fic recs + analysis

garumiseul

[miseulbae]

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fic rec blog

[teacuplps]

💌 HEART TO HEART — a martin edwards smau 🦔<3🦔

BONUS CHAPTER : EPILOGUE

⤷ set randomly/ lots of time jumps… lots (a post per month anniversary)

[ series masterlist ] [ previous ]

#🫖: for sae hee who requested a year of them being happy 🥹🥹 genuinely no plot in this it’s just ynmars being cute + the future i personally see them ending up in 🎥<3🎼

the end ! ^•^

[ taglist 💌 @meifloius @kaikaikoi @lovrversewon @avis-writeshq @marsgirltyshi @bellesophiaa @emmaitoshi @swiftcityy @seongholiic @getoxo @lowkhyeon @ramenoil @r0ckst4rjk @i-kai @vexzkd @ami-kay-01 @ilovegojosatoru13 @liliikkuma @jesmightjumptmr @09zpzkeonnss @fujiswn @thesvxntyb @blvengene @yunjiiin @mxddi3-the-mnm-lover @pbananalover @hyeon3y @hoonsocks @soulskiu @xo-tilwod @sacredsols @daniiixoxo @tricky-ritz @aphantassia @fallingvines @yatta-exe @itsactuallylina @v0v0v0 @hyeoniie @f6bruary @haechology @kblog-mp3 @pxronbeat1 @yatta-exe @lovemashu @nataliasdiary @lianahai @kserad @miisoluvsdeer @griinspire ]

[miseulbae]

my dearest dearest ivy 🥹🥹🥹 you are in stats rn so u wont see this for a lil while but! i understand what you mean now! when you say fics come to you when you need them the most.

because i am SO LATE TO THE HEART TO HEART BANDWAGON BUT YKW I REALLY NEEDED THIS!!!!

tldr i have been #goingthruit recently and as a firm believer in the saying “love will find you when you need it most”, i’ve been wondering where my lover is and where they have gone.

but this fic has reassured me (in the best way possible) that the love i am looking for is waiting for me out there, somewhere

ivy is blowing up my phone rn bc i told her fuck u bc im teary eyed at 12.45 am so i will keep ts short. BUT.

i hope this kind of love finds everyone who needs it. and i hope it finds you, unnie, preferably as soon as possible.

[hollyoongs]

IVY - FRANK OCEAN : I'LL LOVE YOU LATER (1/2)

SYNOPSIS: Growing up with neighbors was normal—everyone had them: shared fences, the same narrow streets, the same walk to school every morning. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. That’s what Juhoon believed when you first moved next door. He didn’t even realize when your lives begin to intertwine in ways neither of you fully understands. Years pass, feelings shift, and the memories of who you used to be together linger softer than either of you expected. Some things only make sense when it’s already too late—so when Juhoon finally looks back at everything you shared, he can’t help but wonder… when did everything flip? ꒱ ↷ ℰditoral ! 𓂂

W.C: +19.9k

─────⠀neighbors to ???, dual perspective, coming-of-age, early 1960s south korea setting, quiet first love, painfully slow realization of feelings from one of them, nostalgic atmosphere, traditional ways of showing love, restrained teen romance, emotional tension, soft yearning, growing up together, bittersweet memories, regret and reflection, minimal physical affection, mention of ILLIT member (Wonhee and Yunah) and CORTIS members, FLIPPED movie inspired themes (but it's not truly the moive Flipped), mention of loss, some historical context. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE, so you might see a lot of words repeated. I tried my best to find synonyms 😭

May 19th, 1960 | age: 14

Ever since you were a child, you had always noticed a shift before anyone else did. One of them occurred when the last class of Thursday ended, the air in the school always seemed to loosen, as if the walls themselves were finally allowed to rest. All the chairs scraped against the floor, announcing how the boys slipped out before the teacher had fully dismissed them, and the courtyard quickly filled with noise that didn’t belong inside a classroom.

It was usual to take your time packing your things, not feeling the collective sense of urgency to leave like your classmates. Your fingers smoothed over the edge of your notebook before placing it carefully into your bag, aligning it with the others out of habit. The late afternoon sun had begun to settle low once you stepped outside, turning the dust in the courtyard into something almost golden.

As per usual, the boys had taken over the field, running without restraint while their shoes kicked up dry earth with every turn. The girls stayed closer to the edges, gathered in small groups to keep their past conversations going, or simply watched them play.

“Did you hear about Sunhee?” Near you, two girls stood close together, speaking in hushed tones.

The other leaned in. “No—what happened?”

“She was seen walking with—” Despite how badly you wanted to know that piece of information, your attention was diverted for longer than you’d care to admit

He stood in the corridor with a teacher in front of him. His uniform was perfectly neat; the dark jacket sat straight across his shoulder, the brass buttons catching the light as he moved. The only thing that barely messed up his polished self was a faint trace of chalk along one of his sleeves, as though he had brushed against the board earlier without noticing.

He gave the teacher his full attention, his posture straightening almost instinctively. When the teacher finished speaking, he bowed—clean and measured, neither exaggerated nor careless.

“Yes, sir.” Despite the low tone, it was clear enough to reach where you stood.

The teacher gave a short nod. “Make sure you review that section again. You were close.”

“I will,” Another bow, smaller this time, and the teacher moved on.

You were too immersed to notice how Wonhee nudged your arm lightly beside you. “You’re not listening at all today.”

You blinked, turning toward her. “I am.”

She didn’t believe you, but she let it go. “We’re going to the market later. Are you coming?”

“Maybe.”

“You always say that.” A faint smile appeared on your face, your attention already drifting back. This time, he had stepped down into the courtyard, now joining the others. 

“Juhoon! Don’t just stand there!” A boy whom you recognized as Seonghyeon threw him a ball, and the catch was so easy that it made his friends cheer him on.

“Hey,” The voice from Yunah softly broke in as she followed your gaze. “Who are you looking at?”

“No one,” you answered a little too quickly.

“Are you looking at Kim Juhoon?” The bell rang sharply, a clear cue to dissolve the moment into motion again before you can answer. Students began to move toward the gates, voices blending in familiar patterns. 

Trying to keep up with the conversation between your two friends was a little hard as you nodded at the right moments and offered brief responses when needed. It wasn’t difficult to stay present enough that no one questioned you; it was your forte, even when part of your attention was somewhere else.

And yet, just before all three reached the gate, you turned your head just enough to find him again.

Kim Juhoon… that’s a pretty name for a pretty boy. The name settled more easily in your mind than you expected.

At the time, you didn’t think much of it. Names were just names, and people existed around you every day without leaving any real impression. So why was there something about him that seemed so different that it stuck with you a little longer than usual? In a way, that should have been the end of it, but when your eyes noticed him again the next day, you knew it wasn’t.

It was surprising that it was not deliberate; you weren’t looking for him. Simply more aware of where people stood, how they moved, and of the small changes that others overlooked. It was something you had always done without thinking.

He sat near the front during morning assembly. Again, back straight, right through the teacher's speech, which was longer than necessary. He definitely carried the idea of the ideal student when you saw him ignore his friend's whisper and keep his gaze forward.

Later, in class, you realized he wrote quickly—but never carelessly. He didn’t pause to think of what to write; he paused to make sure it was right.

