections together with silent precision. His brows are furrowed in concentration, and you deem it the perfect time to enact your plan. 

“Tinnie,” you say, dragging out his name. He hums, acknowledging you, but his eyes don’t leave the screen. You nudge him gently, and he glances towards you. There’s a soft look in his eye, and a small smile graces his lips. “What do you think about this dog?” 

You show him a picture of this random white poodle that came up on your For You page. He squints at it, nodding. “It’s cute, baby. Why?” he asks, before his eyes divert back to his screen again. 

“I want a dog,” you say. “Let’s get a dog.” 

That catches Martin’s attention. “You want… us to get a dog?” he asks, in complete disbelief. You nod, and Martin’s eyes bug out of his skull. He can’t believe what you’ve just said. A dog was a big relationship commitment, right? 

Martin could barely take care of himself sometimes – how was he going to take care of a dog? And who was going to pay for the dog? He’d made enough money from the song royalties, but still. The proposal was a little insane. 

“That’s really sweet, baby – but we’ve only been dating for like a week,” he hums, hand gently caressing your shoulder. “And I don’t know how we’d even take care of it – would it live at your house? It can’t live in our dorm, you know.” 

You pout at his words. 

“I’m sorry. We can… go to a dog cafe, or something. I’ll take you sometime next week,” Martin looks at you sympathetically. Just give me a few minutes to work on this song, is that alright? I have to record some bits tonight, and then we can watch a movie.” 

You nod, letting out a small sigh. Martin thinks it’s because he lightly rejected your proposal for you two to get a dog. In reality, it was really because you can’t seem to figure out a way to get Martin to actually dump you. What normal person asks their boyfriend of one week to get a dog with them? 

Martin glances at you before he pulls up the lyrics of the song on his phone. He taps the record button, and just as he’s about to sing into the microphone, your voice cuts through the air. 

“Tinnie,” you pipe up, and Martin pauses the recording. He really wanted to get this song finished by tonight. You see the slightest hint of frustration on his face, and you do feel bad – but despite all your past attempts to get him to drive you away, nothing else seemed to work. 

“Hmm?” he asks. 

“Do you have any drinks?” you ask, and Martin nods, rolling his chair back so he can open the mini-fridge under the desk. He pulls out a can of Coke – he knows your favourite – cracking it open for you before sliding it over to you. 

“Thank you, Tinnie,” you beam. Martin thinks that seeing your smile is worth it, even if he did have to pause recording for a bit. Even if you sometimes did have awfully bad timing, he’s realising that he’s grown accustomed to your antics. “I’ll be quiet now.” 

“Okay,” he replies. “Thank you. I’ll be quick.”

You take a loud, dramatic sip of your drink just as Martin presses record. He pauses it again before turning to you, and this time, frustration is evident on his features. 

Guilt washes over you, and you realise that honestly, you didn’t really want Martin to get so mad at you to the point where he ended things. He looks tired, and you know it’s probably from a mix of hectic promotions, working on music and dealing with your incredibly annoying ass. 

Martin was too sweet for his own good, and you’re suddenly re-evaluating every little thing. You didn’t like seeing him upset, and you certainly didn’t want him to be upset at you.

You look at him sheepishly. “Sorry.” you wince, and Martin shakes his head, waving it off. 

“It’s okay.” he sighs, but exasperation is evident in his tone. He huffs, pressing the record button again.

This time, you don’t interrupt – and now you know why everyone in the industry calls him a musical genius. Martin’s working like a seasoned professional, putting in clips of his voice here and there. He presses play on the section that he was just working on, nodding in silent approval when he’s satisfied. 

You realise that you don’t want to drive him incredibly insane to the point where he can’t bear to see your face anymore. The article wasn’t going to write itself, but writing it meant that you had to hurt Martin. And looking at him now, and thinking about all of the times he had put up with you, you really didn’t want to hurt him. But you needed a way out.

The guilt is eating you alive as you sit there, making sure to quietly sip your drink. You think about every single moment you’ve shared with him for the last week, the flirting, the affection, the laughter – you don’t really want to let that go either. What were you going to do? This wasn’t supposed to be that complicated. You didn’t intend to actually catch feelings— 

Oh. 

Shit.

You might have feelings for him. 

Everything clicks into place right then and there. You like Martin Edwards. You make sure to say those words in your head so you don’t interrupt him, but those words settle in your chest like they actually belong there. 

Fuck. You did the one thing Bailey told you not to do. 

“Hey,” he says softly, snapping you out of your thoughts. You look up at him, and Martin doesn’t know why you’re looking at him a little differently. Your gaze is soft, warm, and filled with what Martin thinks – and he doesn’t realise, but hopes – might be love. He doesn’t think he’s seen this look in your eye before. “I’m done.” 

“Okay,” you say. Your voice is quieter than it’s ever been before. Martin’s slightly startled at the change. “Tin, I’m sorry.” 

Martin furrows his brows. “What for?” 

Everything, you want to say. “Interrupting you when you were working,” is what you say instead. Martin shakes his head, pulling you close in a hug. 

“It’s okay,” he replies. He presses a kiss to your cheek to comfort you, and you hate how much it works. “Don’t worry about it, baby.” 

You smile, albeit a little stiffly. “Movie?” you ask, pretending that everything is fine. Martin nods, gesturing to the couch situated at the back of the studio. 

You sit down on the couch, and Martin plops right down next to you, giving you a bright smile as he places his laptop on his lap. “What’d you wanna watch?” he asks, and you shrug, resting your cheek on his shoulder. 

“You pick,” you reply, and Martin nods. You lace your fingers with his, and he randomly clicks on a movie that he thinks Keonho had offhandedly mentioned was good before. He presses play before glancing at you to make sure you’re okay. 

Martin squeezes your hand a little tighter, just to let you know that he’s here. You hate that he’s far too good to you. 

You gulp, trying to ignore how the guilt is eating you alive. 

Then, you take a deep breath before pressing a chaste kiss to his shoulder, slipping into the role that you think you’ve gotten too good at playing. 

You have to end it with Martin. 

It’s what you realise is best for the both of you. You get your article, and he gets to rid himself of an annoying, overbearing girlfriend. You head into work with a little less enthusiasm, and Yoonchae can immediately tell. 

“What’s wrong?” Yoonchae asks, as you let out another loud sigh. Martin’s face is everywhere on your Instagram, and you hate that your lips instinctively tug into a smile at the sight of him. You were in love, damn it. 

“Nothing,” you reply. “The article’s just… a little harder than I thought.” You weren’t necessarily lying. Every word you typed out felt wrong. The bitter taste of guilt in the back of your mouth reminds you that you were technically a horrible person for inflicting psychological warfare on Martin Edwards, who couldn’t possibly hurt a fly. 

“Oh?” Yoonchae asks, surprised. “I thought it was going well with Martin.” 

“It is,” you mutter under your breath. “A little too well. He won’t end it with me. So I think I’m going to have to do it.” 

Bailey quirks a brow. “Oh, really? How are you going to do it?” 

“I don’t know,” you reply. “Maybe come up with some lame excuse saying that he doesn’t have time for us anymore, and it’s breaking my heart.” Bailey nods, giving you a look that indicates that it’s not that bad of an idea. 

You knew that Martin’s schedule was packed today – he had two variety shows to film and then Music Bank later. If anything, today was the perfect day to spam him and then complain about how you got no response. Then, you could use that as an excuse to break up. 

It was better to get it done early on before you both got too invested. Your heart does, however, twist at the thought of letting go. But it was for the better, you remind yourself. And you had an article to write. 

So, after one whole day of no responses from Martin like you’d planned, you find yourself standing outside the CORTIS dorm, rehearsing your words. You take a deep breath, telling yourself that you could do this. You could play the clingy, overbearing girlfriend role to perfection – this was the last time that you had to, hopefully. 

You knock, and you hear Martin’s voice. You fail to stop the smile spreading across your lips. 

When he opens the door, he instantly beams when he sees you. “Hi, baby!” He moves to wrap his arms around you in a hug, and for a split second, you nearly let him – until you remember that you’re going to break up with him. 

“I can’t believe you,” You slip into your role, sniffling to show how heartbroken you were. “I sent you messages all day and you didn’t reply to me! It’s like I don’t matter to you anymore.” 

Martin steps back in horror. Shit. Did he mess up? Well, not really, he thinks. He was far too busy – he barely had time to even check his phone all day, but seeing you heartbroken in front of his doorstep makes his stomach twist.

“No, no,” he says, reaching out to pull you into a hug in an attempt to comfort you, and you push him away. “Baby, I’m so sorry – I was really busy all day, and I didn’t have time to check my phone. The guys and I just got home, and I was going to text you, believe me!” 

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you say. Your words are absolutely ridiculous, and you know it. “I think we need to break up.” 

Saying those words makes your heart sink. You hated it. You didn’t want to let Martin Edwards go.

Martin’s heart drops. The rest of the members can hear everything, and all of their eyes widen. Martin had not a single clue of what to do. He didn’t reply for one day and you wanted to break up? This was ridiculous – he turns to Juhoon, who’s shaking his head as if to say: don’t ask me! 

He then looks at Keonho, who’s reminding him: 10 shows.

10 shows. He’s got a week left until he hits 10 shows. Shit. If you ended it with him right now, he would lose the bet. 

Asides from that, Martin found that he genuinely did care for you. He didn’t want you to hate him over his schedule being far too packed. He had to find a way to reason with you so you’d stay – not just for the bet, he tells himself. 

“No, (Name) – baby, please,” Martin’s begging. “I’m sorry, please stay.” 

Seonghyeon’s watching this as if it’s the best episode of television he’s seen in his life. Martin Edwards, begging for his overdramatic, overly clingy girlfriend to stay with him. This was gold. 

What did couples do when their relationship was in trouble? Martin racks his brain for ideas. 

He’d apologised already. What about gifts? He could get you those. Couples counselling? 

“What?” you pipe up. It’s only then when Martin realises that he’s said ‘couples counselling’ out loud. His eyes widen with panic, before he pretends like that’s what he intended all along. 

“Yes!” he says. “Let’s do couples counselling. Please, let’s fix this, baby.” Desperation is evident in his tone, and you’re so shocked at his proposal to the point where you don’t quite know what to say. 

“I…” you stammer out. You look at Martin, and you realise that you really can’t say no to him. Fuck, you think.

You’d have to find a fucking couples counsellor. Or someone who could pretend to be one. Maybe you could just get Yoonchae or Bailey to say that the two of you weren’t meant to be, and then that could be your excuse to end it. 

Yes, that would work, you think. 

“Okay,” you sigh, reluctantly. You suppose that you were in this predicament for a little longer. "I'm picking the therapist."

Martin lets out a loud exhale in relief. He's unbelievably happy that you've decided to give your relationship another chance, despite all this being a bet. A little voice in the back of his mind tells him that he seems to care more about you than the bet now. Even if you did, at times, drive him a little crazy.

He pulls you closer to him in a hug, and this time, you let him. 

The smell of blackberries and cedar envelopes you in a comforting embrace, and you allow yourself to melt in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against your hair. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek and it’s all just too genuine – you feel awful. 

Your heart twists with guilt at how genuine he sounds in his apology. 

He holds you a little closer, and all you know is that you don’t deserve Martin Edwards at all. 

One day later, you find yourself in Bailey’s apartment – or rather, Dr. Sok’s apartment. You didn’t even have to beg or bribe Bailey to pretend to be a fake therapist for you and Martin – she had said yes immediately, and with a little too much enthusiasm. Bailey wanted to witness whatever the hell you two had going on firsthand. 

“It’s going to be good,” she says, tapping her fingers together mischievously. She’s talking about it as if your couples’ counselling appointment is going to be the best movie she’s seen in years. 

Martin’s sitting beside you as he taps his foot nervously on the floor. This was insane. He feels a little too out of place here. Why did he agree to couple’s counselling for a relationship that had only just reached the two week mark? 

Despite Bailey’s living room looking very much not like a therapists’ office, she comes up with some lame excuse saying that her actual office (which doesn’t exist) is going under some construction. She peers at the two of you through her blue light glasses, leaning forward as she holds a clipboard in your hands. 

“So, (Name), Martin. Tell me what’s going wrong in your relationship,” Bailey says. You take a deep breath before slipping back into the role of annoying, overbearing girlfriend. 

“He doesn’t have time for us and this relationship!” you huff, crossing your arms. Martin gives you a pained look, sighing. “He’s not taking us seriously anymore.” You sniffle a little for good measure to really sell the fact that you’re heartbroken. 

“I… I have a lot to do, baby – you know this,” he pleads “I’m trying my best to make as much time for you as I can, I’m sorry.” You watch as Bailey writes something down on her clipboard. She’s never met Martin before, but she could immediately tell that he harboured a lot of affection for you. 

She’s starting to realise that maybe you were right in thinking that Martin was a lunatic – she’d heard about all the antics you’ve pulled, and yet, Martin was still grovelling and wanted you to stay? 

“It’s like you care more about being an idol than me,” you say – as the words leave your mouth, you realise how unreasonable it was. Perfect. You needed Martin to dump your ass. The longer you stayed in this ‘relationship’, the harder you knew you were going to fall. You were already in deep, and you needed to get out before this article left you completely heartbroken.

“I…” Martin’s at a complete loss for words. “I can balance my work and our relationship, baby. Please.” 

Bailey hums, tapping her pencil on the side of her clipboard as an idea pops up in her brain. You watch as her eyes light up in that way you’ve seen before – you just know this is going to be bad. You’re praying to God that you’re wrong. 

“I know,” she says, leaning forward with a glint in your eye. “I think you two need an opportunity to spend a little bit more time together, away from all the idol life. Maybe then, you’ll see your relationship with clearer eyes.” 

Your eyes widen in horror. Oh no. 

Martin leans forward, suddenly curious. Double oh no.  

“What may that be?” he asks – he’s genuinely invested in keeping this relationship, Bailey thinks. It was more clear than ever to her that Martin genuinely liked you, despite how you acted insane.

“When’s the next time you have a day off?” Bailey asks. 

“Tuesday. I’m heading back to my parents’ house to spend some time with them before we head off to New York,” Martin says. “Oh!” he looks at you, eyes gleaming with delight. Your heart sinks. Whatever idea Martin had, you knew it was going to be bad for you. 

“You can come with me,” he beams. “Right? Is that a good idea, Dr. Sok?” 

Bailey is surprisingly shocked at Martin’s willingness to introduce you to his family only two weeks into your relationship. But she had to admit, it was a brilliant idea. She plasters a smile on her face to hide her shock, and nods in satisfaction. 

“It’s brilliant, Martin,” Bailey grins. She turns towards you, who’s got a look of horror on your face. “(Name), you should go meet Martin’s parents. After all, you said he wasn’t taking this relationship seriously. What couldn’t be more serious than meeting the parents?” 

You fail to come up with a coherent response. Fuck, you think. You should’ve asked Yoonchae to be the fake therapist. 

Martin’s looking at you expectantly, and you can tell just based on his gaze alone that he wants you to come. Your gaze softens, and you realise that you’re in way too deep. You’re in love. Shit. 

“Fine,” you huff. “Let’s do it.” 

Martin beams, so bright that it could rival the sun. The corner of your lips pull upward into a smile at the sight, and he laces his hands with yours. You hate how it feels right. 

“Perfect.” he says. 

To you, this was anything but. 

Tuesday rolls around much faster than you thought. 

You put much more effort into your outfit to meet Martin's parents. You’ve practically been living in Martin’s clothes for the past few weeks, and as much as you knew that he liked it, you still had to make a good impression on his parents. Showing up in Martin’s oversized hoodie and a pair of sweats wasn’t going to cut it. 

You opt for something simple, a little more similar to what you wore at the comeback showcase. You arrive at the CORTIS dorm wearing a striped shirt and a pair of jeans. Seonghyeon greets you at the door, and the boy points at what you’re wearing, and then what he’s wearing. 

“Oh,” he says. “Why are we matching?” 

You let out a little laugh. “Don’t bring it up,” you reply. “Tin wouldn’t like it.” 

If Martin notices that you’re somehow dressed like Seonghyeon, he doesn’t make any mention of it. He holds your hand as the company car drives the two of you to his parents’ place, and the two of you share earphones, listening to Martin’s music. 

You gulp. This was not what you had planned when you first decided that you were going to write the article. You didn’t think that you’d have to go this far – you had already accidentally fallen in love with the subject of your article, and now you were meeting his parents. This was… simply great. 

When the two of you arrive, it’s like Martin can sense your nerves. He looks at you, his gaze soft and gentle like usual. “Don’t worry,” he beams. “They’re going to love you.” 

You don’t know if you love or hate the idea of Martin’s family loving you. On one hand, it was nice to get his parents’ approval – on the other, this relationship was practically completely fake. Or at least it started that way, until your real feelings got involved. 