“Why do you keep looking over there? It has been a couple of days.” You startled slightly, turning to Wonhee, who had already caught you in the act.

“I’m not.”

It didn't take long for her to stop where your gaze fell. “You totally are.”

“I was just thinking.”

“About him?” she asked, not bothering to lower her voice as much this time.

“... No.”

Yunah leaned forward from the other side, resting her chin lightly on her hand. “It’s not a bad choice,” she said, almost thoughtfully. “He’s pretty, but not… reliable.”

“That’s what you’re looking for?” Wonhee teased.

“It’s what everyone is looking for,” Yunah replied simply.

It was the first time you didn't respond because you weren't sure that was really what you were sensing. As days passed by, it happened more often that you even began to recognize patterns.

He arrived earlier than most and always from the same direction, would greet the teachers properly, even when others only bowed halfway or not at all, and most importantly, he studied quietly, talked briefly and to the point, and became his friendly self when he was with his usual group of friends.

Once, you saw him lend a pencil to another student without being asked without making a point of it or wait for thanks—just passed it over and returned to his work. Another time, during a short break where Wonhee spoke about his interaction with Keonho, his friends tried to pull him into a game.

“Juhoon, come on. Just one round.”

“I can’t,” he replied, who you believed was Seonghyeon.

“Again?”

“I have something to finish.”

“Tell us something we don't know.” At that, he gave a small, almost apologetic smile, not moving from his seat. Due to the look on his face, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to join them; it was that he chose not to.

“Again? It’s like a million times today.” Wonhee murmured, barely hiding her teasing smile.

“No!”

“You were.”

“I’m not.” Yunah glanced between the two of you, then back toward him. “If you’re going to look, at least be less obvious.”

“I’m not being obvious,” the tone was quieter, eating one piece of kimbap to keep you busy. Both of them looked at you. You sighed, mouth muffling your words. “…Am I?”

Wonhee smiled. “Only to us.”

That should have embarrassed you, but it didn’t. It was a matter of time before your brain noticed things before they happened—when he would stand, speak, and leave.

And you couldn’t escape the fact of his overall appearance. He was handsome, to say the least, with slightly large brown eyes that turned hazel in the light, and a wide smile that surfaced easily when his friend James made him laugh. His dark hair fell in a soft fringe over his forehead; his slim, graceful build made the structured uniform look both formal and effortless.

God, you even noticed the faint mole just below his right jawline, visible only when he turned his head a certain way, adding a quiet touch of character to his already youthful features. Each day, your brain seemed to dedicate itself to noticing him—to sensing the way youth sat on him so naturally, and how many people envied him while he didn’t even realize he carried it like a blessing.

His skin had that untroubled clarity to it, smooth and bright enough to catch the light when he smiled, making everything about him feel a little warmer—an almost ethereal contrast to the colder persona he tried to portray. As the sun went down, a faint, natural flush would rise softly to his cheeks, fleeting and unfair in the way it made him look younger—or perhaps exactly his age, in the most disarming way.

And when he did smile? Oh, his smile.

His lips curved depending on the moment—slightly downturned at rest when he was holding back a thought or a joke—but that only made his smiles feel more genuine when they came. And it wasn’t just the smile itself—it was how quickly it arrived, how it slipped out before he could stop it. It was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who hadn’t yet learned to measure every reaction, to dull things down for the sake of composure.

There was a carelessness to him—not reckless, it was mostly unaware. As if he hadn’t yet realized how closely the world could look at you. He moved without that weight; the way he stood once as he waited for a girl outside another classroom gave him away. There was a loose rhythm to him, a slight swing of his arms, trusting that the ground would meet him every time. He didn’t hold himself like someone trying to be seen, especially outside of school; his shoulders stayed relaxed, his posture easy and unforced.

And then there were the small, unconscious habits that made him feel younger than he probably realized. The way he leaned in when his friends goofed around, how his fingers tapped absentmindedly against his sleeve when he was thinking, or how he tilted his head just slightly when something intrigued him. That one was your favorite.

He didn’t really guard himself; even when that colder expression crossed his face and pulled his features into something more distant, it never fully held. Something always shone through: a flicker in his eyes, a half-formed smile, a softness that refused to disappear.

Maybe that was why people noticed him without meaning to—why you felt almost hypnotized the first time you saw him. That contradiction made people like you look twice. Because, in your mind, youth—real youth—wasn’t just in smooth skin or bright eyes. It was in the way everything about him felt unfinished in the best possible sense. Just like you, he was still shifting and unaware of which parts of himself would stay and which would fade.

And the strangest part? He didn’t seem to know it at all. It came to him naturally, the same way you had always noticed shifts before anyone else did.

Only now did the shift have a name: Kim Juhoon.

JUHOON's POV

July 23rd, 1960

He adjusted the strap of his bag as he stepped onto the road, the noise of the school fading behind him, replaced by the softer sounds of animals. The path home was familiar enough that he didn’t need to think about it, leaving his mind free to return to more pressing matters. The math test. He replayed the last question, frowning slightly.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the ground if you keep thinking like that.” Keonho caught up to him, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

“It wasn’t difficult. I just didn’t answer it as well as I should have.”

Keonho chuckled. “You say that every time, and you get it right.”

“Because I’m usually right.”

“See? That’s the problem. You’re always right, and it’s still not enough.” Juhoon didn’t respond, focused on kicking a pebble instead, until Keonho nudged him. “By the way—”

“What?”

“There’s a girl who keeps looking at you.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen it. In class. She’s always—” he gestured vaguely, “—watching.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not. The quiet girl by the window—the one with the binyeo. She’s been looking at you for at least a month.”

That made him pause, a binyeo? Then he nudged Keonho back, sharper this time. “So you’ve been paying more attention to her than your lessons?”

Keonho scoffed. “I’m a loyal man. My heart’s already taken—by one of her friends.” Juhoon let out a short laugh, quiet at first, then louder at the faint color rising to Keonho’s cheeks.

When the laughter died down, Juhoon looked ahead. “…I know who you mean.”

“See?”

“But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not. But it’s still interesting.”

Juhoon shook his head, his expression settling. “It’s not.”

Keonho sighed. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s not my concern.”

They reached the turn where their paths split, and the youngest gave him a friendly pat on his back. “Don’t think about the test all night! You’ll survive one mistake.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” As Keonho left, Juhoon continued alone, though the conversation occupied his mind longer than expected.

He was used to Keonho’s teasing—that was easy to ignore. The mention of the girl wasn’t. She was quiet during lessons; that much was true. He had seen her with her friends: she was more expressive, although never enough to catch anyone’s attention—except for those who were already looking at her, and she was composed and always stayed that way. She perfectly blended herself into the background—unless you chose to notice.

And until now, he hadn’t.

The thought had already begun to fade once he reached his street. His grandmother stood outside the gate, adjusting a basket of tangerines, the bright color standing out against the muted tones of the yard.

“Grandma, you should’ve called me.”

She clicked her tongue softly at the sight of him taking the basket from her, though she let him. “You just came back from school, and I can still carry a few tangerines.”

“They’re not light,” he replied, steadying the weight in his arms.

“And neither are you,” she said, eyeing him briefly. “You’ve grown again.”

He didn’t answer that, only shifted the basket more securely before stepping inside with her.