Martin’s mother answers the door, and when she spots you, she pulls you in for a hug. You’re slightly stunned at how affectionate she is, but it’s awfully kind of her, and you return the gesture nevertheless. “You must be (Name),” she beams. “Martin’s been going on and on about you.” 

“You have?” you ask, turning to Martin. His cheeks heat up and he shrugs, trying to hide his embarrassment. 

Martin’s father greets you once you’re inside, sitting down at the living room table. He’s easy to talk to, much like Martin. He jokes around with you right off the bat, and your stomach twists with guilt. Your presence feels a little too foreign, as if you don’t belong –  because truly, you don’t. 

Here you were, sitting at the Edwards’ dining room table as if you were exactly who Martin said you were. His loving girlfriend who cared about him more than anything in the world. 

The truth? All you were was a music journalist who was writing an article on how to lose an idol in 10 shows, and their son was the target. It was simply awful, and here you were, basking in the Edwards’ family’s praises like you deserved them. Like you deserved their son. 

You didn’t. Martin Edwards was far too good to you, and for you. 

You listen as his mother tells you stories about Martin’s childhood, such as how he composed a piece of music at the ripe age of 10 about the Spider-Man movie that he’d watched. His sister teases him lovingly, telling him that he shouldn’t have hid you for this long – she doesn’t seem to know that you two have only been ‘dating’ for two weeks. They treat you like family. You realise how much you adore all of them.

It makes the guilt that’s been simmering in your stomach much, much worse. 

When Martin tells the story of how you two met at the comeback showcase, his sister’s eyes widen. “Wait, I thought you guys have been dating for two months!” 

“Nope,” you chuckle nervously. His sister only hums, nodding. That reaction strikes genuine fear in your heart. Is she okay with it? Does she hate you? Martin seems to notice how anxious you are, and he gently caresses your hand with his thumb in an attempt to comfort you. 

Martin beams as his family gushes over the new album, and you sit next to him, your fingers laced with his. You look at him, pride evident on your face as he talks about the songs, and Martin’s father realises that it’s only then when you relax your shoulders. 

When Martin’s whisked away by his mother and sister, his father approaches you. 

“(Name),” he says, pouring you a glass of water. “Thank you for being so kind to Martin. And being there for him.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat. Martin’s father looks at you, handing you the glass. “It’s not an easy life for him to be an idol, especially since he’s so young,” he hums. “I’m glad he has someone like you to… you know. Keep him grounded amidst all the chaos.” 

Oh god. The guilt. You want to throw up. His dad was extending so much kindness to you because he genuinely believed that you loved his son. 

And you did, but you had started everything with ulterior motives. Did it even matter now that you truly had feelings, when you’d approached Martin with zero intention of anything genuine?

But you plaster on a smile, something that you’ve gotten a little too good at doing. “Of course,” you say. You look out the window, seeing Martin and his sister laughing about something. Martin’s father recognises this look in your eye – one of genuine affection for his son – and he too, smiles. “I’m glad that I can… be that for him.” 

“And really, he is… absolutely amazing,” you say. “I don’t think I deserve him.” It’s the most truthful thing you think you’ve said all day.

The smile on his father’s lips grows a little wider. “For what it’s worth, I think you two are perfect for each other. Even if this is all a little recent.” 

Perfect. Those words should make you feel relieved. But now that you have his father’s stamp of approval, it makes ending things much more difficult. How were you supposed to do that now? 

It’s then when it hits you. You couldn’t write the article anymore. You had to tell Jisoo that you couldn’t. Because you’ve fallen for Martin Edwards. Hard. 

Martin returns, seeing you and his father speaking to one another. He sneaks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You lean into his touch, even as the guilt from the past two weeks piles up and threatens to crush you like a boulder. 

“Pops, what’d you say to her?” he asks, hoping that his father hasn’t embarrassed him in front of you. 

“Oh, nothing bad, Martin. Don’t worry,” he laughs. “Do show her around the house, though. I’m sure she’d love to see your room.” 

His father gives you a nod before going outside to find Martin’s mother and sister. Martin looks at you, and you’re standing there silently. “You okay?” he asks, and you nod, coming to your senses. 

“Of course,” you say. He smiles at the nickname before lacing your hand with his. He does it so casually now to the point where you’re not fazed by it at all. “So… are you going to show me your room?” 

He nods, leading you down the corridor. It’s the first room on the right. 

“Tada,” he says, flicking on the light switch. Your eyes immediately dart to the plane drawn on the wall, and Martin notices. 

“My dad painted that for me when I was little,” he says, and your eyes flick back to look at him. 

“He’s really good at painting,” you say, and Martin beams. Your eyes wander across the entire room, and the next object your eyes land on is a little Spider-Man figurine sitting on top of a cupboard. “You really did like Spider-Man, didn’t you?” 

Martin chuckles, walking over to pick it up. “I did,” he hums. He hands it over to you, before grabbing something else perched on top of the same cupboard. “I was a big Marvel fan. Case in point – Thanos’ gauntlet.” 

He tries to put it on, but it’s clearly too small for him now, and you laugh. “You try it,” he says, handing it over to you.

You put it on, and it fits. “If I snap my fingers, would we all turn to dust?” 

Martin bursts into a fit of laughter – were you really that funny? But the sound of his laughter is infectious, and for a second you allow yourself to forget about that daunting thought of feeling like an intruder in your boyfriend’s own home.  

You take off the gauntlet, handing it back to him so he can place it back in its original spot. He flops down on his bed, patting the empty space next to him. “Come,” he says. “My bed here is comfy. Much better than the dorm one, to be honest.” 

You lay down beside him, and to be fair, he was right. The mattress was slightly softer. Martin tugs at the corner of your shirt to get you to move slightly closer to him. 

“Your room is cozy,” you say as he wraps his arms around you. You turn to look at him, and he’s looking at you with so much sincerity and love. That feeling of guilt creeps up once again. 

“I know,” he hums. “Listen… I’m happy that you decided to come. I’m sorry about that day, by the way. I should’ve probably told you that I was going to be busy.”

You shake your head. You knew how unreasonable you were being. “It’s okay,” you say. Looking into his eyes, everything feels far too real – and instinctively, like you’ve done a million times before, you brush his hair out of his eyes. “Sorry for causing a scene. I was being overdramatic. Like usual.” 

Martin chuckles, his laugh light and airy. “Don’t worry.” 

Over the two weeks, Martin has found that he does care for you. Perhaps a little too much for something that was just a bet. But with you here in his home, things just felt right. His father seemed to love you, and outside in the garden, his mother and sister had both said that you were amazing. 

Martin doesn’t know what to do – was he supposed to tell you about the bet? You’d surely break up with him for good once you found out. 

But he looks at you, and he just can’t help but think about how pretty you are. Truthfully, his heart did skip a beat when he first saw you at their comeback showcase, and despite your overdramatic antics, Martin did… want you to stay. That realisation settles in his chest, and he doesn’t know if he should be happy about it. 

He’s not in love with you, is he? 

You look at Martin. Silence falls between the two of you, and it’s comforting, really. You look at him like he’s the most beautiful person in the world, and your breath hitches in your throat. He’s too pretty. Too kind. Too good for you. 

You don’t know when your eyes flick to his lips, but you realise that over the last two weeks, you two haven’t actually kissed. He’s kissed your cheek far too many times, you’ve done the same, but you’ve never actually pressed your lips to his. 

And the scary thing was, that you really, really wanted to. 

You lean in a little closer, inching his face closer to his. Martin suddenly seems to notice the proximity between you two, and he too, realises that he hasn’t actually kissed you on the lips before. For someone who his sister claimed to be ‘so in love’, he hadn’t even kissed his own girlfriend. 

He wants to kiss you. Really, really badly. 

You’re the one who leans in first, pressing your lips to his. It’s hesitant and slow, and Martin’s a little shocked at your tentativeness. For someone who was so dramatic, over the top and boisterous – this was a little out of character. 

Martin can hear his own pulse thundering in his ears as he kisses you back – slow, gentle, like he means it. Yes, this was exactly what he had been missing this entire time. Everything feels right, and Martin completely forgets about the bet. At this moment, all of it was real. 

His hand moves up to gently cup your cheek as the other finds your waist, and you kiss him a little harder, a little more insistent. As Martin melts into the kiss, he’s also simultaneously praying to God that he’s closed his bedroom door. The last thing he really wanted was his parents or sister catching him making out with his girlfriend. 

But when your hands find his shirt to pull him impossibly closer, that thought leaves his mind completely as he allows you to kiss him senseless. It’s fine if the door’s open, he thinks. All he cares about is you, and how your lips feel on his. He’s drunk on the feeling, almost – he doesn’t think that he can go a day without kissing you now. 

When you pull away for air, you’re beaming at him like an idiot in love. Because truthfully, that’s what you were. The guilt that’s been eating at you is completely forgotten, and all you really want to do is kiss him again. 

“You kissed me,” Martin says, a little breathless and a little astonished that this was all real. You had kissed him. And he felt something. Something real, something genuine – something that told him that it wasn’t a bet anymore, at least not to him. 

Martin Edwards might really be in love with you.

It was horrifying and exhilarating at the same time. On one hand, Martin was thinking about what would happen if – god forbid – you found out that you were a bet. On the other, Martin just wanted to kiss you over, and over, and over again. 

“Is it that hard to believe?” your voice cuts through his thoughts, your breath hot against his lips. Your eyes flick down to his lips once again, stained with your lipstick. Martin doesn’t – and won’t – wipe it off. “I think you better get used to it, Edwards.” 

And when Martin Edwards leans in again to press his lips against yours, he allows himself to be irrevocably and truly yours.

You tell Jisoo that you can’t write the article. 

She’s disappointed, but simultaneously, not surprised at all. “I thought you might’ve caught feelings for that CORTIS boy,” she hums, tapping her pencil on the desk. You don’t think you’re getting that full-time job now. “It’s okay. I knew it was too good to be true.” 

Ouch, you think. That stings. 

But you’re honestly on too much of a high after that kiss in Martin’s house. With the weight of the article off your shoulders, you can actually date Martin without feeling completely guilty now. Sure, some of it still remained knowing that you started the relationship with ulterior motives, but it was slightly more of a clean slate than before. 

Despite Jisoo's disappointment in you, she still does invite you, Yoonchae, Bailey and Yuna to this music awards show after-party. You immediately text Martin, asking him if he’s going to be there. He responds with a yes, and you beam. 

I can’t wait to see you, he tells you. You smile at your phone, giddy and far too much in love.

“I knew this was going to happen!” Bailey exclaims as you two get ready for the after-party in her apartment. “I told you, that Martin boy was so deeply in love – he was practically looking at her with stars in her eyes when we were doing ‘couples counselling.’ Honestly, I’m surprised that you didn’t see it earlier!” 

You curl your lashes, coating them with mascara carefully. “I mean, I didn’t expect to actually fall for him.” 

“We all saw it coming a mile away, (Name),” Yoonchae laughs. “Come on, at the showcase you were gawking at him like he was your personal Prince Charming. The only thing I’m surprised at was how persistent he was in staying. If I were him, I would’ve broken up with you the second you humiliated me like that in front of all my friends.” 

You gasp at Yoonchae’s words, and she simply shrugs, a smile playing on her lips. The rest of the time spent getting ready is filled with chatter about how you and Martin are going to cope with having eyes on you the entire night tonight. He couldn’t hold your hand like he usually did – you now had to hide. 

When you arrive at the after-party, you immediately send a text to Martin, asking where he is. You look around the room to search for him, and you see idols, industry professionals and journalists like you conversing with one another. 

“Hi,” a voice all too familiar to you makes you turn around, and you see Martin standing there, in all his glory. He’s wearing a crisp suit – Dior, you assume, considering the brand deal – and he looks absolutely perfect. 

Your voice catches in your throat as you’re about to tell him he looks good, but rather a strangled noise escapes past your lips. You suppose you finally know what it’s like to actually be left speechless. You cover your mouth in embarrassment, and Martin simply laughs. 

“Hi,” you breathe out, when you’re finally able to speak. “You look really nice.” 

“And you do too,” Martin replies, looking at you. You’re wearing this stunning, satin yellow dress. In all honesty, Martin had grown accustomed to seeing you wearing his clothes, and seeing you in something like this made his heart race. A dainty necklace hangs around your neck, and Martin thinks that he might’ve just fallen in love all over again. 

“Thank you,” you say. You’re unsure how to actually speak to him knowing that there were always going to be eyes watching his every move. “So… you doing anything after this?” is the only thing you’re able to come up with, and Martin chuckles. 

“No, I don’t happen to be,” he replies, fixing the collar of his suit jacket. His voice drops low into a whisper, looking around carefully to make sure that nobody is listening. “Come to the dorm later for a movie date?” 

“Of course,” you whisper back. You fail to hide the lovesick grin on your lips, and Martin’s practically fighting the urge to kiss you right now. You look irresistibly good, and Martin hates that every move of his is likely documented right now. 

His manager approaches him, and he gives you a nod in acknowledgment. “Martin, we’re going to have to meet some members of the media. Please come with me – I’m sure the two of you will find time to talk later.” 

You nod, understanding that duty calls. Martin waves goodbye to you, and you wave back. You didn’t even realise how fast your heart was racing there. You find Bailey, Yoonchae and Yuna near the drinks, and you grab a glass of fruit punch and converse with them about some new album that Yoonchae reviewed recently. 

Martin straightens up his suit jacket before he walks up to the rest of the members, who are already talking to someone. “Hi, I’m Martin, the leader of CORTIS. Apologies for being late,” he says politely. “I had to catch up with a friend.” It’s a lie, but he couldn’t call you his girlfriend to everyone here. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” the lady says, waving him off. She seems awfully drunk, and she’s already taking another sip of the champagne in her glass. “We were just talking about some of the articles that we’ve been publishing about your group. You boys are some of the most exciting faces on the music scene.” 

“Thank you.” Martin beams.

“Her name is Jisoo,” James whispers in Martin’s ear. “I think she’s super drunk. Manager says that the rest of us are going to speak to some guy named John, but Jisoo really wanted to talk to you. So… we’ll leave you guys to it?” 

Martin nods in agreement, but he doesn’t really want to speak with her. She’s incredibly drunk, and to be honest, Martin would much rather be talking to you right now.

“Oh, and we’ve got something much more than just about your albums,” Jisoo pipes up. “Well, did. One of my interns – talented girl – was writing a piece about one of you.” Jisoo's so drunk that she thinks that the five of them are still there, when it’s really only Martin who’s left. 

She searches around the room, and her eyes land on you. She points in your direction. 

“Ah, her. Over there,” Jisoo says. “(Name).” 

Martin immediately straightens up at the sound of your name. He leans in to hear Jisoo better, curiosity suddenly piqued. “What article may that be?” 

“Oh, it was a little bit more fun. How to lose an idol in 10 shows, or something. Dating an idol, and then trying to get him to dump her in 10 shows or less. I was gonna give her that full-time job, honestly.” 

Martin’s heart drops. 

An article? You... were writing an article on dating an idol?

It hits Martin right then and there. That’s why you were so adamant on breaking up over something so trivial – he knew that you weren’t that unreasonable. 

The next realisation hits Martin like a truck. That’s why you would act so ludicrous and over the top sometimes – he had a feeling that it wasn’t really who you were. The night at the studio, the moments the two of you shared at his parents’ house. That was the real you. But Martin didn’t really care, he told himself he loved you all the same. 

But knowing that all of this was just for an article? It sends a knife through his heart.  

You kissed him like you actually loved him that day at his parents’ house. He thought you did. Did you love him? Did you even like him? 

Jisoo is so drunk she doesn’t even seem to know the state of shock and distress that she’s just put Martin through. His mouth suddenly runs dry, and he doesn’t know what to do – all he knows is that he feels sick at the thought that perhaps none of it was real. His heart aches with betrayal, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this awful before. 

His eyes are hot as he tries to blink back tears. “I’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice cracking. “I have to go.” 

Jisoo's too drunk to notice as Martin pushes past her, trying desperately to find any corner away from the cameras. 

When he finds a place secluded enough, covered by the black satin curtains, Martin finally lets a tear slip past his cheek.

This must be what heartbreak feels like, he thinks.

You’re already starting to get a little bored at this after-party. 

You know that Jisoo's practically drunk off her mind, and Bailey’s gone over to make sure that she doesn’t hurl on any of the guests. Yoonchae winces seeing Jisoo stumble on air, and Bailey sighs as she knows that she’s going to be babysitting her all night. 

You look at the crowd, trying to count how many idols you can see that aren’t completely drunk off their mind. 

“(Name)!” James snaps you out of your little game – you were at roughly 12 idols – and you direct your attention to him. He beams, greeting you with a wide smile. 

He’s got a glass of champagne in his hands – after all, he is the only one legally allowed to drink. You can tell that he’s slightly tipsy. 

“Hi, James,” you say, smiling at him. “Nice to see you again… after seeing you yesterday night.” 

James laughs, a little louder than normal – yeah, the alcohol was definitely kicking in. “That’s funny. Yes, so nice to see you again. I know that our Martin was a bit late speaking to some important people because he was caught up with you,” he says, wagging his finger at you. “It’s okay. No worries.” 

“Oh,” you say sheepishly. “Sorry about that.” 

“No worries,” he says, trailing off. There’s a beat of silence that falls between the two of you before James seems to remember something. “Oh! Oh! Don’t tell Martin. Wait, you two are dating for real, for real now. So you must know!” 

You look at James, confused. You don’t have a single idea in the world of what he was insinuating at. 

“Our Martin can flirt, can’t he?” James says, dragging out the word. “We all thought he couldn’t, so he proved us wrong. Now we all have to pay for his next shopping spree. Bleh. I’m going to be broke.” 

Your brows furrow, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach – you think you know what James is hinting at, but he’s tipsy, so he’s somewhat circling around the topic. 

“James, whatever do you mean?” 

“We made a bet!” he says, a little too gleefully. “So like, Seonghyeon was saying that Martin couldn’t flirt, so we made a bet – 10 shows to get a girl to fall in love with him with his flirting skills. And he had to make sure you stayed with him through those 10 shows.” 

He doesn’t know that those words had basically caused your personal apocalypse. You were a bet? 

You look at James, betrayal evident on your features. Your chest suddenly feels a little too tight, and it aches. You were just a bet to Martin, and the betrayal and pain from that realisation hits you like a tidal wave. Martin being awfully sweet to you, being too kind, being too understanding – that was all a lie? 

You feel like you don’t even know him. You stand there, stunned, and at your silence, James somehow seems to sober up. 

“Oh, shit – you didn’t know,” James’ face contorts into one of horror, and he brings his hands to his lips. “Oh my god, (Name) – I did not mean a single word of what I said, I am so sorry–!” 

You push past James, running for the exit. You feel so violently ill – all you want to do is go back to your house and cry until you’ve got no tears left. You’re going to block Martin, and you never ever want to listen to a CORTIS song ever again. 

You push past the gates, but then you’re stopped by a voice that is awfully familiar, but it’s the last person you want to hear from right now. 

“Skipping town?” Martin asks. His hands are shoved into his coat pockets. Of course he still looks devastatingly beautiful, and for a second you forget that this is the boy who had made a bet that you’d fall in love with him in 10 shows.

Congratulations, it worked, you think. Maybe he should win a prize for it after you get over your heartbreak. 

You turn to look at him, brows furrowed in anger. “What do you want, Martin?” 

“What do I want?” he asks, voice laced with disbelief. He steps closer towards you, and you realise that he’s angry too. You don’t know what for. “I want to know why Jisoo told me about an article that you’d pitched called: how to lose an idol in 10 shows. Yes, she was drunk. But you know that drunk words are sober thoughts. I could tell she wasn't lying.” 

You’re stunned. Martin notices your expression, and his eyes narrow. “Yeah,” he replies, gritting his teeth. “Sound familiar?” 

You gulp, and that guilt that you thought you’d rid yourself of comes back tenfold. But then you remember the bet. You, in similar fashion, grit your teeth and look at Martin with the same betrayal in your eyes. 

“Right,” you hum. “And I want to know a little bit more about this bet that James told me about… perhaps something along the lines of you getting a girl to fall in love with him in 10 shows.” 

This time, Martin’s the one with the stunned look on his face. His breath stutters, and you cross your arms. “Yeah,” you tell him, using the same words he did mere seconds ago. “Sound familiar?” 

“You used me for an article,” Martin exhales. The heartbreak in his tone is evident, and you hate knowing that you’ve hurt him. But he hurt you too. 

“I was just a bet to you,” you gulp. Saying it out loud makes it more real. “I meant nothing to you, didn’t I?” 

“You can’t be the one saying this to me,” Martin says, pointing at you. “Are you serious?” 

“Dead serious,” you retort. 

“You wanted to lose an idol in 10 shows?” Martin seethes, trying to ignore how it feels like his heart is quite literally breaking. “Congratulations. You just lost him.” 

You gulp, trying to fight the tears that are threatening to spill past your eyes. You take a deep breath, strengthening your resolve – you were a bet to him anyways. It didn’t matter. 

“No, I didn’t.” you say. Even those words feel like a lie. You did lose him, and you feel terrible. “Because you can’t lose something you never had.” 

With that, you turn on your heel and leave. You only let the tears fall when you know that you’re far away enough, and you reel with the realisation that you’ve probably just lost the first person that you’ve ever truly loved. Because of some stupid job that you weren’t quite sure you wanted anymore.  

You leave Martin hanging as he watches your figure disappear. He opens and closes his mouth as if he wants to say something, but you’re already too far gone. It’s fine, Martin tells himself. It was just a bet. You were just a bet. You didn’t mean anything to him. 

No, he can’t lie to himself. It hurts much more than the truth. 

Martin stands there as the cool evening air tousles his hair. It’s then when he finally allows himself to sob as he crumples to the floor – despite it all, he doesn’t know why he once again, can’t bring himself to hate you. 

Martin Edwards lost you, and you lost Martin Edwards. 

Maybe after all of it, this was the outcome that you both deserved.

Martin feels absolutely awful. 

The members all look at him sympathetically, and they all notice that Martin’s not really his usual self nowadays. Seonghyeon buys him that jacket that he’s wanted for ages. Juhoon breaks his bank account to get Martin three hoodies. Keonho finally buys him those Rick Owens shoes, and he doesn’t complain about it. 

James, who feels the worst out of all of them for letting the news slip to you, buys him two pairs of expensive earrings and cashes in on an extra bracelet as if it’ll cure the heartbreak. 

"Well... I guess you can flirt," Seonghyeon says. He knows that it's really not helping Martin get over the heartbreak, but he's not quite sure what to say to make him feel better.

Sure, he could flirt. Hooray, Martin thinks. But he didn't really care about that anymore. Not when he just wanted to see you.

His life falls into the routine that he was so accustomed to before you barged into his life. Wake up, practice, make music, perform, repeat. Despite how much his stomach twists in anger at the thought that he was just an article to you, he misses your presence. 

In those two short weeks, you’d changed his life in a way that he didn’t think was possible. His eyes always linger a little too long at the dressing room door, hoping you’ll show up. He stocks up on Coke for the mini fridge in the studio just in case you swing by and want a can. He can’t even tell his parents that he’s not speaking to you anymore. 

He messed up too. You weren’t the only one. The guilt eats at him every single day, and he’s immediately reminded of it when he wakes up. Martin Edwards, despite it all, still thinks that he loves you. That may be even more ludicrous than your antics. 

He hears the doorbell ring, and Martin gets up from his seat at the couch to go answer the door. He’s the designated one to do that now, because he’s always hoping that perhaps you’ll show up. 

He swings open the door, and he realises that it’s Yoonchae. He recognises her from the comeback showcase. 

“Hi,” she gulps, a little hesitant. “Martin?” 

“Yes?” he asks. “How did you find–” 

“I’m not a stalker,” she says. Martin figured, considering that she was a friend of yours. “Sorry, I had to get that out of the way. But… I think you might want to read this.” Yoonchae hands Martin a stack of papers, and he furrows his brows, confused as to why. 

Yoonchae looks at Martin, and she knows that’s a devastated man if she’s ever seen one. His hair’s messy, he’s got dark circles under his eyes, and there’s just something heavy seeming to be weighing on his conscience. 

“Please,” she says. Martin motions for her to come in, and Yoonchae sits down at the dining room table. Martin flicks open the page, and there it is – the dreaded headline. How to Lose an Idol in 10 Shows. Your name is plastered right under it. 

Martin doesn’t even want to read it. He feels sick already seeing the title. But curiosity kills the cat, and he reluctantly reads the words printed on the page, letting out a deep sigh. 

Step one: Ask the dreaded question – “What are we?” in front of all of his friends. 

He remembers that day. He also remembers the instantaneous shock that he felt hearing those words spill past your lips, and how it filled him with a sense of intrigue but also overconfidence that he was going to win this bet. 

Step two: Be overly obnoxious – yes, again, in front of all of his friends. 

The over the top cheek kisses, the way you’d cling to him like a koala and the loud displays of affection – yep, that tracks, Martin thinks. The crazy thing was that he didn’t mind at all. 

Step three: Annoy him with text messages every single minute. 

You did that. But Martin wasn’t annoyed, per se. He went through every single message, replying to them with equal enthusiasm. You always had something interesting to talk about – it wasn’t just filler, so Martin didn’t quite mind. And it did bring him some much needed entertainment after busting his ass for a performance. 

Step four: Steal all his favourite clothes. 

Martin smiles, stupidly. The memory of you wearing his clothes and looking a little too good in them cuts through the anger and bitterness he’s been feeling for the past few days. The mention of those also makes him also remember that you haven’t given any of those clothes back. 

Step five: Interrupt him at the studio…

The next few words make Martin’s breath catch in his throat. 

Despite my ridiculous antics, Martin Edwards somehow puts up with me and has the patience of a saint. I decide that he’s either a lunatic who loves crazy girls, but my colleague Bailey offers me something else: that he might genuinely like me. It’s when I’m halfway through step five I realise that I’ve fallen in way too deep. 

It’s the first time where he actually shows frustration with my insanity, and it’s the first time where I realise that I don’t want to hurt him. Because despite starting this with unfortunately ulterior motives, I think I may have fallen in love in the process. 

Writing this, my goal was to lose an idol in 10 shows. But after getting to know Martin Edwards – the real Martin Edwards – I didn’t want to lose him at all, and yet I have. He’s admirable. Dependable. Too kind for his own good. I don’t even think I deserved him during those two weeks. 

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. These two weeks have been riddled by mistakes, but the biggest one of all? 

Losing the love of my life.  

His vision blurs as tears prick his eyes. He was the love of your life? The words hit him like a ton of bricks, and Martin almost forgets how to breathe. The weight of those words settles in his chest, and somehow, the anger dissipates and is replaced with disbelief. He was the love of your life. 

The crazy thing is, Martin thinks you may be the love of his life too. 

He looks at Yoonchae with a look of determination in his eyes that wasn’t quite there before. 

“I… is she at the office?” 

“No,” Yoonchae replies. “She quit. I can give you her address, if you need—” 

“Please,” he says, desperation evident in his tone. He throws on a random pair of shoes as he practically shoves his phone into Yoonchae’s hand so she can type in your address into his GPS app. 

Martin runs out the door, Yoonchae trailing behind him and nearly failing to keep up. Juhoon asks him where the hell he’s going, but Martin doesn’t answer – he has pressing matters to attend to right now. Yoonchae calls a car for the two of them to head to your place, and on the way, she tells him that she really wasn’t supposed to show him the article – but she had to. She knew you were miserable too. 

The ride to your place feels like forever, and Yoonchae tells him that she’ll just wait downstairs. He bounds up the staircase – the lift was a waste of time, you lived on the third floor. Yoonchae thinks that he doesn’t even register her words. 

Martin double checks the apartment unit that Yoonchae had given him, and he knocks, tapping his foot on the ground nervously. 

You fling open your door, and you’re stunned to see Martin there. 

He’s almost speechless at the sight of your face – he hadn’t seen you in so long, and Martin has missed you, devastatingly so. 

“Martin?” you say in disbelief. You’ve been dreaming about him so much for the past few days to the point where you really wouldn’t be surprised if he was a hallucination. “What are you doing here?”

He holds up the article that Yoonchae had handed him less than an hour ago. You recognise it, and a mixture of guilt, shame and anxiety pangs in your chest – so he’s read it. That sickly feeling that you’ve grown accustomed to for the past week returns tenfold. 

“This article,” he breathes out. “Did you mean it?” 

“What?” 

“Did you mean it?” he asks. He’s looking at you with desperation, practically pleading for you to say yes. 

You blink back the tears in your eyes. A beat of silence falls between you two before you finally speak.

“I meant every word,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Martin tries to hold back the smile that’s threatening to creep up on his lips. “Really?” he asks, and you nod. 

“Yes,” you say, a little louder this time. “ And I’m sorry about it all – you mean… so much more than an article to me.” 

Martin has another question. “And am I really the love of your life?” 

“Yes,” you exhale. “You are. I told you, I meant every word.” 

Martin finally allows himself to breathe, his shoulders relaxing as he beams, wider than ever before. “Ask me the same question.” he says, grinning. You look at his expression, a little confused but hopeful all the same. 

“Am I the love of your life?” you ask, your voice brimming with hope. 

“You are.” Martin replies. 

“Oh,” you reply softly, and you let a tear slip past your cheek. You’re crying, but they’re happy tears. 

Martin reaches out to you, pulling him close to you. His hand finds your waist like it belongs there, and like nothing has changed in the last few days the two of you have been apart. 

“I love you,” you choke out. “Unbelievably so. I’m sorry I lost you.” 

Martin leans in, inching his face closer to yours as he smiles. 

“I love you too,” he replies before he presses his lips to yours, and everything just feels right again. He pulls away for a split second to look into your eyes. “You’re never going to lose me.” he says, giggling before he pulls you in for another kiss. 

And now, Martin Edwards is truly, irrevocably yours.

© martinflms 2026. mini author's note: this was lowkey a challenge to write 20k in 2 days. i'm so glad i did and i hope you guys enjoyed <3

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[nujins]

˚➶ ｡˚ i can see you — z. yufan

[ 👾 ] synopsis you and james have never really gotten along. it wasn’t due to lack of trying on your part, though. the guy just really takes the trainee ranking system very seriously. pairing(s) rival!trainee!james x fem!trainee!reader. genre tension (an insane amount of it), a kiss near the end, js a dash of angst, expletives, fluff, open ending kinda. word count 18.7k+ words. rob’s note taylor’s old songs got me GASSED idc what anyone says. “i can see you” (tv) js perfectly captures the delectable feeling of being in a rivals-to-lovers trope. i’m so sorry as this is a bit too long, i got carried away hehez. something about rival!james js gets a girl going, yk? and i feel like i got lazy in the end 😅 anw just know that “heated rivalry” finally pushed me over the edge to write this before the other angst fics 🤓🤓 (ilya, me, shane. challengers. starts now.)

There was something so interesting about rivalries.

Not the kind of rivalries that burned hot and loud, though, with all that shouting and obvious hostility — the kind people noticed immediately and dismissed as measly drama. Those were dull, predictable. They flared, they exploded, and then they were over. What fascinated you were the quiet kinds, the ones that never announced themselves as anything so important but threaded their way into everything anyway. The kind that existed in the space between two people who refused to acknowledge how closely they were paying attention to each other.

You liked how subtle they were. How they could just hide in plain sight and other unassuming people wouldn’t think twice to assume there was anything there.

A rivalry like that didn’t need raised voices or slammed doors. It lived in glances held a beat too long before snapping away. It lived in conversations that sharpened without ever turning hostile, in the way someone’s presence alone could shift the temperature of a room. It showed itself in postures straightening unconsciously, in focus narrowing, in effort deepening so suddenly without anyone ever admitting why.

Truth be told, you found that kind of tension endlessly amusing.

There was something almost intimate about it — the way two people could orbit each other without ever colliding, tethered by awareness rather than affection or even resentment. Rivalries thrived on proximity, on shared spaces and repeated encounters that made indifference impossible. Comparison eventually just becomes inevitable. You weren’t just trying to be good; you were trying to be better than someone specific, even if you never said their name out loud.

And the most interesting part was the unspoken rule beneath it all: no matter how many people filled a room, only one truly mattered.

Once you started looking for it, you noticed it everywhere. In classrooms. In workplaces. In passing interactions that lingered just a little too long. The way people pretended not to measure themselves against others while knowing exactly where they stood. The way relief and disappointment would be swallowed quickly, masked behind politeness and composure.

But rivalries like this — the quiet, festering kind — were different.

They didn’t feel like bitterness. They felt like awareness. They felt like being seen without really being acknowledged. You could sense when someone was measuring themselves against you, even if they never said your name, even if they refused to admit it to themselves. Especially then. There was a strange thrill in that, in knowing you occupied space in someone else’s thoughts without having to demand it.

Maybe that was why it amused you so much.

Because rivalries, stripped down to their core, weren’t really about hatred at all. They were about fixation. They were about curiosity that just got sharpened into something competitive. They were about the way one person could become a reference point — a benchmark, a quiet challenge that lingered long after the moment had already passed.

And if you were being honest with yourself — a deed you allowed only in private, when no one was watching — you actually liked that kind of closeness. You liked how it blurred the line between opposition and interest, between tension and something a little too personal to be written off as coincidence.

You hadn’t known it yet, back when you only just first started paying attention, but some rivalries weren’t meant to stay just rivalries.

Some of them were simply fascination, wearing a more acceptable name.

James had learned about “the system” long before he learned how to hope.

HYBE had called it motivation. The trainees, however, called it hell.

From the moment he entered the company, it was made clear that nothing here existed without measurement. Talent wasn’t enough. Not really. Someone’s potential was meaningless unless it could be quantified, ranked, and compared. Every improvement had to be visible. Every weakness documented. 