From the kitchen, the faint sound of his mother already preparing the evening meal, and the smell of a soup simmering drifted into the courtyard.

“You’re back?” she said without turning fully. “Wash your hands soon.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Took you long enough.” Juhoon glanced over. His older brother, Soobin, sat with one knee pulled up, a book resting loosely in his hand. He wasn’t really reading it—just flipping through pages like he had nowhere else to be.

“I walked home,” Juhoon said.

“With Keonho?” Soobin asked lowly with the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes.”

“Mm.” The tall one nodded once, convinced. “Then I guess you were talking the whole way.”

Juhoon set the basket down with a quiet exhale. “Not the whole way.”

“Of course not,” Soobin said lightly. “I used to take that one to forget that I have exams coming up.”

Juhoon rolled his sleeves back slightly. “I didn’t forget.”

“I know,” Soobin replied, finally looking up at him properly. “You never do.”

Their mother glanced between them briefly without interrupting, continuing what she was doing right after she gave a kiss on his cheek. He could hear the faint rustle of newspaper pages turning, marking their father’s presence in the living room, remaining silent as he digested the news.

Juhoon moved to wash his hands, the cool water running over his fingers before he dried them clean and grabbed the utensils.

“So, how was the test?”

“I think I made a mistake.”

Soobin let out a small breath through his nose. “You say that like the world’s ending.”

“I know it’s not, but I can’t stop thinking about it,” Juhoon said.

“Good, then just fix it next time.”

The smile he gave him was comforting enough that he copied it. “I will. Don’t worry about it.”

“Obviously,” Soobin said, leaning back slightly. “You’d bother me all week if you didn’t.”

“Everyone! Dinner’s ready.”

“Going,” Juhoon slowed, just a step behind the others, to help his grandma stand up from her rocking chair. “Wow, Grandma. You are getting better at drawing.”

His tone was light, almost teasing, but his grandmother formed a pleased smile. “You think so?”

He nodded, reaching down to steady her arm as she rose. “These are different.”

Up close, the flowers were more detailed than he first thought. Due to his grandma’s drawing abilities, they weren’t just simple petals—clusters layered carefully, and each one slightly uneven. The tiny, round buds gathered together, with faint lines suggesting stems or threads holding them in place.

“They’re pretty,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“They are, I saw them at the market.”

Juhoon paused. “How? It’s really hard to get flowers at times like this.”

She hummed, taking a slow step forward with his help. “A girl helped me carry the basket on the bus. It was brief since she had to do something.” Her eyes softened, recalling it. “But the flowers stayed in my mind. So I drew them before I forgot.”

“A girl?” 

His grandmother chuckled. “Don’t sound so interested all of a sudden.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly.

“They were in her hair. A binyeo.” She gestured faintly with her free hand. “Soft colors. Pink, maybe. You know, I’ve never seen a piece so pretty since your grandfather gifted me one.”

Juhoon glanced back at the notebook. Soft pink, clustered, and carefully placed without looking messy. The same vague image brushed against his thoughts again.

“You remembered all that just from seeing her once?”

“You don’t always choose what you remember. Some things just settle in and stay.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached over and gently closed the notebook, focusing on getting his grandma to the table.

“Let’s go.” They moved toward the others, slowing down for her.

Juhoon kept his gaze forward. It didn’t matter. A random girl with a binyeo and his grandmother’s sketch. That was all it was. And yet, as he walked, the image stayed—clearer and more defined than it had any right to be.

He exhaled quietly, the sudden distraction bothering him. He wouldn’t let something that small take up space in his mind. And yet, it did.

Dinner passed in its usual rhythm. The clink of chopsticks against metal bowls, the quiet exchange of small remarks, his mother asking if the kimchi had enough salt, his father folding the newspaper only after finishing the last column—nothing out of place or worth remembering.

Juhoon answered when spoken to, ate what was given, and kept his posture straight without thinking of it. The conversation drifted around him more than it included him, but that had always been the case, and the same went for his brother. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just pretty normal.

Still, somewhere between one bite and the next, his grandmother’s words returned.

“You don’t always choose what you remember.”

He frowned faintly, lowering his gaze to his bowl. That didn’t make sense. Memory wasn’t random—it followed logic, repetition, and importance. That’s what he believed and how he studied; you focused on what mattered, and the rest faded.

That was how it should be.

“Juhoon.”

He looked up. “I’m sorry, yes?”

“You’re thinking again,” his mother kindly said, her hand fixing his hair. “Please focus on your food.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, almost automatically.

Soobin let out a quiet laugh. “Your mind must be busy today, huh?”

Juhoon didn’t argue this time; his brother knew him too well.

After dinner, he gathered the empty bowls, stacking them neatly before bringing them into the kitchen. The warm water stung slightly against his hands as he washed them. As soon as he finished, the house had settled into its usual quieter state. His father had returned to his reading; his mother moved more slowly now as she put things away, and his grandmother’s soft humming drifted faintly from the other room before she turned the TV on.

Juhoon dried his hands and stepped outside; it was his usual routine to prepare himself for a long night. The cool air of the evening brought him enough comfort to ease his mind, as he pleasantly enjoyed the faint edge that came just before night fully settled in. The sky was darker now, the last traces of light barely holding onto the horizon, and somewhere down the street, he could hear a radio playing softly. 

He exhaled, letting the quiet sit with him, leaning back slightly against the wooden post behind him, arms crossing loosely. This was the part of the day he preferred when everything slowed enough for him to organize his thoughts properly before studying, taking his time to close his eyes and breathe deeply, just like he used to see his grandma do.

Despite his efforts, that binyeo came back to his head. Juhoon clicked his tongue softly under his breath, annoyed at himself this time. It didn’t make sense for him to think about it. 

Most of the people he knew who wore that particular hairpiece were adult married women, which is why it made her recognizable in a community where braids and ponytails were standard, which was exactly why it stayed in his mind longer than it should have. That was the reason it made sense to him.

Juhoon opened his eyes again, gaze settling past the low wall, though he wasn’t really looking at anything in particular. The image remained vague—more impression than detail—he shifted slightly against the post, uncrossing his arms before crossing them again, as if adjusting his posture might also settle his thoughts. It didn’t. Maybe his grandmother had misremembered.

That was possible. Ever since the day her mother decided to take care of her because of her age, he saw how his grandmother’s mind was also slowly aging. She worked from memory when she drew, and her memory had a way of softening things, changing them without permission. Either the colors blurred, or the shapes shifted, but she had been so certain.

Juhoon exhaled slowly through his nose. It didn’t matter. 

An unfamiliar low hum of an engine interrupted his internal fight. Juhoon’s attention shifted immediately, his head turning slightly toward the road. The sound grew louder, then steadied before slowing.

A Sibal car came into view. Its headlights cut briefly across the wall before dimming as it pulled to a stop right in front of his house. The car wasn’t new, but it was well-kept, with clean lines and no visible damage, clear as the day that the owner cared for it. 

The driver’s door opened first, and a man stepped out, one polished shoe meeting the ground before the rest of him followed once the engine idled. He straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders to most likely ease the stiffness from the drive, closing the door with care, not letting it slam, and turned briefly toward the house across from Juhoon’s. His gaze scanned—taking in the gate, the small yard, the structure itself. Confirming.