The evaluations weren’t just checkpoints every month to check if the money they’re spending on these trainees were worth it. They were verdicts, delivered on a schedule so regular it became part of his internal clock.

Every month, without fail, the rankings went up.

The ranking was made up of clean, unforgiving numbers pinned to a board and mirrored on an internal app that no one admitted to checking and everyone refreshed obsessively. Vocal. Dance. Stage presence. Growth. Categories broken down, weighted, recalculated, until everything that made a person human was flattened into data, an overall score, a single placement. Something easy to read, impossible to forget.

It was co-ed, too. Unsegregated and merciless as it pits boys against girls, veterans against newcomers. Age meant nothing. History meant nothing. The only thing that mattered was who stood above whom when the list refreshed.

There were no buffers built into the system — no allowances for bad days, injuries, exhaustion, or even fear. No explanations attached to justify one’s placement on the board. It was just names and numbers, stripped bare and left for everyone to see.

James knew this because he had grown up inside it.

He knew when the board would go up without checking the time. He knew the particular silence that settled over the practice rooms on evaluation days, the way laughter thinned out and conversations shortened. He knew how his body tensed before his eyes ever reached his name, how his breath hitched in that split second before relief — or, sometimes, something worse — set in.

Everyone learned early how to school their faces when the results dropped.

They nodded. They clapped. They congratulated the people who ranked above them and thanked the people who didn’t. They swallowed disappointment whole like a pill and packed satisfaction away just as neatly. Pride was dangerous. Resentment even more so. Anything too visible could be marked, remembered, perhaps even held against them later.

So everyone learned how to care in silence.

James had mastered it. He had learned how to look calm when his placement rose and how to look neutral, aloof, when it fell. He learned how to absorb praise without letting it soften him, how to take criticism without letting it break him. The rankings became a language he spoke fluently — a shorthand for worth, safety, and survival.

Because rankings weren’t just about ego in this company. They were about staying.

Having a high placement meant attention, investment. A future that remained bright and open. Falling too far, too often, meant becoming disposable. He had seen it happen to others — trainees who lingered in the middle too long, who stopped climbing and started fading, who got comfortable in their neat little spot of adequacy. They didn’t leave all at once. They just disappeared, one day no longer on the list, their names erased as cleanly as they’d once been posted.

James understood, then, what the system demanded. Consistency. Excellence. Relentless forward motion. And for a long time, he gave it exactly that.

He had been doing this long enough to know the rules by heart. It wasn’t just the written ones like no dating, no scandals, no excuses. Rather, even the invisible rules that mattered more. 

Don’t draw attention unless you’re winning. Don’t complain, even when your body aches in places you didn’t know could even ache. Don’t ask how long you’ll be here. Act like you already belong, and maybe one day you will. The system rewarded those who understood it instinctively, who could mold themselves into something dependable, something the company could invest in without hesitation.

James had learned that language early.

He was a legacy trainee. The kind staff referenced as an example, their voices lowering when they mentioned his name, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever momentum he had built. He had been thirteen years old when he first stepped into a practice room that smelled like disinfectant and ambition. 

Young enough to believe effort alone could carry him through and old enough, even then, to understand that nothing here was guaranteed.

The years blurred together after that. Training stacked on training, seasons passing marked only by evaluation cycles and growth charts. He started collecting missed birthdays and half-remembered holidays like notches to a thrifted belt. He also had friends who drifted out of reach as his world narrowed down to just mirrors, metronomes, and correction after correction after correction. He learned how to push past fatigue, how to make pain quiet, how to treat improvement like a debt he owed rather than an achievement to celebrate.

And then there was Trainee A.

It wasn’t just a name nor a mere lineup. It wasn’t just another temporary label slapped onto boys who trained too hard and dreamed too quietly. It was a promise. Finally, one that felt deliberate in the way it was introduced, in the way it was watched. 

For the first time, James wasn’t just training in the dark — he was training toward something. It was like a shape began to form around his future. A group, a direction, a place he could finally imagine himself standing in without having to squint.

Trainee A felt different because it was visible. It felt different from simply dreaming about a star-studded future because people were, at long last, paying attention. It felt different from imagining their names printed on billboards and signs because executives now watched, producers now followed, fans now speculated. It felt different from jotting down their hopes and dreams of fame and fortune in their journals because the effort no longer disappeared into sealed practice rooms or internal evaluations. 

It finally existed out loud, existed online. It existed in real time, where strangers could see him sweat and stumble and improve. It wasn’t perfect, sure, but that was exactly the point. It felt honest, like proof that the years he’d spent repeating the same motions, chasing the same corrections, had been building toward something real.

For the first time, James let himself believe the path had an end.

Not an abstract type of end nor a vague someday. Rather, he let himself believe in something defined, tangible. Something that’s waiting just far enough ahead that it hurt to look at directly. He started measuring time differently — not by monthly evaluations or survival, but by what came after. He envisioned stages without feeling foolish for it. He envisioned a name people would say out loud. He envisioned belonging to something that wouldn’t vanish the moment he reached for it.

And then — piece by piece, like a sick, fucking twisted joke by the universe — it began to unravel.

People left. The shape shifted. What once felt steady became fragile, reconfigured again and again until the future he’d been picturing no longer matched reality. There were no explosions, no dramatic collapses. There were only quiet removals, gentle explanations, changes announced in a language too careful to carry the weight of what they meant. Every adjustment forced him to recalibrate not just his expectations, but himself as well.

Still, he held on. Because hope, once allowed in, is stubborn.

And then it was gone.

It wasn’t paused or delayed, no. It was just… gone. Disbanded in words chosen to sound grateful, appreciative, respectful — words that softened absolutely nothing. The certainty he’d built his life around vanished almost overnight, taking with it the version of himself who had believed that if he just endured long enough, the ending would be guaranteed. There was no ceremony to mark the loss or even a brief moment of closure. There was just absence, sudden and absolute.

He didn’t rage. He didn’t break down. He only felt hollow in a way that didn’t make room for tears.

Sure, his years of effort didn’t disappear. They will always be there. Even so, their meaning blurred. The dream didn’t die so much as it dissolved, leaving him standing in the same place he’d started, only older, sharper, and painfully aware of how close he’d come to certainty. Trainee A hadn’t just been a project — it had been validation. It was proof that he wasn’t imagining his own progress, that someone else had seen him and thought, yes, this is worth betting on.

Losing it forced a question he’d avoided for years: What happens when belief isn’t enough?

The system didn’t wait for his answer, so he did what it had trained him to do. 

He adapted.

He stayed in HYBE — once just BigHit Music  — when leaving would’ve made sense. He stayed when walking away might’ve felt easier. He folded the disappointment deep into himself and kept moving, because stopping wasn’t an option he’d ever been taught how to choose. (Relentless forward motion, right?) If Trainee A had taught him anything, it was that nothing was permanent — not opportunities, not promises, not even futures you could almost touch.

So he kept dancing. He kept refining his edges that were already so polished that it could blind. He kept showing up. If the path no longer had an end he could see, then he would keep walking it anyway — quietly, unabatedly — until something else took shape.

Trainee A ended, but James didn’t.

When the next lineup began to take shape, James didn’t let himself hope. At least, not at first.

This group was introduced carefully, almost clinically. It was an unnamed pre-debut group still in flux, still being tested, still subject to change if anyone faltered. He was placed alongside boys who, on paper, made sense. 

Martin was first and foremost. This boy was the prodigy everyone knew. In all his towering glory, Edwards was a trainee who had been with HYBE long enough to feel permanent, someone who could sing, rap, dance, and produce with an ease that bordered on unfair. James recognized that kind of talent immediately. He respected it, even if he didn’t say so out loud.

Seonghyeon came next. He was raw in a way that was impossible to manufacture. He picked things up quickly, instincts sharp, improvement visible almost day by day. Watching him train was like watching potential solidify in real time, and James couldn’t deny how valuable that kind of adaptability was in a system that demanded constant evolution.

Keonho surprised him the most (but don’t let that punk know he said that). He was young, enthusiastic, still carrying traces of his past as an athlete — swimming, James had heard. It showed in his stamina, in the way his body understood endurance before technique. What James hadn’t expected was how quickly Keonho learned, how naturally he translated discipline from one field into another. It made James rethink what kind of backgrounds could survive here.

And then there was Juhoon.

Multi-talented to an almost ridiculous degree, with a resume that made James blink the first time he heard about it. Acting, modeling, playing multiple instruments — experience layered on experience, like he’d been employed since childhood. James found himself quietly impressed despite himself. He wasn’t threatened, though. If anything, he was reassured. Talent like that didn’t weaken a lineup. It fortified it.

He didn’t like thinking of it that way — measuring people by how useful they were to a debut — but the truth settled in anyway. These boys were good. They were strong and capable, qualities that wouldn’t seem so surprising had it not been exemplified by boys as young as they were. Their talent wasn’t a risk; it was security. A group like this had a future, or at least the bones of one.

And slowly, cautiously, something else began to shift.

James started to warm to them. It wasn’t all at once, not without resistance, but enough to notice. Shared practice hours turned into brief conversations, corrections turned into collaboration, laughter then started to slip in where silence used to sit like a burden-blanket. He kept himself guarded, the lessons from his bonds with the guys from Trainee A still too sharp to ignore, but the idea of connection no longer felt as dangerous as it once had.

He didn’t let himself believe in permanence. He couldn’t bear to. But he allowed himself, just a little, to imagine staying.

And then… there was you.

You had joined the company quietly, without the reverence or intimidation most new trainees carried into the building.

You hadn’t arrived with a story that begged to be mythologized. You didn’t have viral clips, no survival show appearances in your early years, no dramatic narrative about chasing a dream since childhood. Your path to HYBE was much simpler than that, almost ordinary, which was precisely why no one looked too closely at you at first. 

It was a modest recommendation passed along. Your audition being taken seriously. Then a callback you half-expected and half-doubted until it actually came.

You hadn’t wanted this because it was glamorous. You wanted it because you were good at it.

Long before the company ever knew your name, you’d learned how to stand in front of mirrors and be honest with yourself. You practiced where you could, when you could — between school responsibilities, borrowed studio time, late nights when exhaustion made your movements sloppy but your resolve stubborn. You weren’t reckless about it. You didn’t burn yourself out chasing an impossible ideal. You just kept improving, quietly, steadily, the way someone does when they know exactly what they’re capable of and aren’t interested in proving it to anyone but themselves.

When the acceptance came, you didn’t cry. You didn’t celebrate wildly. You packed carefully. You told yourself this was just another step, not a miracle. 

That mindset followed you into the building.

You were newer — same intake as Juhoon, still unfamiliar enough to be underestimated — but you carried yourself like someone who had already learned how not to fold under scrutiny. Your confidence wasn’t loud or performative. It didn’t announce itself in exaggerated gestures or constant self-assurance. It simply existed, steady and unbothered, like you’d already decided you belonged here and were waiting for everyone else to catch up.

You learned the rules quickly.

It wasn’t just the obvious ones — the dating bans, the curfews, the expectations — but the subtler boundaries, the lines that could be nudged without consequence. You showed up on time. You took feedback seriously. You didn’t overstep. And every so often, when you were sure it would be noticed rather than punished, you bent the rules just enough to leave an impression. May it be in the form of a creative choice that wasn’t asked for or a suggestion offered with a smile sharp enough to pass as confidence rather than challenge.

You didn’t get scolded, much to the chagrin of a few and the awe of many. You got remembered.

The first month the evaluations rolled around, no one made a big deal out of it.

James placed first. You placed second.

It’s just a fluke, some said. Still fucking impressive, though, others murmured. Admittedly, a newcomer doing well was worth noting. It was promising, after all. Even so, it was the kind of result that only earned polite interest and then faded into the background as attention returned to the familiar names at the top.

You accepted the placement easily, though. You congratulated him and you went back to practice.

The second month, the board updated again. Your name was at the top.

James stared at it longer than he should have, though he didn’t realize it then. To him, it felt like disruption — something unexpected slotting itself into a system he thought he understood. To everyone else, it felt like coincidence, a mere reshuffling that was nothing to panic over.

Except it didn’t stop there.

From then on, it became a pattern no one could ignore. First and second, trading places between you like a quiet agreement neither of you had signed up for. When he won, you were right behind him, close enough to make it impossible to relax. When you won, he followed suite, just near enough to feel your shadow at his back. Staff comments shifted, subtle at first, then deliberate. Comparisons crept into feedback. 

You two, they’d say. Neck and neck. Pushing each other.

You listened to notes without comment. You knew what was happening even if no one said it outright. You had actually become a reference point. Suddenly, you weren’t just another trainee, not just a promising newcomer, but a measure. Someone to be weighed against. Someone whose presence recalibrated expectations.

It didn’t happen in any dramatic, obvious way — no forced partnerships or contrived pairings of the sort, definitely not — but rather in the slow, suffocating way HYBE’s special system specialized in. 

You shared the same practice rooms, because the top ranks were always funneled toward the same schedules. You had the same evaluation slots, back-to-back, close enough that you could hear each other through thin walls and half-closed doors. You were given the same stretches of time spent waiting, listening, anticipating. The space between you inevitably shrank until it felt intentional.

The tension just naturally grew with every refresh of the rankings.

It settled into the air long before either of you spoke, thick enough to be felt even when neither of you acknowledged it. When the board updated, something always shifted — posture tightening, breath catching, eyes flicking just once too often in the other’s direction. Neither of you ever lingered in front of the results together. Neither of you ever commented first. And yet, the awareness was immediate, unavoidable.

To James, you were an irritation he couldn’t shake. A variable that refused to stabilize. He couldn’t predict your next course of action the way he predicted everyone else’s. He couldn’t chart your progress neatly or dismiss your success as paltry circumstance. You were proof that discipline alone didn’t guarantee supremacy, that control could still be undermined by someone who didn’t strain quite as hard to hold onto it. You unsettled the logic he had built his life around, and that… that made you dangerous.

He told himself that was all it was. To you, though, he was something else entirely.

You noticed him long before you meant to. 

It wasn’t because he demanded attention as he always seemed such a stoic but humble guy. Rather, you noticed him because his restraint made him impossible to ignore. The way his focus narrowed when he practiced, as if the rest of the room just ceased to exist. The way his jaw set when something went wrong, tension pulling tight through his shoulders. The way he pretended not to care about the rankings and still checked them with surgical precision.

You watched him learn how to hold himself together and sometimes, when you were close enough, you saw the cracks.

You didn’t hide your interest — not completely — but you were careful with it. You were careful not to cross the line into something that could be named, reported, warned against. Instead, you let it live in smaller things. You let it live in a glance held just long enough to be felt, in a comment delivered with the faintest edge of amusement and perhaps light mischief, in a smile that suggested you saw more than you ever said.

You teased because it was safer than confessing. You observed because he never noticed until it was too late.

And you enjoyed it. Perhaps far more than you probably should have. You enjoyed the way he bristled when you spoke, the way his composure slipped just enough around you to reveal something raw underneath. Not to mention, you also really enjoyed just looking at the guy point blank (dude’s a living eye-candy!)

You didn’t provoke him to be cruel. You provoked him because he was honest when he was off-balance, and honesty, you’d learned, was rare here.

You weren’t desperate. You didn’t need his attention to validate you. You didn’t hinge your worth on whether he noticed you or not.

You just liked him.

And that was the cruel irony of it all — you could hold something like that so lightly while it seemed to weigh so heavily on him.

James thought he hated you.

He told himself the tightness in his chest was irritation, that the heat under his skin was frustration. He convinced himself that the way his attention snapped toward you — uninvited, even automatic — was rivalry honing him into something sharper. He framed every reaction as motivation, every glance as vigilance, every thought of you as a problem to be solved or outperformed.

It never occurred to him that hate didn’t, shouldn’t, feel like this.

You knew better, though — about yourself, at least. You knew the difference between interest and competition, could clock the difference between admiration and threat. You knew what it felt like to be pulled toward someone without needing to own them.

Neither of you realized yet that the tension threading itself between you wasn’t built on opposition at all.

It was fixation. It was awareness. It was obsession, carefully disguised as contention — quiet enough to pass by unnoticed, dangerous enough to ruin you both once it finally demanded to be named.

There was a rhythm to the hallways at HYBE, a rhythm James had memorized without meaning to.

Footsteps would always echo differently depending on the time of day. Mornings in the 26-floored building carried urgent ramblings while late nights carried fatigued murmurs. Evaluation days, however, carried a kind of silence so thick it pressed against the ears. It was in that silence that James first started noticing you before he wanted to.

You brushed past him near the lockers, shoulder grazing just fabric-light, barely enough to register physically — but his body reacted anyway. His jaw tightened before he could help it, teeth pressing together as if bracing for something. He didn’t look at you. He never did.

You did. Not openly, though. You looked only just enough to catch the tension in his posture, the way his shoulders squared as if preparing for impact. You bit back a smile and kept walking.