Juhoon followed that line of sight instinctively. The “For Sale” sign was gone completely. He didn’t notice when the passenger door opened and someone emerged into his sight more slowly; what he did was catch the fading light from her hair. 

A half-up secured with a binyeo holding her hair neatly in place, with a soft detail at the end that caught what little light remained. Pink or something close to it. That’s when his eyes widen slightly.

The girl smoothed her skirt absentmindedly before glancing toward the unfamiliar surroundings, her quiet yet contained movement feeling too familiar, making it easy to connect the dots between the past conversations he had had. One of the streetlights made her face more visible, finally putting a face to the object.

She looked exactly like someone who had not yet realized she was being looked at; an unguarded youth settled on her naturally, from the ease of her posture to the softness that hadn’t been shaped into anything yet. Every feature of her delicate face conveyed a certain beauty that he couldn’t quite put his finger on from a distance; her slightly parted lips faced the street, as if these narrow roads and quiet houses would be the ones to watch her grow over the next few years, too busy taking it all in to think about being seen. Still, it felt difficult for him to look away once he had started, as though there was something in that unawareness that held him there longer than he intended.

While the light didn’t do her justice, at least not enough to define her features so much as to rest on them, he couldn’t help but notice the faintest trace of melancholy in the way her gaze moved quietly and observantly rather than bright with excitement. She didn’t fidget with the medium-sized cardboard box in her hands as most would, nor did she rush to follow her—presumably—father toward the entrance; instead, she remained where she was for a moment longer, existing within the stillness, carrying a composure that didn’t feel practiced, only natural.

It made her seem older at first glance, and yet, the longer he looked, the clearer it became that it was the opposite—that this quiet steadiness was part of her youth, not separate from it, and very unrefined and unguarded in a way that made it all the more real.

It happened without warning—the moment her gaze lifted and met his.

For a second, neither of them moved, the distance between the two houses collapsing into something far smaller than it should have been. Up close—or as close as that distance allowed—there was a flicker in her expression, realizing she was no longer alone in her quiet observation. Her eyes widened slightly, the composure slipping just enough to reveal the girl beneath it, and just as quickly as it appeared, she looked away, the motion small yet immediate.

“Sweetheart, come take a look!” the man spoke, and her shift was sudden. She adjusted her hold on the box, almost too quickly now, and without sparing another glance, she turned and moved toward the gate, her steps no longer as unhurried as before. The door opened, then closed behind her, and just like that, she was gone.

Juhoon remained where he was. A coincidence, that’s all. It wasn’t unusual to see people move. Houses changed owners, and the streets were meant not to stay the same forever. There was no reason for this to feel like anything more than that.

From inside, he heard the faint creak of his own front door.

“Juhoon?” his mother called lightly. “Who is it?”

He turned his head slightly. “New neighbors.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a father and his daughter. The man came in the afternoon to move their stuff.” She spoke again, the leftover kimbap from his hand going to his mouth after his words.

There was a brief pause before his brother stepped out with Grandma by her side to see for herself. “Ah… I see. Hopefully, they are kind.”

Across the street, the man came out again, noticing them looking directly at their property, and gave a polite nod, one that his mother returned almost immediately. And by the look on her face, a proper introduction would come later. He stepped back, turning toward the door, the moment already beginning to close in the most uneventful way ever. As he entered his room, partially ready to study, his gaze went to his window.

There she was again, this time with more comfortable clothing, her hair completely loose, a few strands falling softly against her face as she moved about the room without urgency. The light inside her house was warmer, embracing everything about her, making her seem even more distant despite being closer than before. She continued unpacking, and Juhoon stood there for a moment longer than necessary before looking away.

It was nothing. Just a neighbor across the street, someone he happened to go to the same high school, and there was no reason to think about it beyond this, especially since there were more important things waiting for him. Pop quizzes and exams didn’t allow room for distractions, and he had never been the kind to create them for himself.

After a quick shower, he pulled his chair back, opening his notebook to the same page from earlier. The numbers were still there, waiting for him to do what he always did—focus, correct, and move forward.

It would have been impossible to avoid your friends’ questions about the move when you had spent the whole week talking about it, only to fall silent now. You hadn’t gotten used to having Juhoon as a neighbor yet, much less expected that, out of everyone, it would be him—the one who had already unsettled your heart.

Every morning for the past week and a half, the new street became familiar as you created your own route to avoid him, making your usual stop before going to school. 

Whenever you entered, it was usually the same noise—some mornings heavy with the low-energy vibration of a Monday morning, others softened by the sunlight filtering through the tall windows, dust drifting in golden haze.

You sat at your desk near the window as usual, when two chairs suddenly scraped close. The sight of Wonhee and Yunha leaning over your desk with their eyes bright with curiosity made you chuckle a little.

“So?” Wonhee whispered, “Did you see him this morning? Did he say anything?”

“No,” you murmured, pulling your literature textbook from your bag. “We’re just neighbors, it’s normal.”

“Normal doesn’t make you turn that shade of pink,” Yunah teased, resting her chin on her palm.

You didn’t answer because, at that moment, he walked in. As usual, he moved unhurriedly, his perfectly ironed gakuran-style jacket embracing his body. “Have you ever thought of confessing?”

Your head snapped toward her, “Are you insane? No.”

“You have an advantage. He’s your neighbor—” Yunha used her hands to emphasize her argument, disappointed in how you denied.

“I actually spoke with Keonho about you, so we can—” The confession made your pens drop, eyes shamefully wide. 

“You said something about my crush on him?” The whisper came out sharper than you intended.

“No!” Wonhee rushed. “He asked first! He noticed you looking at him. That’s when we started paying attention. We didn’t know about your feelings until now.”

Oh, God.

“Good norming, everyone. Let’s begin the class.” The teacher’s voice settled over the room firmly. Wonhee and Yunha exchanged one last look at you before retreating to their seats. You kept your eyes on your desk, heat still clinging to your skin.

The panic of one person knowing—one that was so close to him—and exposing you sent shivers down your spine. You didn’t dare look up, hearing the chalk tapping steadily against the board in the background. 

Normally, you would have followed along easily, but your hand remained still as that lingering thought began to press against your mind: He knows.

Or worse, Keonho might know, and he might say it.

The graphite hovered over the page before finally touching down. Each of the strokes was carefully written down your book slowly and unnaturally, but despite your efforts, your thoughts kept drifting.

“...open your notebooks and copy this down.” The teacher’s voice cut through your thoughts.

The notebook was pulled safely onto your desk before flipping it open. The soft rustle of the paper, accompanied by the sound of a few pens being unscrewed, was strangely comforting. 

“Is something wrong, Juhoon?” The teacher’s question made everyone look up, their pens pausing mid-writing as their attention drifted towards him without anyone saying a word. Yours included.

He was already half-standing from his seat, one hand inside his bag, the other pushing aside books with restrained urgency that didn’t match him.

“I—” he started, stopping abruptly. His brows drew together faintly. “I think I forgot my notebook.” 

A few people chuckled under their breath, his friends included. The teacher sighed, tapping the chalk once against the board before turning fully toward him. “You think, or you did?”

Juhoon glanced down at his bag again, as if the answer might appear if he searched hard enough. “I did.”

“Then borrow one,” the teacher replied, his back facing all of us. “And copy everything before the end of class.” 

“Y/N has an extra!” The tip of your pencil snapped faintly. Wonhee’s voice cut through the room with clarity, pulling every gaze toward you.

Warmth flooded your ears. “Wonhee—” you hissed. Yunah covered her mouth, barely containing a laugh, and Wonhee just looked satisfied with what he had done.

He was looking at you when you decided to turn around quietly to confirm rather than discovering something else. As he approached, your heartbeat pounded faster.

The opportunity of laughing it off before denying it was there, and instead, you just sat there, fingers tightening around the broken pencil still in your hand. 

“Can I?” he asked, gesturing toward your bag.

Your mind lagged. “My—? Oh. Yes. I mean—yes.”

It felt like your back cracked as you turned, quickly leaving your broken pencil aside and reaching into your bag to pull the extra notebook your dad has insisted you bring “in case,” its cover still a little too stiff, matching its mostly untouched pages.

“Here.”

Unconsciously, your hand passed over the front once and brushed your fingers with his hand when he reached for it. It was so light you barely missed it if it wasn’t for Juhoon’s eyes on yours when it happened. You carefully pulled your hand back, missing how he slightly bowed with gratitude.

“Thank you.” He returned to his seat to gather the rest of his things, as nothing happened.

“Still nothing?” Yunha murmured, her gaze on you.

“Still noting.” Not even your voice believed that.

After four hours and finally resting in your house, the sky had turned into that quiet blue of early night. It felt weird to see how the first few pages were no longer untouched, and his handwriting filled the top of one page neatly. It wasn’t special, and yet you stared at it longer than expected after finishing your homework.

The tip of your finger traced the faint indentations left behind by his pen, and your pencil found your hand before you thought about it

You didn’t think, just wrote it. Juhoon.

The name looked too intentional sitting there alone, so you draw a heart next to it. You stared at it, feeling your heart beating a little faster than it should have.

“Honey, dinner’s ready!” The door opened before you could react properly. Your dad stood there, clearly watching the way you jolted before placing your hand over the page and erasing everything at a speed that felt almost unnatural, closing the notebook to stop staring at it. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” you said, standing a little too fast. “Let’s go.”

Dinner moved around you without landing. Your dad’s voice carried stories from work, including late deliveries, conversations that slipped sideways. Still, guilt lingered in its place for not engaging like usual because your mind wasn’t fully there.

Chopsticks clicked softly against porcelain. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

“Just tired.” 

His gaze lingered on you as silence pressed in. “For what it’s worth, your mom used to get like that.”

“Like what?”

“Somewhere else,” he said, a faint smile threading through memory. “All the right answers, none of the attention.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know. Just thinking.” An ache rose to the point it was difficult to ignore. The chopsticks where placed next to your plate.

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

Your fingers pressed into the fabric of your pajama. “…How did you know you loved Mom?”

The room stilled, and the radio static hummed low like a distant echo. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, something he used to do when a memory settled over. “That’s a serious question.”

“Just want to know.” 

A nod. “At first? Nothing felt important.” 

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Just another familiar person whom I used to have occasional conversations with. Then, the details stayed in my mind.”

“Such as?”

“The way she laughed at things no one else noticed.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “The quiet around her when she thought. Also, the way she made space for people—even when space was all she had. None of that felt big back then, that’s the part no one tells.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s not sudden and loud. Stories get that wrong.”

“Then what?”

“Quiet. So quiet it’s easy to miss.”

Both of his elbows touched the table. His head was resting on top of his fists with his eyes fixed on the framed picture of them. “It shows up in habits. Wanting to tell her everything first. Wondering what she’d say, even when she’s gone. Remembering without trying.” His voice softened. “And then, everything begins to include her.”

“That sounds—”

“Complicated?” A small nod. “It can be. But back then, it wasn’t.”

“What did it feel like?”

A faint smile returned. “So familiar that it felt that it had always been there and I’d been blind this whole time.”

“And how you knew it wasn’t a phase?”

“Because I gave it a chance. Even when the chaos was everywhere, that feeling stayed.”

“And then?”

“I chose it.”

“Choose it?”

“Feelings arrive on their own. Staying doesn’t. At some point, a decision happens.”

“And if certainty isn’t there yet?”

“It doesn’t need to be. Not at the start. Just pay attention to what stays.” A pause. “Love isn’t about a face. It’s about what remains when everything else fades.”

The warmth of his palm brushed your cheek.

“A face catches attention,” he continued softly, “but a person keeps it. From the way they think to how they treat people, especially when they finally show you who they are when no one’s watching. That’s what makes someone real. And real—”

That small gesture, the one always used to pass the ending over. A laugh slipped out. “—is what stays.”

“Exactly.”

His hand dropped back to the table.“Plenty of people are easy to like from a distance,” he went on. “There’s no risk, responsibility, or need to show up. Closeness asks more, and not everyone’s willing to give that... If something lives in hesitation,” he said, “in almosts, in unsaid things, it doesn’t and won’t last. Maybe it never even begins. Love shouldn’t feel hidden or uncertain.”

He leaned back, reaching for the kimchi to balance the deep conversation. “The right person won’t leave you guessing when they know it’s the one; you won’t have background roles. That person must be next to you, upgrading you every single time.”

“That’s what you did with mom?”

A flicker of mischief crossed his face, “She actually didn’t make it hard. She shone so brightly that the sun was jealous.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was always meant to be seen. And I…” His two thumbs pointed at himself with a small shrug. “I just made sure she shone the way she deserved.”

The conversation stuck with you more than you meant it. You waited for him to leave your room after a kiss on the forehead once you both were ready to sleep for the next day, then opened your notebook again. The faint outline of a name was still visible beneath where you had tried to erase it, but you let it stay.

JUHOON's POV

The afternoon hit when Juhoon finished copying what he annotated on his neighbor's notebook, a clear indicator of it was that particular shade between evening and night in the sky he liked. It was time to return it.

He reached for his jacket first before entering the hallway, and his reflection caught him off guard. Juhoon’s eyes scan over himself—collar straight, hair not completely out of place, nothing noticeably off.

“I’m going out for a bit,” he called, already slipping his shoes on.

His mother’s voice followed from inside. “Don’t be long!”

“I won’t.”

The night air greeted him immediately, a few children here and there playing before dinner. He crossed without hesitation once he noticed her house had the lights on, lifting his gaze toward the window out of habit, stopping himself since there was no reason to look.

He knocked, clearly hearing footsteps approaching, and soon, the door opened, revealing her.

Up close, nothing changed—and yet, it did. Her hair was loose and partially wet, not as carefully arranged as it had been earlier in the week, a few strands resting against her face like they hadn’t decided where to settle. Her expression went from composed to slightly surprised.

“I—” He adjusted slightly, holding out the notebook. “I forgot to give you this.”

Her gaze dropped to it, then lifted back to him. “Oh.” She stepped forward just enough to take it from his hands. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, I didn’t realize I still had it,” he added, because it felt like something that should be said.

“It’s okay, I didn’t need it today. Or any day, I just keep it just in case.”

He nodded once. “That’s good.”

“Oh! It’s you!” a voice cut in suddenly, bright and unmistakably familiar.

Juhoon turned slightly. His grandmother was already making her way across the street, her steps quicker than usual, one hand lifting in an excited wave.

He hadn’t even noticed her leave the house.