“Is it just me,” Juhoon murmured beside you, lowering his voice as the two of you headed toward the practice rooms, “or does it feel like everyone’s holding their breath today?”

You hummed in agreement. “Evaluation week, ‘Hoon.”

“Ugh. That explains why I feel like I’m about to be publicly executed.”

He rubbed at his neck and you know immediately he was referring to a jape you made two months ago, comparing the evaluations to being hanged or beheaded, like the wives of that fat, old monarch in Europe.

You laughed softly, nudging his arm. “Relax. You did great yesterday.”

Juhoon shot you a look. “Easy for you to say. You’re—” He stopped himself, glancing ahead. “—you.”

You didn’t respond to that. You never did. Instead, you caught sight of James ahead of you through the glass wall of the practice room, his reflection layered over your own. He was already inside, stretching with methodical precision, eyes locked on the mirror like it might betray him if he looked away.

You watched him without guilt, borderline checking him out, if you were being honest.

He noticed before he turned around. He always did.

His gaze snapped up, meeting yours through the mirror. It was just for a second, but long enough to register. Then he looked away, expression unreadable, hands tightening briefly into fists before relaxing again.

Juhoon leaned closer. “You know he does that every time you walk in, right?”

“Does what?” you asked lightly.

“That thing.” He tilted his head. “Like he’s, I don’t know, bracing himself for something.”

You smiled to yourself, filed away that phrase of description in your mind, and stepped into the room.

The instructor clapped once, sharp and commanding. “Alright. From the top. Full out.”

Practice swallowed everything else. Music, movement, every pointed correction directed toward someone specific (because what else could inspire improvement other than public humiliation?). Sweat beaded at your temples as you pushed through the choreography, muscles burning in that familiar, grounding way. 

Every so often, you caught James in your peripheral vision — clean lines, controlled power, discipline etched into every movement. He didn’t miss steps. He never did. (As expected from someone who helped choreograph a debuted girl group’s song.)

When the music cut, the instructor nodded thoughtfully. “Good. James— your control is excellent, as always. Just be careful not to stiffen in transitions.”

“Understood,” James replied immediately, voice steady.

“And Y/N.” The instructor turned to you. “Strong presence. You adapt quickly. I want to see that same confidence even when you’re tired, okay?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir!”

James glanced at you then — quick, sharp. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t seem impressed either. He just seemed to be… made aware. Or something.

Later, in the hallway outside the evaluation room after everyone has finally finished their turn, the rankings refreshed.

A small cluster of trainees gathered, pretending to stretch or check their phones while clearly watching the board. James stood a step back, hands clasped behind him, eyes fixed on the list.

You arrived moments later, Juhoon trailing behind you.

James didn’t move, but his focus sharpened. You could feel it.

Your name sat above his.

You watched his reflection in the glass as his gaze lingered — half a second longer than necessary — before he straightened, expression smoothing into something carefully neutral. He stepped away without a word.

You didn’t gloat. You never did.

“Hey,” you called lightly, just loud enough to reach him.

He paused.

“Good job today,” you said. “Your turns were cleaner than last month.”

Something flickered across his face — annoyance, maybe, or disbelief. Then he nodded once. “You too.”

There was no edge in his tone, nor was there any warmth. You could discern it, though, from how many times he’s used it on you before. It was just restraint. Plain, simple restraint.

When the rankings flipped the next month, it went the other way.

This time, you found him first.

The practice floor was still loud then — voices overlapping, footsteps echoing, someone laughing too loudly at nothing — but you waited. You always did. You lingered near the edge of the room, pretending to retie your shoelace, pretending to check your phone, until the noise thinned into something manageable. Only then did you step closer, close enough to be heard without making it a spectacle.

“Congrats,” you said, easy, like it didn’t cost you anything.

James turned, clearly expecting someone else. His brows knit together when he saw you, confusion flashing briefly across his face before settling into something more guarded. “You’re not surprised,” he said, like he’d already decided it was strange.

You tilted your head, considering him. “Should I be?”

He hesitated, fingers flexing once at his side. “Most people are.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “I wasn’t.”

That quick response earned you a longer look — measured, searching, the kind he only ever gave you. It looked like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, like he was trying to catch the smirk you didn’t give him, the tease you didn’t make. You met his gaze steadily, then smiled anyway. It wasn’t sharp or victorious. It was just… fond, in a way that felt almost reckless to reveal.

“Well,” you added, stepping back, “don’t let it get to your head.”

He scoffed, but it came a beat too late. “You’re one to talk.”

You only laughed softly and turned away before he could say anything else.

Behind you, James exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.

His irritation was never loud. It didn’t explode or demand attention. It lived in smaller, sharper places — in precision. It lived in the way he shifted his schedule by ten minutes to avoid crossing paths with you and somehow still ended up beside you at the water station. It also lived in the way he kept his eyes forward when you entered a room, only to glance over a second later like his focus had betrayed him.

And with you being… you, of course you noticed everything.

You noticed the way his eyes lingered on the leaderboard just a fraction longer when your name sat above his — or when it didn’t. You noticed how his control, so carefully maintained around everyone else, thinned only in your presence. How his replies came a little too fast or a little too clipped, like he was always correcting himself mid-thought. Comparably, you also noticed how his jaw set whenever you walked in, and you have to laugh because Juhoon wasn’t kidding when he said that James looked like he was bracing for something. 

You didn’t call him out on it. You didn’t tease him the way you easily could’ve. And you didn’t pull away, either.

You simply watched — and waited.

Even after the rankings were posted and the crowd dispersed, you didn’t disappear from James’ world entirely. You became one of those presences he noticed without actually noticing — always around, always moving with that quiet confidence, threading yourself into the routines of the studio. Not forcefully, not obtrusively, just… there.

Sometimes it was in the small, practical ways that made you easy to like. 

You’d offer a clean towel to Keonho after practice, joke with Seonghyeon about the ridiculous amount of water he drank, or sneak a packet of instant coffee and a snack to Martin when he was still hunched over choreography in the far corner. Juhoon was the way he’s always been — self-explanatory, as your “joined the company at the same time” buddy. You heard the other boys talking about you — how you bought drinks from the vending machine and shared them, how you always had something small to offer when someone forgot, how you had this effortless way of fitting into the group without demanding space. 

“She’s cool,” Keonho said once, leaning against the wall as you handed out bottles of water to other trainees. “Like… makes everything less tense.” You smirked to yourself when you overheard, shrugging lightly. James grunted noncommittally, but you noticed.

You weren’t someone who clung to anyone or tried to be liked. You moved through the days with the same quiet assurance you carried in the evaluations. You laughed easily when you wanted to, spoke plainly, and never over-explained yourself. And yet, somehow, that made your presence stick to people’s minds more than anyone else’s.

James found himself noticing more than he intended. It wasn’t just the way you handed out towels or shared snacks, it was the way you’d slip a comment toward him when he was practicing, like a casual observation that carried a subtle weight. Perhaps a glance at his footwork or a raised eyebrow at his spin. 

“Looking sharp,” you’d say, almost conversational, but precise enough that it lingered in the air and in his thoughts longer than it should. He’d blink, adjust, and scowl softly — subtly, so no one else would notice his unfounded disdain — but he couldn’t really ignore it.

Occasionally, he caught you talking with Juhoon, leaning on the edge of the practice floor, laughter spilling easily between you. Martin, Seonghyeon, and Keonho drifted toward you too, joking about the cafeteria or the latest snack you’d brought. He listened in once, tucked near the mirrors during cooldown, and heard them:

“Y/N is like… the only one who doesn’t make practice feel like a cage,” Seonghyeon said.

“Yeah, she’s chill,” Martin agreed, smirking. “And she actually cares about keeping us from collapsing mid-practice.”

Keonho laughed, shoving an arm around Juhoon. “Seriously. She’s like… some magical morale booster.”

You heard their praise but didn’t let it get to your head. You smiled, handed out another bottle of water like you always had, and moved on. You weren’t doing it for recognition. You were doing it because it was simply the way that you were (friendly, never to a fault), because it felt right, and because it kept the studio moving a little more smoothly.

And yet, despite your efforts to blend in, James still noticed. 

He noticed your small movements, your calm efficiency, the way you could shift the energy in the room without even trying. Sometimes, when you passed him in the hallway or waited near the same practice room, he would tighten his jaw just a little when your gaze met his. And you, in exchange, noticed it too. That subtle reaction, the micro-flinch, the tension that spiked for no reason other than you were there — oh, it thrilled you, quietly.

It was harmless, unspoken, invisible to anyone else, but you felt it, the pull between you. You felt the awareness that he couldn’t ignore you, no matter how much he tried. And that knowledge — knowing you had this effect on him — made every day in the studio feel sharper, more electric. 

And in that electricity, you knew it wouldn’t be long before those small interactions — the hallway brushes, the shared spaces, the fleeting glances — slipped effortlessly into the teasing, challenging banter you both secretly craved, even before a single word was said.

The studio smelled faintly of disinfectant and sweat, the late-afternoon sun cutting long rectangles of light across the polished floor. James was stretching at the barre, his back straight, movements precise and controlled. You stepped in, backpack slung casually over one shoulder, and paused just long enough to notice the way his muscles tensed under his shirt, even though he hadn’t looked at you.

“Hey,” you said lightly, dropping your bag. “How’d the evaluation go?”

He didn’t answer immediately, already tightening his core as if the question itself were a weight he hadn’t expected.

“I—” he began, voice clipped, but you cut in smoothly, your tone airy.

“Don’t bother lying, Zhao. I’d know.”

He froze mid-stretch, one hand gripping the barre a little too tightly. His jaw set. You smiled faintly, stepping a little closer than necessary, careful not to overstep but close enough for him to feel the shift in space.

“First, I assume?” you said casually, letting the words hang in the air like a small challenge.

James’ eyes flicked to the floor, then back to you, narrowing slightly. “No,” he said finally. Flat. Controlled. Irritation curling just under the surface.

“Ah,” you said, mock consideration in your voice. “So I guess that means you’re… second. Again.” 

You didn’t smirk, not really, just lifted an eyebrow as if the observation were merely factual. Nevertheless, the way he stiffened told you everything you needed to know.

“You’ll get first next month,” you added smoothly, tilting your head. “We’re alternating, remember?”

Something in him clicked — a subtle, almost invisible shift. His back straightened even further. He didn’t answer. He didn’t really need to. The silence itself that enveloped you both in that space carried all the weight that mattered, his irritation humming in the space between words.

You moved to the other side of the barre, stretching beside him, deliberately aligning your movements so your knee brushed against his thigh just slightly. Not enough to provoke a reaction — not yet — but enough to draw a flicker of awareness from him. He exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing, but his posture didn’t waver.

“You know,” you said, still casual, “it’s really impressive how consistent you are. Always first or second. You make it look so… easy.”

He didn’t rise to the bait immediately. You could feel the tension in the muscles around his jaw and shoulders. 

“I work hard,” he said finally, voice clipped but steady.

“You do,” you said with a soft nod, as if acknowledging a fact. “Which is exactly why it’s so goddamn annoying when I manage to beat you.”

He paused, one hand still on the barre, breathing slightly faster than before. His voice was low, precise, “Annoying?”

“Mm,” you said, tilting your head again, eyes catching his in the mirror. “I wouldn’t really call it hatred—God, not even close—More… inconvenient? For you, you know?”

A muscle ticked in his temple. He turned slightly away, focusing on his reflection instead of you, though his chest rose and fell unevenly. He didn’t speak, but his body betrayed him. You took note of the way his shoulders tightened, the subtle twitch of his fingers against the barre, the almost imperceptible shift of his eyes toward you every time you adjusted your stance — it all said what words refused.

You lowered your voice, leaning just enough toward him that only he could hear. “Don’t worry. I like keeping you on your toes.”

That was it. That was all. No insult or mockery. Just… observation. Just the truth, delivered lightly, with just enough amusement that it made him want to grind his teeth and punch the barre at the same time.

“You know,” he said finally, without looking at you, “if you hated me, this would be easier.”

You laughed softly, the sound teasing but not unkind. “And what, miss all this fun?”

He looked at you then, finally, eyes darkening with something that balanced on the edge of irritation and… something else. Something you didn’t need nor dared to define yet. You met it with a faint, careful smile, letting the unspoken words hang in the air.

You moved away then, picking up your water bottle and stretching on the opposite side of the room, but you didn’t leave him alone. Every so often, you would glance at him through the mirror, catching him reflexively checking your position, your movements, the subtle tilt of your head. He wouldn’t admit it. He wouldn’t acknowledge it. But you knew. You could see it. And that, more than anything, was the thrill.

Because this wasn’t hatred. Not really. Not yet.

It was a pulse. A spark. A quiet, relentless game that neither of you could walk away from.

And you couldn’t help but enjoy every second of it.

At first, James doesn’t notice the change.

It slips in the way most dangerous things do — soft, reasonable, easy to justify. It wasn’t anything very sensational or demands any sort of acknowledgment. It was merely a series of small decisions that feel harmless on their own.

He tells himself it’s coincidence when his breaks start lining up with yours. The schedule is tight. Evaluations are close. Everyone’s exhausted and moving on muscle memory. Of course people end up in the same places at the same time. Of course.

That’s what he tells himself as he finishes his last set and doesn’t immediately leave the practice room. That’s what he tells himself as he stretches longer than necessary, pretending to work through a tight muscle while his gaze drifts — once, twice, even daring thrice — toward the hallway reflected in the mirror.

It’s not intentional, he insists, when he takes the longer route to the water station. It’s not on purpose that he finds himself slowing down just enough to let the noise of the corridor register. The footsteps, voices. Perhaps even shrill, uninhibited laughter that sounds suspiciously like yours.

“You on break too?” you ask one afternoon, already there, already leaning against the vending machine like you belong exactly where you are.

He nods, a fraction too quickly, thrown off at you appearing as though he’d conjured you from his thoughts. “Yeah.”

You hum thoughtfully, scanning the machine before pressing a button. “Funny. I feel like you always are.”

“That’s not—” He stops himself, exhales. “We just have similar schedules.”

“Mm,” you say, clearly unconvinced, as a bottle clatters into the tray. You crouch to grab it, then straighten and glance at him sideways. “You stalking me now, James?”

He scoffs, sharp and automatic. “Get over yourself.”

You grin, unabashed. “Worth asking.”

You don’t gloat. You never do. It’s just not in your repertoire to. You don’t crowd him, don’t press the moment. You just stand there beside him, cracking the cap of your drink and taking a slow sip like this is all perfectly normal. Like the air between you isn’t suddenly too charged, too aware.

He notices, against his will, that you don’t immediately leave and… neither does he.

“You place well today?” you ask casually, eyes still on the vending machine as if you aren’t already sure of the answer.

“Yes,” he says. Then, after a beat, “So did you.”

You glance at him then, something unreadable flickering across your face before it smooths into that same easy expression. “Neck and neck,” you say. “As usual.”

Something tightens in his jaw.

“You sound very calm about it.”

You shrug, rolling your shoulders. “Should I not be?”

“No,” he says immediately, then hesitates. “I just— most people care more.”

You tilt your head, studying him openly now. Up and down, then the smallest of smiles. “I care,” you say. “I just don’t really panic about it, you know?”

That lands harder than it should.

He takes his water bottle and twists the cap off a little too aggressively. You watch him with quiet interest, not mocking, not sympathetic either. It was just attentive.

“You’re tense,” you add lightly. “Is that because of me?”

James rolls his eyes at your wiggling eyebrows, “In your imagination, maybe.”

You sigh, mock-hurt, “Damn, Zhao. That stings.”

The pair of you let a few beats of quiet settle. It wasn’t awkward, more so a pause to breathe.

You puncture it soon enough with a passing thought. “You should stretch more.”

James raises a brow, “I stretch enough, L/N.”

“Well, clearly,” you say, eyes flicking pointedly to his shoulders, “your posture says otherwise.”

He turns to face you, irritation suddenly flaring. “Why do you care?”

The question comes out a bit sharper than he means it to. A bit too direct. He didn’t intend to sound so harsh. Perhaps he’d been ruffled by the slightest hint of concern that bled through your playful advices.

You blink, momentarily surprised, then smile again — soft, almost amused. “I… don’t really know,” you say. “Habit, I guess?”

That answer unsettles him more than any clever comeback would have.

A moment passes. A moment too long. He becomes acutely aware of how close you’re standing, of how easy it would be to take half a step closer or further away. You don’t move and, again, like earlier, neither does he.

“Break’s almost over,” you say eventually, checking your watch. “You heading back?”

“In a minute,” he replies.

You nod, pushing off the machine. “Alright. Suit yourself.”

You start to walk away, then pause and glance back over your shoulder. “Hey, James?”

“What.”

“You did really well today.”

You weren’t teasing. Your tone wasn’t pointed either. It was just sincere. Then you’re gone, just like that, disappearing down the hall before he can even think of a characteristic response. James stands there longer than necessary, staring at the space you occupied, the echo of your voice still lingering in the air.