“My bus girl!” she said, her face lighting up the moment she reached the gate. There was no hesitation in her steps, no restraint in the way she approached and moved him out of the way. The girl blinked, clearly caught off guard for a second until recognition settled in.

“Grandma—” Juhoon started, but it was already too late.

“My dear!” his grandmother continued warmly, reaching out to gently take the girl’s hands without thinking twice. “It’s really you.”

“Hello, Miss. Kang,” Juhoon didn’t miss her smile and how she got comfortable with the touch of the elderly. That’s one pretty smile. “Are you doing well?”

“Well?” his grandmother repeated with a small laugh. “I’ve been waiting to see you again! You disappeared so quickly that day.”

“I didn’t disappear, I just had to get off,” she admitted, glancing down briefly. “I’m sorry.”

“For helping me and keeping me company for several months?” his grandmother shook her head. “You even carried my basket. I should be the one apologizing for being such a burden.”

“You will never be a burden to me, Miss. Kang. I love talking to you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” his grandmother continued. “You stayed with me the whole way.”

“It was nothing,” the girl replied.

“That’s what you say,” his grandmother smiled, squeezing her hands lightly. “But not many people would do the same.”

“…You know each other?” he asked.

His grandmother turned to him, almost amused. “Of course we do, are you not listening? She’s been keeping me company on the bus these past few weeks. Sometimes she's quiet, but I love that! Quiet people notice more.”

“You never said anything,” He heard a small chuckle from her, and she glanced briefly toward Juhoon before looking back at his grandmother.

“I didn’t know you lived here,” she said.

“Across the street,” his grandmother replied easily, gesturing behind her. “This is the grandson I spoke to you about.”

Only then did the connection settle fully. “Oh, I didn’t know she was your grandmother,” the girl murmured.

Juhoon straightened slightly, suddenly aware of his own presence again. “Well, I was just returning her notebook.”

“Yes, yes,” his grandmother nodded quickly, but her attention stayed on the girl. “You should come by sometime. I make good tea—better than the one on the bus, I promise.”

A small smile appeared, her fingers gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d love that. I can go with some cookies. I remember you like the lemon ones.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that would be lovely.” Then the girl stepped back slightly, adjusting the notebook in her hands as she bowed. “I should go. My father is waiting.”

“Of course,” his grandmother said, though there was a clear reluctance in her tone. “Don’t disappear again, hm?”

“I won’t. Have a good night, Miss. Kang. See you at school, Juhoon,” she replied softly.

“Night.” Her gaze flickered once more unintentionally toward Juhoon before she turned and stepped inside; the door closed gently behind her.

Juhoon exhaled lightly. “That was unnecessary,”

His grandmother glanced at him. “Was it?”

“You didn’t have to come over like that.”

“She would’ve left otherwise,” she replied simply.

“That’s fine,” he said. “I already returned it.”

“Walk with me,” she said. Since it wasn’t a question, he didn’t argue.

They moved down the street together, her pace naturally slower, his adjusting without effort. He knew the night had settled fully now when there weren’t any children on sight, windows started to dim, and the world was folding into itself after a long day.

He didn’t mind it. Walking beside her had always felt nice, knowing that at the end of it, she would let him vent without being judged by his father.

“You said she was quiet,” his grandmother began.

“She is,” he replied. “And serious. You just said that, as well.”

“Serious,” she repeated, a faint trace of amusement in her voice. “That’s what you see?”

“She doesn’t talk much. She keeps to herself. Focused, I guess.”

“Mm.”

“That’s all.” His grandmother smiled faintly, but there was something in it that made him look away first.

“She helped me on the bus,” she said again.

“I know.”

“She carried the basket without being asked.”

“You told me.”

“And she stayed with me until my stop.”

Juhoon nodded. “You said that too.”

“And she missed hers.”

That made him glance at her properly this time. “…Why?”

“She didn’t say it; she just stayed next to me and told jokes just to make me feel better when I told her I lost my friend.”

“That’s not practical.”

“No?”

“If she had somewhere to be, she should’ve gone,” he said. “Helping doesn’t mean you have to—”

“—lose something?” she finished gently, already knowing his answers.

They walked a few more steps before his grandmother slowed, eventually making her way toward a small bench by the side of the road. She sat down with care, her hands folding neatly in her lap as her gaze drifted upward, toward the faint scatter of stars.

Juhoon hesitated for a second before sitting beside her.

“You look at people the way you look at your studies.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you decide quickly what matters,” she continued. “What’s useful and can be understood.”

“That’s not wrong,” he said.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “But people aren’t questions with one correct answer.”

Juhoon’s brows pulled together faintly.

“You see that she’s quiet. Serious and focused.” She glanced at him briefly. “That’s what she shows you. But what someone shows isn’t all they are.”

He let out a small breath through his nose. “I’m not trying to figure her out.”

“That’s exactly why you don’t see it.” 

“See what?”

“Courage despite the pain.”

“It’s just kindness.”

“Is it?” she asked. Juhoon didn’t answer right away, not truly having a correct answer this time. “She didn’t know me, it would’ve been easier not to help and pretend she didn’t notice.”

He looked down at his hands, resting loosely against his knees.

“That doesn’t make it courage,” he said after a moment. “It’s just… a choice.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “And not everyone makes it. She didn’t gain anything from it. No one praised her or saw it.” A small pause. “She just did it because of her pure heart.”

Juhoon’s gaze drifted somewhere ahead, unfocused.

“You think courage has to be loud so that people recognize it,” she said gently. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to, I know you, you punk.” He exhaled quietly despite the nickname. “It’s small, most of the time, and easy to miss if you’re only looking at what’s on the surface.”

Her warm hand engulfed his; her fingers tightened slightly. “I think you’re reading too much into it,” he said after a while.

“Maybe,” she agreed easily. Juhoon leaned back slightly, his gaze lifting toward the sky for a brief moment before dropping again. “Enough about that, what’s on your mind?”

“The math test results come out tomorrow,” Juhoon said, shifting the topic immediately. “I think I lost points on the last question. The method was right, but the explanation wasn’t precise enough.”

His grandmother listened. “If I had written it differently, it would’ve been clearer,” he added. “It’s not a big mistake, but it still matters.”

“A mistake is a mistake, it doesn’t define you unless it hurts someone,” she said.

“That’s why I need to fix it next time, because it will most likely pain my father.” And just like that, everything else faded. They walked home with his voice filling the space now, focused entirely on numbers, on corrections, on what could be improved.

When they reached the house, he stepped inside first.

“Don’t stay up too late,” his grandmother said, her finger pointing at him.

“I won’t.” The woman kissed his forehead before he went straight to his room. The desk, the chair, and the notebook were waiting exactly where they should be.

He sat down and opened the notebook to the same page, the paper settling flat beneath his hand with the problem staring up at him, exactly as he had left it: unfinished and slightly off. He let his pen hover just above the page, the tip barely grazing the surface as if it could decide for him where to begin. It only lasted a second before he started.

The first line came easily, followed by the next, and then the next after that. Each step fell into place with certainty, the method unfolding the way it should have earlier. The smile spreading across his face showed how proud he was that there was no hesitation this time, completely familiar.