He tells himself it means nothing. But later, when he checks the time without thinking and realizes he’s already anticipating the next break — wondering, faintly, irrationally, if you’ll be there again.

That’s when the thought starts to form, slow and unwelcome: This isn’t coincidence anymore. It is habit. 

And worse— he doesn’t seem to want it to stop.

Juhoon notices the shift in the atmosphere before James does.

It’s during cooldown, when everyone’s too tired to keep their filters intact. James is sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, towel looped around his neck, staring at nothing in particular while his pulse slowly settles. Sweat drips down his temple. His mind is already running ahead — counts, formations, adjustments upon adjustments.

Juhoon drops down beside him with a soft thud, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“Do you and Y/N have, like, the same internal clock or something?” Juhoon says, casual, almost lazy. “Every time I see you, she’s here too.”

James doesn’t look at him. He wipes his face with the towel, controlled, deliberate. “You’re imagining things.”

Juhoon hums, unconvinced. He leans back on his hands, eyes drifting toward the hallway outside the practice room. “Am I? ‘Cause I swear I saw you slow down earlier when we passed the water station and she was there.”

James stiffens, just a fraction. “I didn’t.”

“Uh-huh.” Juhoon grins, clearly enjoying himself. “You know, I’m not judging. It’s just… kind of impressive. You’re usually allergic to distractions.”

James finally turns his head. “She’s not a distraction. She’s not.”

Juhoon’s grin fades — just a little. That gets James’ attention.

“Oh,” Juhoon says. “So she’s… what, then?”

James opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw tightens. “She’s competition.”

“Right, right,” Juhoon says slowly. “And you, what, time your breaks around your competition now?”

James shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut. “I don’t time anything, Sherlock.”

Juhoon raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, chill. I’m just saying,” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “You look different lately.”

That lands heavier than James expects.

“Different how.”

Juhoon shrugs. “I dunno, more… on edge, maybe? But, like, not in your usual way. It’s just like you’re bracing yourself for something you don’t want to think about.”

James looks away. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Maybe,” Juhoon concedes. Then, after a beat, “But hey, I’ve been here long enough to know when someone’s pretending not to notice something.”

James stands abruptly, towel slipping from his shoulders. “Dude. Drop it.”

Juhoon watches him go, expression shifting — less amused now, more thoughtful.

The thing is— James starts to feel it on the days it doesn’t happen.

On the rare afternoons when your schedules don’t overlap, when he steps into the hallway and doesn’t immediately spot you leaning against the wall, stretching your arms, or tying your hair up with that familiar smug-like ease — something goes off-kilter. The space feels wrong. It feels too empty while the noise just seems to him too thin.

He tells himself it’s good. There’s less distraction, more capacity to focus. Regardless, though, his focus just fractures anyway. 

The mirrors feel harsher, reflecting every misstep too clearly. His timing even slips — sure not badly, but just enough that he notices. Obvious enough that it irritates him. He runs the sequence again and again and again and it still turns out wrong.

He pushes through practice anyway. He always does. Discipline doesn’t care about moods. Muscle memory doesn’t make exceptions. Except today, it does.

“Hey,” Martin says later, after James clips a turn he’s nailed for years. “You good?”

James straightens, breath already controlled. “I’m fine.”

Martin tilts his head. “You sure? You usually never miss that.”

James opens his mouth to answer and realizes he doesn’t have one that makes sense.

“I just… need to reset,” he says finally.

Martin nods, accepting it easily, but Juhoon, sitting across the room, watches him carefully. There’s a crease between his brows now, concern threading through the earlier amusement.

When they break again, Juhoon falls into step beside him.

“She wasn’t here today,” Juhoon says, as-a-matter-of-factly, not looking at him.

James’ response is instant, a beat too fast. “I know.”

Juhoon stops walking. James takes two more steps before realizing — and then he stops too.

James turns to face Juhoon, then, whose expression is unreadable as he speaks. “You weren’t paying attention, huh?”

James’ throat tightens. “I—”

Juhoon exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look. I’m not saying anything. I just…” He hesitates. “You and her? You’d be a stupid hot pair. Like, objectively speaking.”

James lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “That’s not funny.”

“I know,” Juhoon says softly. “That’s why I’m worried.”

That piques James’ recognition.

Juhoon looks down the hall warily, voice dropping. “You know how this place is. You know how things end up in here when people start feeling things they’re not supposed to.”

James clenches his fists. “I’m not feeling anything.”

Juhoon meets his gaze. “Then why do you look like you’re trying not to?”

The question hangs between them. James looks away first. Neither of them says anything else — but the silence is louder than any accusation.

He starts checking rooms without meaning to.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway — that it isn’t intentional, that his feet just carry him wherever they need to go next. He finishes a set early and, instead of heading straight for cooldown, his gaze drifts to the narrow window of Studio C. The glass reflects fluorescent light and nothing else. It’s empty. He pauses, longer than necessary, hand hovering near the door before he catches himself and moves on.

It happens again with Studio A.

He circles back under the excuse of grabbing something he “forgot” — a towel, his phone, anything that sounds reasonable in his head. He peers in through the window, already bracing for disappointment he refuses to name. Someone else is there, running counts in front of the mirror. 

It’s not you. The realization lands like a sharp, stupid ache in his chest, sudden and unwelcome. He clenches his jaw and turns away too quickly, annoyed at himself for even looking.

The worst part is how often it keeps happening.

Once is coincidence. Twice is carelessness. By the third time, he’s painfully aware of it in a way that makes his skin prickle. He changes routes between rooms in hopes to run into you, slows his pace in hallways thinking of the off-chance that you were merely taking your sweet time as well. Hell, he even checks the time more often than he ever has before. 

He tells himself it’s about efficiency, about finding open space to practice — but the truth is uglier, more personal.

He’s looking for you. Actively, purposefully lookingfor you.

The absence of you has weight now. It presses into the spaces you usually occupy — the corner of the room where you would usually stretch, the hallway where you would lean against the wall trying to tie your hair up neatly, the water station where you always seem to be when he tells himself he’s just passing through. 

Without you, everything just feels misaligned. The building hums too loudly. The mirrors feel unforgiving. His body doesn’t settle the way it should. He pushes harder to compensate.

He would start to run drills until his legs burn, repeat sequences until the counts blur together. He gets sharper, cleaner. On paper, he’s still inherently excellent, but something underneath it all is fraying, and he hates that he can’t brute-force his way through it.

That’s how Seonghyeon catches him.

James is standing in the doorway of Studio B, not quite inside, not quite leaving either. He’s pretending to check the posted schedule on his phone, even though he memorized it earlier that morning. The room is empty. Again.

“You looking for someone?” Seonghyeon asks from behind him, voice easy, curious.

James straightens immediately, shoulders squaring like he’s been called out mid-mistake. “No,” he says too fast. “Just, uh, just checking availability.”

Seonghyeon leans to peer past him into the room, then looks back, lips quirking. “…Right… ‘Cause there are, what, four other empty studios right now?”

James’ jaw tightens. “I like this one.”

“Okay…?” Seonghyeon says, clearly not buying it. “But, uh, you know Y/N usually uses Studio C around this time, right?”

James’ breath stutters — barely noticeable, but just enough. “I didn’t ask,” he snaps.

Seonghyeon raises both hands, amused but not unkind. “Relax, dude. Just saying.”

James walks past him without another word, heat crawling up his neck. The fact that someone else noticed — at least, noticed enough to comment — sits heavy in his chest. He doesn’t like being readable. He doesn’t like being predictable. 

He especially doesn’t like that they’re all… right.

When he finally does find you, it’s worse than not finding you at all.

You’re stretching by the mirrors, music low, earbuds in, body loose in a way that feels almost unfair given how hard the day’s been. You were moving like the room belongs to you — unrushed, unbothered, entirely at ease in your skin. Then again that was how you always moved. James registers all of it in a single, unwelcome rush before you glance up and catch him in the mirror.

You smile. You didn’t look surprised or smug. Just… pleased, like you had an inkling that this moment right here was always meant to happen.

“Hey,” you say, pulling one earbud out. “Did you need the room?”

James exhales slowly, as if steadying himself. “No. I—” He stops, practiced irritation flashing across his face. “I thought it was empty.”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, eyes flicking briefly to the clock on the wall. “You always come around this time.”

It’s not accusatory. It’s not even teasing. You were just observant. It was that alone unsettles him far more than if you’d smirked instead.

“It’s just coincidence,” he says, a little too firmly.

You hum, clearly unconvinced, and return to stretching like his presence hasn’t shifted the air density of the room. You step into a deeper stretch, hands braced against the mirror, muscles pulling and releasing in smooth, practiced motions. James looks anywhere but directly at you but your reflection still betrays him.

He moves to the other side of the room, setting his bag down with unnecessary care.

“Long day?” you ask casually.

“Same as always.”

“You say that every day,” you reply. “Statistically speaking, that can’t always be true.”

He shoots you a look. “Do you ever stop talking?”

You grin, unabashed. “Not really.”

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches — and he hates that you notice. He knows you noticed because your grin draws out just a tad wider in return.

You switch stretches, drifting a little closer without comment. It wasn’t enough to crowd him, you made sure, but just enough to be there. Close enough that when he shifts his stance, he becomes acutely aware of the space between you — or lack thereof.

“You didn’t place first today,” you say, conversational.

His jaw tightens. “No.”

“But you’re acting like you did.”

“What does that even mean?”

You shrug. “You’re grumpier when you win.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is too!” you exclaim with a giggle, suddenly excited to divulge a discovery you made months ago. “When you place second, you get quiet. When you place first, you act like someone just stole your lunch and insulted your whole family.”

He exhales through his nose. “You’re just projecting.”

You laugh softly. “Am I?”

Silence stretches. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but taut. Expectedly imputed. James drops into a stretch of his own, facing the mirror. Your reflections line up now, close enough that he can see your expression shift when you watch him.

“Relax your shoulders,” you say suddenly.

He frowns. “I am relaxed.”

“You’re absolutely not.”

“I didn’t ask for coaching.”

“Too bad,” you reply easily. “You look like you’re bracing for impact.”

That hits a tad too close, a tad too familiar.

He straightens abruptly. “What’s up with you and my posture, L/N? Why do you even care?”

The question comes out sharper than he intends, thunder edging his voice. He was halfway through regretting the way he let his tone get that way, to a harsh point, but your reaction stopped him dead in his tracks.

You only blinked — just once — then smiled again, softer this time. “Like I said before, I don’t know,” you say. “Maybe it’s really habit or I just… notice things.”

“About everyone?” he asks.

Your gaze lingers on his reflection. “No.”

Something shifts. It wasn’t rip-roaring or anything of the sort, but it was just enough to make his pulse jump.

He turns toward you, then stops himself halfway, fists clenching at his sides. For a moment, it looks like he might say something — something real, something bordering on dangerous. Instead, he looks away.

“You should go,” he mutters. “Your break’s almost over.”

You check the clock again, unbothered. “So is yours.”

You stay anyway. He hates how much that means to him.

You finish your stretch and stand beside him, close enough that he can feel your warmth without touching. You tilt your head, studying him with that maddening calm that makes his skin itch.

“You’re… tense when I’m around,” you say gently.

“In your imagination, maybe.”

You smile, eyes glinting. “Funny. You said that last time.”

He groans quietly, dragging a hand down his face. “You do this on purpose.”

“Do what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you. “Whatever this is.”

You consider him for a moment, then step back — just a little. Far enough from him to give him space, far enough to show that you’re not trying to trap him into anything he wasn’t ready for.

“I don’t do anything you don’t let me,” you say simply.

That stops him cold. You pop your earbud back in, gathering your things. Before you leave, you pause at the door and glance back.

“Oh, by the way,” you add, almost as an afterthought. “You did really well today. Even if you don’t like hearing that from me.”

And then you’re just gone, with the door clicking shut behind you.

James stays where he is, chest feeling tight, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable if he were looking. He presses his palms into the mirror, breathing hard, staring at his own reflection like it might explain how he got here. 

He doesn’t want this. Whatever the fuck this is. He doesn’t want you.

The worst part, though — the part that really fucking terrifies him most — is how badly his body, his instincts, his obvious silence all seem to disagree. Because if he weren’t holding himself back, if he weren’t actually just being an in-denial, emotionally constipated blockhead… 

He wouldn’t be standing alone right now.

On the days he doesn’t see you at all, something goes wrong with the rhythm of his life.

It doesn’t go wrong in ways anyone else would clock immediately. Of course he still shows up early. Of course he still warms up properly. Of course he still hits his marks with precision that borders on clinical. From the outside, James is exactly who he’s always been. Reliable. Impeccable. Untouchable. Sticking to relentless forward motion.

But underneath it, the day refuses to settle.

He moves through the building with an awareness that has nowhere to land. His eyes track doorways without permission. He slows near practice rooms he has no reason to enter. He checks the internal app more often than necessary, scanning schedules he already knows, looking for a name that isn’t there. When he passes the vending machines or the water station, he hesitates — just a second too long — before realizing there’s no one to meet him this time.

It’s so goddamn disorienting.

He doesn’t replay specific moments anymore; those have already worn themselves thin. Instead, it’s the lack of new ones that unsettles him. The day feels unfinished, like a conversation that cut off mid-sentence. It feels, to him, like something essential was supposed to happen and yet it just didn’t.

He notices it in smaller, stranger ways.

He adjusts his posture more than usual, as if someone is watching. He catches himself glancing at mirrors, then scowls at his own reflection for the habit. When practice ends, he lingers. It’s not really because he needs to (heck, some instructors were growing sick of how meticulously perfectionistic he was), but because leaving feels premature, like he’s abandoning a possibility he can’t quite name.

Surprisingly (not), it makes him irritable in a quieter way. It’s not explosive, rather more contained.

It shows when Martin mentions your name once, offhand, while they’re packing up.

“Y/N brought extra snacks again,” he says, casual. “I think she felt bad Keonho skipped lunch.”

James answers without thinking. “Oh,” he says, a little too fast. “She wasn’t here today.”

The room stills — not dramatically, just enough.

Martin looks at him, brows knitting together. “You noticed?”

James’ hand pauses on the zipper of his bag. “…No,” he says after a beat, tone clipped. “Just— people talk, okay?”

Martin hums, unconvinced, but lets it drop. James, however, doesn’t relax.

That night, exhaustion weighs heavy in his bones, the kind that should knock him out immediately. Instead, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the building settle around him. His body is tired. His mind is not. 

It keeps reaching outward.

He realizes, with a quiet kind of dread, that his days have started organizing themselves around you without his consent. 

It’s not because he misses you — hell no, God forbid, as he flat-out refuses that word — but because the absence of you leaves this agitating negative space. Your nonappearance leaves a hollow where tension used to live, a challenge sharpened him. It leaves behind a crevice where something — this something that is electric and irritating and grounding all at once — used to press back against him.

Without you, the air goes flat. Without you, there’s no one to push against. No one to hold his attention in that precise, maddening way. The work feels lonelier — not because he’s alone, but because no one else mirrors him quite the same.

And somewhere between hovering outside another empty practice room and checking the time for a break he no longer needs, James understands something that makes his chest tighten painfully.

He isn’t reacting to you anymore. He’s orienting himself around you. He’s looking for you before he even realizes he’s doing it. On instinct.

And that terrifies him far more than any rivalry ever could.

You notice the change in the air and in your routine before the rankings do.

At first, it’s subtle. Your breaks stop overlapping, the usual moments where you’d spot James cooling down by the mirrors or hovering near the water station just… don’t happen. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Schedules shift all the time, after all. Trainees rotate rooms. People get pulled into evaluations or extra rehearsals without warning.

Still, you had to admit, the building feels different when he’s not there.

You start adjusting your schedule on purpose after that. Just a little. Nothing conspicuous enough to raise suspicion. You take breaks five minutes earlier. You switch studios last minute. You linger longer in cooldown or cut it short entirely, slipping out before he even has the chance to appear like clockwork.

It’s not malicious. You could never bear to be like that to anyone, let alone James. You’re also not trying to punish him. You just… want to see if he notices. And maybe — if you’re being honest — you want to see if you do.

The answer is annoyingly quick.

You miss him. Of course not in an ostentatious, moon-eyed way. Not in a way that makes you sigh or stare at your phone or write his name in the margins of anything (because what the fuck, you weren’t in middle school?). You miss him the way you miss friction. You miss him the way you miss something that keeps you sharp. You miss his dry remarks, his unimpressed looks, the way he never lets you get away with being anything less than excellent.

And yes — fine, fine — you miss his face too.

That stupidly handsome, perpetually serious face that looks carved out by the Gods of perfection and focus and discipline (if there was one). That irritatingly gorgeous face that softens just barely when he’s tired. The ludicrously drop-dead striking face that never gives you what you want but always gives you something to push against. You accept this faster than you probably should.

You don’t spiral about it, though. You don’t even fight it. You just acknowledge it, shrug internally, and move on. Missing someone doesn’t have to mean anything catastrophic. It doesn’t have to dismantle you or your entire way of living. It can just exist — alongside rivalry, alongside ambition, alongside the quiet understanding that some presences make the grind more bearable.

James, you’re pretty sure, would hate that you’re this okay with it.

On the days you don’t avoid him on purpose — when schedules just genuinely don’t line up, when rehearsals drag late or end early — you catch yourself glancing around anyway. You wonder how his practice is going. You ponder whether he’s hitting his marks or whether he’s annoyed you’re not there to compete with him.

You always do find yourself smiling at the thought.

As you vowed not to, you don’t chase him down. You don’t go looking for him (because barf, that just screams desperate). Even so, you do miss the back-and-forth. The way your conversations never quite sit still — half challenge, half familiarity. You miss knowing exactly how to get under his skin with one comment, and the way he pretends not to rise to it while very clearly rising to it.

It’s funny, really. The way James refuses to admit he misses you. You can see it in the stiffness of his posture when you pass him in the hallway, in the way his eyes flick to you before he remembers not to look. You, on the other hand, let the feeling settle easily.

You miss him, and you’re not afraid nor ashamed to admit that you like missing him.

And you realize, then, that this is a considerable distinction between you two that makes all the difference.

The rankings for that month drop on a Wednesday.

James is already standing in front of the board when it happens, arms crossed, posture set the way it always is, the way you always pointed out — like he’s bracing for impact even when he doesn’t need to. He tells himself he’s calm. He tells himself he’s prepared. This is routine. Numbers shift. People rise and fall. It’s all part of the system. He’s seen it happen a hundred times before.

His eyes go to the top first. First place. Not you.

A flicker of confusion crosses his face before he can stop it, sharp and instinctive, like a misstep on familiar ground. He scans again, slower this time, irritation threading into his chest as his gaze drops.

Second place. Still not you.

The space where your name should be feels wrong. It’s not empty, sure, but it just feels… incorrect. Like a sentence that suddenly ended with the wrong punctuation.

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening, eyes finally finding you at third.

Third.

It hits him harder than it should, harder than what should’ve made sense. For a moment, he genuinely thinks there’s been a mistake.

You, on the other hand, are standing a few feet away, weight shifted onto one leg, reading the board with the same mild curiosity you bring to most things. There’s a faint wince when you roll your shoulder — nothing too noteworthy, nothing you’d ever complain about. When you find your name, you nod once, like you’ve confirmed the weather.

“Huh,” you murmur. “Third.”

And… that was it.

You didn’t sigh. Your expression showed no visible disappointment. There wasn’t even a storm behind your eyes, nary a gray cloud overcasting your face. Instead, your features are just set in quiet acceptance, like this was always within the realm of possibility and you’re not about to let it ruin your day.

James turns to look at you, truly looks at you, and something in his chest lurches. You’re fine. That’s the problem.

He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s been wound around you until the tension disappears — and instead of relief, there’s this yawning, disorienting absence. The sharp edge that’s been driving him, grounding him, is suddenly gone. The mirror he’s been measuring himself against has shifted out of place, and he doesn’t know where to stand without it.

“You okay?” someone asks him — Martin, maybe — but James barely hears it.

His mind is too busy replaying everything at once.

The way you haven’t been around as much lately. The way your schedules stopped lining up. The way the air between you cooled, not from hostility, but from distance. He thinks of how he told himself it didn’t matter. How he insisted he was just focused on his own work.

And now this. Third.

The realization creeps in slow and merciless: this isn’t about you losing ground. It’s about him losing something he didn’t know he was holding.

You catch his eye then, across the room, the way you always do — accidentally on purpose. For half a second, you hesitate, weighing the familiar impulse to poke at him against the quieter instinct to leave things untouched. The rankings board is still buzzing behind you, voices overlapping, names being read and reread like they might rearrange themselves if stared at hard enough. Then you smile, easy and unbothered, and walk over to him like nothing in the world has shifted.

“Guess we broke the pattern,” you say lightly, tilting your head toward the board. “No alternating this month.”

It was meant to be a joke. Just a small one that’s familiar or safe, even. The kind of joke you’ve traded a dozen times before, sharp enough to spark but dull enough not to cut.

James opens his mouth — and nothing comes out.

Up close, it’s worse. He notices things he has no business noticing now, not when he’s supposed to be annoyed, not when this is supposed to be simple. Your voice is a little rough around the edges, like you’ve been pushing it too hard for too long. You favor one arm when you shift your weight, a subtle thing most people wouldn’t clock — but he does. Of course he does. And just above the collar of your shirt, barely visible when you move, there’s a sliver of white tape peeking out, stark against your skin.

A bandage.

His stomach drops. He wants to point it out immediately. He wants to ask if you’re okay, if it still hurts, if you iced it, if you need anything, if this is why— 

He swallows all of it down in one hard motion. 

Concern is dangerous. Concern invites questions he doesn’t want answers to. Concern looks too much like caring, and caring is a line he cannot afford to cross. Not here. Not with the rules hanging over his head, unspoken but absolute. Not when he doesn’t even know if you’d laugh it off or look at him like he’s suddenly strange.

So he does what he always does. He locks it away.

“You’re not—” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “You’re okay with it?”

You blink, then shrug, casual as ever. “Yeah. I mean, sure, it sucks a little, but,” You roll your shoulder without thinking, then wince, quick and controlled. You catch yourself, glance at him, and add, “Shit happens.”

James clocks the wince and the fact he didn’t — couldn’t — address it feels like a punch to the ribs.

“I overdid it,” you continue, tone matter-of-fact. “Extra rehearsals. Tried to clean a transition that didn’t really need fixing and, uh, shoulder didn’t love that.” You smile again, smaller this time, like you’re preemptively brushing off his concern before he can even voice it. “Nothing dramatic. Just bad math on my part.”

Bad math. He almost laughs, sharp and humorless. Bad fucking math. Jesus, you say it like you miscalculated a step, not like your body finally forced you to listen to it. He wants to tell you that third place isn’t nothing. He wants to tell you that everyone else would kill to still be standing where you are after pushing that hard. 

He wants — hell, needs — to tell you that watching your name drop felt wrong in a way he can’t articulate without unraveling himself in the middle of the practice room.

Instead, he says, “You placed third.” 

As if that’s the important part.

You grin, amused. “I know, Zhao. I can read.”

He exhales through his nose despite himself. “You don’t seem… bothered.”

“Well, I’m not devastated,” you correct. “There’s a difference.” You glance back at the board, then at him again, eyes sharp but kind. “But hey! Look at you. You placed first. Congrats.”

There it is. Again.

You never gloat. It’s just something you never did. You never soften your losses to make him comfortable or sharpen them to provoke him. You never look surprised when things tilt in your favor — or defensive when they don’t. You simply exist in the outcome, steady and unembarrassed, as if placement is just information and not a verdict on your worth.

It should irritate him. From any other person, your calmness would have aggravated him to his wits end. Instead, it guts him. Because with a clarity that feels almost violent, James understands something he’s been skirting around for weeks, maybe months — something he’s deliberately mislabeled as discipline or focus or rivalry because those were safer words.

The competition was never the point. Not really. What he misses isn’t winning. It’s the tension. The quiet, humming friction that lived in the spaces between you. The way his days felt charged when you were there to meet him head-on, matching him beat for beat without ever needing to announce it. The way his awareness sharpened — not just of himself, but of the room — because you were in it. Because you were watching, measuring, existing with that maddening ease that made everything feel more alive.

He realizes, with something akin to dread, that his drive has been feeding on that energy. On you. 

His days feel unfinished without you. Not without beating you. Without you.

Without the sideways glances that said more than words ever could. Without the quiet challenges you set simply by standing beside him with that small smirk. Without your stupid, stupid remarks about his fucking posture. Without the way you occupied his space like you belonged there — even when you were driving him insane, even when he was pretending not to notice how closely he was orbiting you.

“You shouldn’t push through injuries,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words hang between you, heavier than he intended.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Is that concern I hear?”

“No,” he says too fast. “It’s— It’s plain and simple common sense.”

“Ey, come on now. Don’t get shy on me, Zhao!” You nudge his arm, teasing.

James rolls his eyes good-naturedly, a smile threatening to replace his frown. “Keep imagining, L/N. I mean it. Don’t force yourself into things when you know your body can’t handle it anymore. That’s just common sense.”

You hum, clearly unconvinced, but you let it go. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll be fine, though. I swear. I just… misjudged how much I could take this time.”

James nods, jaw tight, eyes flicking once more — traitorously — to the edge of that bandage before he forces them back to your face. He wants to say something else. Anything else. He wants to tell you that seeing your name anywhere but first or second knocked something loose in him. He wants to tell you that the distance, the missed overlaps, the quiet days without your presence felt louder than any loss he’s ever had.

He says none of it.

You step back first, easy as always, like this conversation hasn’t shifted anything at all. 

“See you around,” you say. Not a challenge. Not a promise. Just a statement.

And as you walk away, James realizes — too late, too clearly — that whatever balance he thought he’d found is gone. 

Because third place didn’t just knock you off the top. It knocked him off his axis.

James watches you already laughing with someone else, already slipping back into the rhythm of the room like you were never derailed at all. The sound hits him harder than he expects. The ease of it. The way you move on without leaving anything unresolved, while he stands there feeling like the ground has subtly shifted beneath his feet.

The worst part — the part he can’t ignore anymore — is that he noticed the bandage.

The goddamn sliver of white at your collar. The careful way you moved. The fact that you stood there smiling anyway, offering him congratulations instead of excuses. It rattled him more than seeing your name slip down the board ever did. It made something in him lurch forward instinctively, something protective and untrained and deeply inconvenient.

He hates that he had to swallow it down. However, you were — quietly, painfully — grateful that he did. 

Because you noticed. Of course you did.

You saw the way his gaze stalled. You saw the way his jaw tightened, not with irritation this time, but restraint. You caught sight of the concern he reined in, the questions he didn’t ask, the way he chose control over comfort. And instead of resenting it, instead of wishing he’d broken character and reached for you, you respected him for it.

That, more than anything, is what settles in your chest.

You’ve never doubted his ambition. You’ve always admired it — the way he treats his goal like something sacred, something he refuses to endanger no matter the cost. Seeing him choose restraint, choose discipline even when it clearly unsettles him, only deepens that respect. It tells you this isn’t a boy that was merely playing carelessly at excellence.

He showed you that he was someone who knows exactly what he wants — and is willing to sacrifice for it. And you like him for that. Not in a flippant way or as part of the banter. But genuinely, cleanly. In a way that feels almost… careful.

You don’t miss his concern because you know it’s there. You felt it, and that’s enough.

For the first time since he started training here, James feels truly off-balance. Because annoyance, he realizes too late, was only the surface. Underneath it was hunger.

And now that he’s tasted the absence of you — now that the rivalry has gone quiet, now that your presence is no longer something a hundred percent guaranteed — he doesn’t know how to pretend he doesn’t want it back. He doesn’t know how to convince himself that the sharpness, the tension, the pull toward you was ever just about rankings.

He doesn’t know how to pretend he doesn’t want you.

And that realization — sudden, undeniable, and admittedly, Honest to God, downright terrifying — turns his world quietly, irrevocably upside down.

It starts like any other day.

You wake up sore in the familiar way it had always been since you started being a trainee, muscles heavy but cooperative, mind already running through what you need to fix in practice. You tie your hair back, pull on something comfortable, shove your shoes into your bag without thinking too hard about it. 

The hallways of the buildings smells like it was cleaner (you guessed the janitor worked overtime last night) and with the welcome aroma of caffeine. Someone laughs too loudly near the lockers. Someone else is already warming up, the counts muttered under their breath like a prayer. 

As you said, it was as normal as any other day in HYBE could get.

It isn’t until later, however — after stretch, after a run-through that goes better than you expected — that you reach into your bag for your water bottle and feel paper instead. A sleek piece of paper that was folded, neat, and felt intentional.

Your fingers still. For half a second, you consider pretending it isn’t there. You had half a mind already set on pretending that it’s just trash, or a schedule change graciously left to you, or just something forgettable. You’ve already learned how to keep moving, how to not let little disruptions knock you off your axis. But something in your chest tightens anyway, sharp and curious, and you unfold it before you can talk yourself out of it.

Meet me tonight. Rooftop. Don’t come if you don’t want to.

There was no signature or any sign of identification. Nevertheless, you had an inkling and figured he doesn’t really need one.

Your heart stutters — once, twice, the second harder than the last — then settles into something louder, into something faster. You read it again, slower this time, as if you’re worried the words might rearrange themselves into something less dangerous if you give them enough patience. They don’t. They sit there, restrained and reckless all at once, exactly like him.

James finally initiated, and that is exactly what derails you.

The rest of the day becomes an exercise in restraint. You go through the motions with an almost infuriating level of normalcy, nodding when spoken to, smiling when it’s expected, correcting yourself when you mess up. You laugh at something Juhoon says and only realize afterward that you didn’t hear a word of it. Every spare moment, your mind flicks back to the note, to the careful phrasing, to the exit he’s given you.

Don’t come if you don’t want to.

You don’t know what scares you more — that he meant it, or that you know, come hell or high water, you’re going anyway.

By the time night settles in, the building feels different. It feels quieter and almost hollowed out. The lights are dimmer, the air cooler, footsteps echoing in ways they don’t during the day. Each step toward the stairwell leading to petrifyingly uncharted territory (both literally and figuratively) feels deliberate, like you’re choosing something irreversible. You tell yourself not to read into it. You convince yourself this could be anything. A conversation, perhaps, or closure. Maybe even a warning.

Your excitement hums under your skin anyway, restless and bright, something you actively have to press down with both hands. You don’t want to get your hopes up. You don’t want to be foolish. You’ve been careful for a reason.

The rooftop door creaks softly when you push it open.

He’s already there and, for a moment, all you can do is stare.

James is standing near the railing, city lights bleeding faintly into the night beyond him. He’s wearing a suit — actually wearing one — and the sight hits you sideways, absurd and devastating all at once. The jacket is gone, slung carelessly over his shoulder like he was imitating one of those “cool, laidback” characters from movies. His tie is loosened, collar unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up just enough to show tension in his forearms. 

His hair isn’t perfectly in place as well. He looks… undone. Though, it wasn’t sloppy, nor did it look careless. Just human. Like he dressed with an intention he lost the nerve to fully carry through.

He turns when he hears the door, shoulders stiffening, and the look on his face when he sees you — caught between relief and something dangerously close to awe — makes your breath hitch despite yourself.

“Hey,” you say, softly, as if the night might shatter if you speak too loud.

“Hey,” he answers, and it sounds like he’s been practicing the word, like it feels heavier than it should be.

He doesn’t move toward you. That’s the first thing you notice. He keeps his distance, hands flexing once at his sides before stilling, jaw tight with restraint. It would almost be easier if he reached for you. Almost. Instead, he just looks at you. Really looks.

You can feel it, the weight of his attention, controlled but straining, like everything in him is being held together by sheer will. The air between you feels charged, alive with things neither of you has said out loud yet.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he admits finally.

You swallow. “You told me not to if I didn’t want to.”

“I know.” A pause. “I meant it.”

You observed the honesty — quiet, unadorned, obvious from his no-nonsense character — and it lands harder than any grand confession could have. You step closer before you can stop yourself, just enough to close some of the distance, not all of it. You don’t want to break whatever fragile balance this is.

“Well, I wanted to,” you say, and hope he hears what you don’t quite say with it.

His breath leaves him slowly. He nods, once, like he’s bracing himself, as always. Up close, you can see the cracks in his composure — the faint sheen of nervous energy on both his forehead and overall mood, the way his shoulders are set too rigidly, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he relaxes even a little.

You’ve never seen him like this. The tense posture, sure, and the intense gaze sometimes, but not the way it was positively burning at your skin the way it was now. Somehow, be that as it may, that unfamiliarity is what makes it thrilling, terrifying, intimate.

He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t crowd you. He doesn’t take the easy way out. Then again, he never really needed to. He just stands there, suit half-ruined, resolve unraveling at the edges, having clearly decided that whatever happens tonight is worth the risk.

You feel it then, unmistakably. This isn’t just a whim. This is a breaking point.

As you stand there under the open sky, heart hammering, excitement coiled tight in your chest, you realize with dizzying clarity that whatever he’s about to say — whatever this is — you’re already in too deep to walk away unchanged.

So you don’t move closer right away.

Instead, you step up beside him, a careful few feet of space still between you, and rest your forearms against the railing. The city stretches out below — traffic like a living thing, headlights bleeding into one another, the low hum of voices and engines rising up to meet the quiet of the rooftop. It’s beautiful in a distant, detached way, where it’s safe to look at. And hey, it was easier than looking at him.

You let the silence breathe first. Let it settle.