It may sound odd for others, but he really enjoyed how numbers didn’t leave space for misinterpretation, hide behind silence, or shift depending on where you looked. If something was wrong, it could be corrected. If something was unclear, it could be rewritten. There was always a way forward and a clearer answer waiting if you just focused long enough to find it.

His attention stayed where it belonged, following the final steps as they coalesced into something complete; the correct answer sat before him. He leaned back slightly, exhaling under his breath, sensing how the faint tension in his shoulders eased without him realizing it.

The notebook was closed with him looking, the soft thud of the cover sealing everything neatly inside. Just like that, the mistake was fixed. 

Across the street, he didn’t know a certain someone was slowly dozing off, still thinking about how a dinner conversation carried more weight than it should, and made her question everything. The distance between them wasn’t far, but why had it never felt wider?

It didn’t change the next day or the one after that; it was already settling quietly and deeper, slipping beneath the surface where it couldn’t be easily named or pushed aside. Juhoon didn’t think about it directly, he couldn’t put it in with words, but it showed in the way his routines lost their characteristic ease, first it was his pen hovering a little longer before writing, then his eyes lingering on questions he would normally move past without hesitation, to end with the certainty he had always relied on began to feel just slightly out of reach.

Seeing himself in second place in his class didn’t cause him any surprise. It wasn’t familiar, sure—there was always a first time for everything, and he was very happy for Minseok—but what unsettled him wasn’t the number itself but how quickly it stopped feeling like something temporary. Three points weren’t enough to define anything, and that bittersweet feeling stayed with him longer than it should have. And despite everything looking the same at home, he could already feel the tension the second his dad glared at him.

The table was already set when he came down from his room, dishes neatly placed with steam rising softly above them from the soup, curling into the air. His mother moved between the kitchen and the table, his grandmother sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap after arranging the utensils, and Soobin helped with what was missing. And his father sat at the head of the table, newspaper closed next to him and conserving his posture straight, not even giving up his stare after he sat down.

He reached for his chopsticks. “The rankings came out today.”

Juhoon’s hand paused slightly before continuing. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I placed second overall.”

“Second?”

“Yes.”

“Who placed first?”

“Hwang Min Seok.”

“And the difference?”

“…Three points.” Juhoon focused on picking up his food, if only to fill the silence with sound.

“So you lost points.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“The last question.”

“You didn’t know it?”

“I did.”

“Then why did you lose points?”

Juhoon’s fingers tightened slightly around his chopsticks. “My explanation wasn’t clear enough.”

The sound of his father setting the chopsticks down echoed. “That’s carelessness.”

“I reviewed it. I just—”

“You just what?” The interruption was sharp this time, making him stop before saying something else.

“I thought it was enough.”

“Enough?” his father repeated, the word coming out almost incredulous. “You’re satisfied with ‘enough’ now?”

“No.”

“Then don’t say it like you are.”

“I’m not,” Juhoon replied, the edge slipping in before he could stop it. “I corrected it. I know what I did wrong.”

“That’s not the point.” His father’s voice hardened, cutting through the room more clearly than anything loud could have. “You shouldn’t have made the mistake at all.”

Juhoon’s jaw tightened. “I can fix it.”

“I’m not asking if you can fix it, I’m asking why you made it.”

“I told you—”

“You’re not listening.” The words landed fast.

“I am,” Juhoon insisted, the restraint in his voice thinning.

“Then act like it.”

“Jae Won. Juhoon. Let’s eat first,” his mother said gently, carefully placing another dish on the table as if the motion itself could settle things. “The food is getting cold.”

No one was in the mood to reach for it, not when the “head” of the family was still gazing at his son. “You knew the answer and still lost points. That means you weren’t thinking properly.”

“I was thinking,” Juhoon said, more firmly now. “I just didn’t explain it the way the teacher wanted.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Soobin straightened slightly in his seat.

“Juhoon,” his mother said quietly, a warning in her tone already too late. He took in how his father’s expression shifted, and his hand started to grip the newspaper beside him.

“Say that again.”

Juhoon swallowed, but didn’t look away this time. “I understood the problem,” he said, slower now, more controlled. “That should count for something.”

“It doesn’t,” his father replied immediately. “Not if you can’t present it correctly.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t know it.”

“It means you failed to show it.”

Failed.

Something in Juhoon’s chest tightened at how that word stung deeply. “I didn’t fail.”

“You came second, you lost points on something you claim to understand. What would you call that?”

“Enough! The sound of his grandmother's palms slamming on the table was what finally broke the standoff. “He did well.”

His father didn’t look at her. “He could have done better.”

“He always does his best.”

“And his best should be first,” his father replied.

“Dad, it’s just three points. He’ll beat Minseok next time.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?” Soobin asked, the casual tone not quite hiding the challenge nor the anger he was starting to feel.

“The issue is that he’s becoming comfortable making mistakes.”

“I’m not comfortable, I said I’d fix it!”

“Fixing it after the fact doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Why doesn’t it?” Juhoon pressed, his voice rising and slightly breaking. “If I know what I did wrong and improve—”

“You shouldn’t be making mistakes like that to begin with.”

“I’m not perfect.”

His mother grabbed his thigh below the table immediately after his scream, barely feeling it. “That’s enough.”

His father’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. Say that again.”

“I’m not perfect.”

“And you think that excuses you?”

“I’m not making excuses,” he snapped, the control finally slipping. “I’m explaining.”

“You’re defending failure.”

“I didn’t fail!”

Soobin let out a breath under his breath. “Alright—okay—everyone just—”

“Stay out of it,” his father cut in. Soobin fell quiet, jaw tightening.

“You’re arguing with me over three points,” his unsteady voice was bothering him, maybe even more than the score itself. “Three points. I still did well.”

“Well, it isn’t enough.”

“It should be.”

“On my roof, it isn’t,” he finally slammed the newspaper on his shoulder.

“Kim Jae Won! That’s enough.”

“You think the world will reward you for ‘well’?” his father went on, completely ignoring his mother's pleas. “You think effort and intention matter when results don’t match?”

“I said I’d do better.”

“You should already be better.”

There it was again, that same sentence carrying the same weight his brother and he had heard six years ago. Instead of making him stronger, he could feel how it threw everything off balance.

“I am trying,” he said, and this time it wasn’t controlled.

“Trying is meaningless if this is the result.”

Juhoon’s grip tightened against the table. “Then what do you want from me?”

His mother’s hand pressed more firmly against his thigh, the unplanned question even taking him off guard. “Juhoon—”

“What do you want?” he repeated. “Because I study. I correct my mistakes. I—”

“I want you to stop falling short,” 

“I’m not falling short.”

“You are.”

His grandmother shifted forward slightly. “That’s enough, you’re pushing him too hard.”

“He needs to be pushed. Those kids you hang out with are a bad influence.”

“He’s already pushing himself because of you.”

“And it’s not enough.”

Juhoon didn’t respond this time. His hand had curled into itself at his side, fingers tightening until they trembled, impossible to still. He kept his head lowered as soon as he felt his vision blur, trying to blink away the burn behind his eyes that only sharpened. His chest felt too tight, which left no room to inhale properly or speak.

“Finish eating. And then study.”

Juhoon didn’t remember finishing dinner; everything was a blur. The next few days passed without anything visibly changing, but that feeling didn’t go away from every single sentence that came from his father’s mouth. At school, he showed more than he realized.