“So,” you say eventually, tone light on purpose, like you’re not standing on the edge of something that could change everything in the blink of an eye. “Is this where you bring all your rivals? Or am I special?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his mouth twitch before he can stop it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, too fast. Then, a beat later, quieter, more honest than he probably meant to be, “I’ve never really… brought anyone up here.”

“Really?” You might have made it sound a bit too disbelieving but there was no going back now.

James nods vigorously, eyes bright enough to seem reassuring, “Yes, most definitely. It’s always just been me going up here. To think, you know, or escape. Now, well, there’s… there’s you.”

That lands. You glance at him then, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Oh?”

He realizes what he’s said about half a second too late. You can almost see it happen — the mental backpedal, the instinctive urge to retreat. But instead of pulling away like he always had many times before, he exhales, long and slow, like he’s tired of holding his breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “Oh.”

You smile to yourself, turning back toward the city before he can see it fully. “Guess I should feel honored, then?”

“I’m the honored one.”

You turn back again to look at him, finding his stare already boring into yours. Behind it held so much sincerity it made your stomach twist. Perhaps it had been too much genuineness from James that you’re used to, so you let out a laugh, albeit an obviously forced one.

“That was smooth, Zhao,” you roll your eyes playfully and gaze off into the distance, sighing. “God, you’re probably not used to a pretty girl like me being in your secret place, huh?”

“You are…” 

“Huh?”

“You are pretty,” he replies without thinking.

The words hang there between you, naked and undeniable.

He stiffens immediately afterward, like he’s steeling himself for the worst, and you bite down on your lower lip to keep from laughing — not because it’s funny, exactly (even though it kinda is), but because the tension is so thick it almost feels unreal. You’ve spent months dancing around each other with precision and restraint, and now he’s slipping, little truths tumbling out before he can armor them up again.

“That was fast,” you say gently.

He drags a hand through his hair, frustration and nerves tangling together. “God, you talk too much.”

“And yet you invited me—the pretty girl—here,” you counter, glancing sideways at him. “At night. In a suit.”

He huffs. “It felt… appropriate.”

“For what?”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. His jaw tightens, and you feel the shift beside you — the way his weight moves, the way he turns just slightly in your direction without fully facing you. You can sense him there, hyper-aware, like every inch of space between you is a decision he’s actively making.

“For— talking,” he says finally, like it hurt to get the words out.

You hum, dubious. “We talk all the time, though.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

You tilt your head, studying him now. The city lights paint soft shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his expression, the way his eyes keep flicking to your mouth and then away like it’s a mistake he doesn’t trust himself to make twice.

“Then why now?” you ask. You weren’t teasing or even baiting. You just sounded… curious.

He swallows a lump in his throat he doesn’t realize had formed.

“Because I… I didn’t like who I was becoming when I didn’t see you,” he says, and then winces, like the sentence escaped without permission. “—That’s not what I meant.”

You turn fully toward him this time, heart thudding loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. “Then what did you mean?”

He laughs under his breath, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Because I don’t know how to answer it without crossing a line, okay?” he says, finally meeting your eyes. There’s no irritation there now, no armor. Just something raw and tightly reined in. “And once I do that, I don’t know how to go back.”

The air feels thinner.

You step a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough that the space between you feels intentional. It was intoxicating. You can feel the warmth of him now, feel the way his breath stutters when he realizes how close you are.

“You’re very good at not crossing lines, though,” you say softly. “I’ve noticed.”

His eyes darken. “That’s because I know exactly where they are.”

“And yet,” you add, voice barely above a murmur, “you keep standing right next to them.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The city hums below. A car horn blares. Somewhere far away, you hear somebody laughing with their friends. Up here, in the rooftop that was once just James’ space, everything feels suspended, like the world is holding its breath along with you.

James shifts, turning fully toward you now, hands gripping the railing behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. You can see it in his face — the war between instinct and discipline, between want and restraint. He’s so, so close you can count his breaths and can see, clear as day, a cute little mole just above the bridge of his nose.

He stays there — too close, not touching — like the space between you is something sacred he doesn’t dare cross without permission.

“If I lean in right now,” he says quietly, voice rough around the edges, “I don’t think I’d stop.”

The words settle deep, curling tight around your ribs. Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. You don’t step back. You don’t step forward. You let the moment hang, fragile and electric, and meet his gaze head-on.

“Then don’t,” you reply just as softly. “Unless… Unless you mean it.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, slower this time, like he’s memorizing it. His gaze zeroed in on every part of your face like he’s afraid he’ll never get this close again if he looks away. The city noise below fades into something distant and irrelevant, a low hum beneath the pounding of your heart.

God, the restraint is almost unbearable.

He laughs once under his breath, short and shaky, like the sound surprises even him. He shakes his head, disbelief threaded through every movement. “You have no fucking idea how dangerous you are, L/N.”

You smile — easy, familiar, the same one you’ve used to needle him for months — despite the way your chest feels too full. “Oh, I think I do, Zhao.”

He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. Instead, he leans in just enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, breath warm against your skin, presence overwhelming in its carefulness. The space between you feels alive now, charged with everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve been pretending not to feel. It’s achingly, thrillingly clear that he wants to, that he’s only choosing not to.

And that choice — God — it makes everything worse… better… inevitable.

Something in you cracks.

“James,” you start, the word tumbling out softer than you meant it to, and suddenly you’re talking because if you don’t, you might combust. “I— I know this probably sounds stupid, but I’ve always noticed you. Like— really noticed you. The way you practice when you think no one’s watching. The way you pretend not to care when you place second even though it eats at you. The way you get this little crease between your brows? Yeah, when you’re trying to concentrate on something. God, James, I see you in reflections and hallways and stupid ranking boards and—”

You laugh breathlessly, shaking your head at yourself. “I’ve been watching you for so long I don’t even know when it stopped being just rivalry. I just—”

Your words cut off abruptly.

His hands come up, gentle but decisive, cupping the sides of your face. His touch was not rough, not hurried. It was far from it. You don’t even think he could be rash with you even if he tried. Rather, his grip felt grounding, anchoring. It steals the breath right out of you. He forces you to look at him fully, eyes locked, expression stripped bare of everything but truth.

“I can see you, Y/N,” he says. He didn’t say it loudly or dramatically. He was just… certain.

Your breath catches.

“I’ve always seen you,” he continues, thumb brushing just under your cheekbone like he’s not entirely aware he’s doing it. “I just didn’t know what it meant until now. And I see you now too. Really see you.”

Something swells in your chest, sudden and overwhelming, and your eyes burn before you can stop it. You laugh, watery and incredulous, blinking fast as if that might help.

“Oh, shut up,” you mutter, rolling your eyes even as your smile trembles. “You’re so cheesy.”

His mouth curves — soft, relieved, fond in a way that makes your knees feel weak. 

You don’t give him time to second-guess himself.

Your hand fists in the front of his shirt — fabric warm beneath your fingers, heartbeat racing under it — and you pull him forward just enough to erase the last, unbearable inch between you. The moment your mouth meets his, it feels like every month of restraint, every sideways glance, every almost-touch detonates at once.

The kiss is slow and deliberate. Heavy with intention.

It’s not frantic, not clumsy, not the kind of kiss born out of impulse. It’s the kind that carries memory in it — the echo of your hallway brushes, mirrored reflections, and banter sharpened to a blade’s edge. Your lips move against his like you’ve both been practicing this moment in your heads for far too long, like your bodies recognize the shape of each other even if this is the first time they’re allowed to admit it.

James freezes for half a heartbeat.

It’s not because he doesn’t want it — fuck, it’s all he’s been wanting — but because it overwhelms him.

From his side of it, the world tilts violently off its axis. Every carefully reinforced wall inside him collapses all at once. The discipline, the rules, all those goddamn years of teaching himself how to withstand want instead of indulging it? The kiss short-circuits all of it. His legs actually wobble — he barely even registers the railing behind him until his hand grips it on instinct, knuckles whitening as if that’s the only thing tethering him to the rooftop.

Then he exhales — shaky, wrecked beyond repair — and kisses you back.

God.

He’s gone.

There’s no restraint in the way his mouth moves now, no calculation. There was just heat and relief and something dangerously close to reverence. Like he can’t believe you’re real, like if he doesn’t kiss you properly — fully, wholly — you might disappear. One hand slides to your waist, firm and grounding, fingers spreading like he needs the confirmation of you there, solid and warm and his. The other drifts up, thumb brushing your jaw with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

From your side, it feels like coming home to something you didn’t know you’d been missing until it finally found you.

The kiss deepens, unhurried but intense, every second layered with meaning. You can feel how badly he’s wanted this in the way he kisses you — like the months of tension have turned into devotion, like he’s pouring everything he’s been holding back into the press of his mouth against yours. It’s dizzying. Your pulse roars in your ears. Your body hums, alight, like every nerve has been tuned just for this.

You breathe him in — soap, sweat, something uniquely James — and it makes your head spin. When his forehead drops to yours for the briefest moment, like he needs air or sanity or both, you can feel him trembling just slightly.

“I’m—” he starts, then laughs breathlessly against your mouth, voice wrecked. “I’m in so much trouble.”

You smile into the next kiss, softer now but no less charged, like you’re sealing something sacred. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”

The city keeps moving below you, blissfully unaware. Cars thread through intersections like veins of light, horns rise and fall, windows glow and dim in other people’s lives that have nothing to do with the way your pulse is still stuttering in your throat. 

Somewhere beneath your feet, rules exist — contracts and curfews and expectations, all waiting patiently to be remembered. Rules waiting to be obeyed, or broken. But up here, under the open sky with the air still warm between your bodies, it feels like the world has narrowed to something achingly simple: the way his hand hasn’t quite left your waist, the way your lips still tingle like they’ve been rewritten, the way breathing feels optional for a few suspended seconds longer than it should.

It’s impossible to pretend this was an accident. It’s impossible to pretend this was just tension finally snapping. Every look that lingered too long, every argument sharpened by attention, every moment you pretended not to notice the way he watched you — it all rearranges itself now into something coherent, something honest. This wasn’t just desire crashing into opportunity. It was recognition finally allowed to surface. Months of seeing each other — really seeing, even when you both refused to name it back then — made real in a way that can’t be unlearned.

You’re the first to look away.

It wasn’t because you wanted to — God knows it’s not, it’s never because of that — but because if you keep staring at him like this, soft and stunned and too open, you might forget every sensible rule you’ve ever lived by. You clear your throat, the sound far too loud in the quiet, and gesture vaguely between the two of you like you’re referencing something mildly inconvenient instead of the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to you.

“So,” you say, attempting lightness and landing somewhere just short of shaky. “That was… wildly irresponsible of us.”

James lets out a breath that might be a laugh if it weren’t tangled up in nerves. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching like he’s forgotten how gravity works. “You kissed me.”

You raise a brow. “You invited me to the rooftop with a note that sounded like a breakup before anything even started.”

“That was not a breakup note.”

“Yeah no, that was absolutely a breakup note,” you counter. “If someone left that in my bag and we hadn’t just kissed, I’d be drafting a dramatic acceptance speech in my head.”

Despite himself, he smiles — small, crooked, familiar. The kind of smile that used to infuriate you during evaluations and now feels like a loaded weapon pointed straight at your chest.

“I didn’t know what else to say,” he admits, quieter now. “I didn’t know how to… do this without screwing everything up.”

You study him for a moment, really look at him. The tension still coiled in his shoulders. The careful way he’s standing, like if he leans too close he might forget why he shouldn’t. It hits you, then, how hard this must be for him — how much control it takes to not reach for you again.

“That makes two of us,” you say gently.

There’s a beat. The bustle of Seoul hums below you, indifferent and endless.

“So,” he says again, clearly buying time. “We should be… clear.”

You nod immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah. Clear is good. I love clear.”

“No one can know,” he says, the words firm but not cold. More like a shield than a wall. “Not the members. Not the staff. No rumors, no… slip-ups.”

“Right. Obviously,” you reply, rolling your eyes like this is all very obvious and not at all terrifying. “I’m not interested in becoming a cautionary tale.”

“If it gets in the way—” he starts.

“We stop,” you finish, the words already prepared, already accepted. You force a smile. “Clean. No dramatics.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction, like he doesn’t love how easily you said that. Like he doesn’t suddenly love that you’re good at being rational when it matters most.

“And,” he adds, hesitating, “what happened tonight stays… here.”

You glance around the rooftop — the railing, the concrete, the quiet sky that stretched wide above you. With a deep sigh, you look back at him then, something softer settling into your expression.

“James,” you say lightly, “I don’t exactly make a habit of announcing life-altering moments.”

That earns a breath of a laugh from him.“Right. Of course you don’t.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

“So,” you say, rocking back on your heels. “We’re… what. Colleagues with unresolved tension?”

He huffs. “We were already that.”

“Rivals-to-lovers without the lovers part?”

“Come on, 亲爱的, don’t call it that,” he almost whined.

You grin wolfishly, preening at the sound of the foreign language that fell past his lips sounding suspiciously like an endearment. “Hey now, you’re the one who kissed me back.”

His eyes flick to your mouth before he can stop himself, already replaying the kiss from just moments earlier. When he catches you noticing, sees the way you smile, he groans quietly and looks away, pressing his lips together like he’s physically holding something back.

“Fucking hell… this is going to be a problem,” he mutters.

You soften at that — not teasing this time. “Hey, it’s okay. We don’t really have to label it.”

He looks back at you then, searching your face. “You’re okay? With… this?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you step just a little closer — not enough to touch, but enough that the space between you feels deliberate again.

“I like you,” you say simply. Without any hedging or bravado. “I’ve liked you for a while. I’m not blind, James. And I’m not reckless. We’ll be careful.”

He exhales, slow and steady, like he’s been holding that breath since the moment your lips met his. “I like you too,” he says, just as plainly. Then, softer, almost to himself: “More than I meant to.”

For a second, neither of you moves. The truth sits there between you — warm, fragile, dangerous.

Finally, you step back, breaking the spell before it can deepen into something harder to walk away from.

“Well,” you say, clapping your hands once, brisk and falsely upbeat. “Guess we should head back before someone decides to get curious.”

He nods, straightening, slipping the jacket back on like armor. But before you turn, he reaches out — not to grab, not to pull — just enough for his fingers to brush your wrist. The touch is brief, intentional. Private.

Your eyes meet his, and in that look is everything you didn’t say. I see you. I know. This isn’t over. Then you both walk back inside — separately, properly, like nothing has changed at all.

Except it has. And now you’re both living with it.

After that night, things shift in ways that are subtle enough to deny and obvious enough to feel.

He starts looking for you without meaning to — eyes tracking instinctively in crowded rooms, attention snapping into focus when you enter. You soften only with him, even when you don’t realize you’re doing it, your sharp edges dulling just enough in his presence to give you away. 

The rivalry doesn’t disappear; it changes shape. It becomes charged, electric, threaded with something tender and dangerous beneath the competitiveness, like every exchange carries a second conversation no one else can hear.

There’s no label. No public acknowledgment. Just moments stolen in plain sight — shared glances held half a second too long, shoulders brushing where there’s room not to, laughter pitched lower when it’s just the two of you. Late nights where you swear it’s the last time, mornings where you realize it wasn’t. Whatever this is, it exists in the margins, thriving in the spaces between schedules and spotlights, quietly addictive in the way it makes everything else feel slightly less vivid by comparison.

And then one day, much later, you pass each other in the hallway.

It looks the same as it always has, with bright lights, busy hallway traffic, and managers calling names left and right. There were staff rushing past with clipboards and coffee cups, voices overlapping into a familiar kind of noise that once felt overwhelming and now feels like proof — you had made it. You both did.

You debuted first. A girl group with a name people chant now, your face on posters, your voice stitched into songs that follow you everywhere. James followed later, in a group that once didn’t even have a name, now standing on stages as CORTIS, coloring their future as bright as the sparkle in their eyes, boys sharp and assured and unmistakably real. The years that almost broke you both turned into something solid at last.

From the outside, nothing about this moment looks remarkable. Just two idols passing in a hallway, schedules tight, expressions neutral, professionalism locked in place. No one slows. No one notices. That was the point.

But as you brush past, his little finger grazes your wrist.

It’s light — so light, in fact, that it could be an accident. It was so precise it couldn’t be anything else but a reminder, a promise, a quiet rebellion tucked into the smallest possible gesture. Your lips curve before you can stop them and you catch the corner of his mouth doing the same.

You don’t look back. Neither does he.

You don’t, never, even need to.

The look you share in passing, brief and electric and entirely yours, carries everything that survived the waiting — the rivalry, the restraint, the wanting, the choosing.

I see you.

And somehow, even now, that was enough.

*･῾ ᵎ⌇CORTIS TAGLIST (open) ⁺◦ 🌷 ✧.* @teacuplps

亲爱的 (qīn'ài de) means “dear/darling”!

edit: omg it slipped my mind that ivy was looking forward to this 😭😭😭 so um yeah ivy this is also for yew 😁 happy holidays twin 😁 hope you enjoyed reading!

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