He missed answering a question he knew, the teacher's encouragement to make him participate, and even playing soccer with his friends. They couldn't help but notice that they had a hunch even before they knew what had happened, thanks to the strong bond the five boys shared. He had to intervene and brush it off as something temporary, but it wasn’t. It was obvious.

By the last class of the day, Juhoon stared at his notebook without really seeing it, the lines of writing blurring just slightly as his thoughts drifted somewhere else, as well as his classmates once they heard the bell.

“Juhoon?” A hand on his shoulder reached him, looking up. You stood beside his desk at a decent distance, your quiet presence existing with it.

“Oh,” he said softly, his voice slower than usual. “You’re still here.”

“So are you. The bell rang, and your friends didn’t want to bother you.”

He glanced around briefly. “…Right.”

You shifted slightly, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag before loosening again. “I was going to leave, but…” Your voice trailed off, and for a moment, it seemed like you might take it back.

“But?” he asked, more out of habit than anything else.

He could see that you were physically torn between saying something and not saying anything, until he finally noticed in your eyes that matched what you were about to say. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“You don’t look like it.” His expression couldn’t be hidden anymore, opting for letting out a quiet breath.

“It’s nothing,” he added, softer this time.

“…It’s nothing,” you said gently. For a moment, it seemed like that would be the end of it—that he would let the silence close back in, let you take the hint and leave him, he didn’t think you would step a little closer, reinforcing your presence.

“You don’t have to tell me, I just… thought I’d ask.”

The gentle tone soothed something within him. The lack of pressure and how you were already giving him a way out made the tension on his shoulder ease. He stared at the page a second longer, the tips of his fingers following the route of a random line he drew mid-class.

“I came second.”

You blinked. “Second?”

“Overall.”

“That’s really good. Congrats!”

He shook his head, almost immediately. “No. It’s not.”

“ Oh... Why not?”

His fingers curled slightly against the paper. “…I lost by three points.”

“That’s still—”

“I shouldn’t have.” His cheeks warmed in embarrassment as his words cut through the space between you. He exhaled slowly to try to calm himself. “I knew the answer, I just didn’t write it properly.”

You didn’t interrupt. “I checked it, more than once, and I thought it was clear enough… It wasn’t.”

A small piece of chocolate appeared before his eyes; he glanced at the girl holding it, and she simply gave him a gentle smile, inviting him to take it. He couldn't refuse.

“…My father said it was carelessness,” he went on, the words coming more steadily now while playing with the candy. “That I shouldn’t be making mistakes and how they shouldn’t happen at all. He even said trying doesn’t matter, not if the result isn’t right.”

The faintest crease formed between his brows, and easing them once the chocolate ended up in his mouth. “And I thought I did it right. I checked it, I really did.”

That particular sentence made your chest pull at how his words wavered. You stepped just a little closer. “That doesn’t make it nothing. Three points don’t erase that.”

He let out a small, breathless sound—almost a laugh. “It does to him.”

“…And to you?” His gaze stayed fixed on the notebook, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore. The question went directly to his heart. Has he ever thought about himself?

“…I don’t know, I just—” he exhales unevenly. “I keep thinking about it.”

“The question?”

“The way I wrote it,” he corrected. “What I should’ve changed. If I had just rewritten the last line—”

His fingers tightened again. “I’ve gone over it so many times,” he said, almost under his breath. “I can’t stop.”

“You care a lot,” the few seconds of silence when you said that gently.

“I have to.”

“Or you want to?” That made him pause; his thoughts seemed to catch on something that didn’t already have an answer ever since he joined your conversation.

“I don’t know…” 

“Well, it’s just three points,” you said, your voice light but steady. “But you’re acting like you lost everything.”

He let out a slow breath, shoulders lowering just slightly. “It feels like it.”

When he finally looked up, his expression had shifted—his usual, more put-together.

“…Sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong… If it’s any consolation, you have a bright future ahead of you, even if you came in second. To me, you’re more than just a place in a ranking.” You interrupted gently.

“Thank you,” he said instead, a small smile tugging at his lips. You nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile that brought a slight warmth to his heart.

“Anytime.” Juhoon glanced back down at his notebook, straightening slightly.

“I should go,” he said, his tone more composed now. Familiar again.

You stepped back, giving him space as he gathered his things.

“Yeah, me too.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, walking away with a more relaxed pace, pausing just briefly before turning.

“Wanna grab a cup of tteokbokki before going to our homes?” The offer made you open your eyes in surprise, which quickly turned into a sincere smile that spread to your face.

“I’ll love that, Juhoon.”

September 12th, 1963 || age: 17

Time had a quiet way of slipping past you before you could properly hold onto it. Days folded into weeks, and weeks marked not by dates, but by small changes you only noticed when you stopped to think about them.

Wonhee and Keonho were no longer something whispered about between classes; they were real now, obvious in the way they hold hands while walking to class, in how her voice softened when she said his name. Yunah had started seeing someone, too, though she pretended it wasn’t anything serious, even as she spent longer fixing her hair in the mornings.

And you were still exactly where you had been for three years. Still noticing him, always carrying something that hadn’t quite settled into anything certain. At this point, you’d think your feelings for him were all too obvious—you couldn’t hide how your face flushed when he smiled at you as he walked through the kitchen of his house while you were having a little chat with his grandmother, or the times he helped you with your groceries when he saw you arrive with his mom after a trip to the market

The only difference now was how it felt.

At first, it had been quiet in the easiest way, like something that didn’t need to be explained to be understood. It settled beside you without effort, familiar and unassuming, never asking to be questioned. You had let it exist like that, untouched, because it felt safer not to look too closely.

But somewhere in between ordinary moments, it changed.

Not all at once—at least not in a way you could name. It slipped out of place gradually, as if a rhythm started to fall out of time until the shift was too obvious to ignore. What had once felt steady began to waver, rising and falling without warning, leaving you grasping for a feeling that no longer held still.

There were small things. How his gaze would catch on you, lingering for a few seconds, that, in your heart, almost meant something. How the conversations brushed against depth, only to cut short before they could reach it. Each moment felt like the edge of a story that never quite began.

And that was the hardest part—the almost.

Because sometimes, it felt real. To think he saw you in a way no one else did and believed there was something quietly unfolding between you in an unspoken way. But just as quickly, it would disappear, leaving you questioning whether it had ever been there at all.

You were left suspended between those two versions of him—one who noticed, and one who didn’t—and neither stayed long enough to be certain. And in the space between them, doubt grew louder than anything else, until even your own memories felt unreliable, as if they belonged more to hope than to truth.

“See you on Monday!” Yunah waved her hand brightly. Wonhee was no longer with the two of you since she had an after-school date with Keonho. “I’ll tell you two how the date went.”

“Hope you kiss that person this time,” you said loud enough for her to hear and blush. “Oh, God. The rain had started earlier than expected.” 

It began with a thin drizzle that was barely noticeable unless you paid attention to how it darkened the ground beneath your shoes.

“I’m glad my mom told me to bring an umbrella,” the tallest opened the object, hugging you tenderly before gently walking away.

Your feet quickly carried you along the usual route, though a small detour was demanded by your stomach’s quiet insistence, pausing for a snack before continuing.

At the bus stop, you slipped beneath the shelter just as the rain began to fall harder, shifting your weight as droplets gathered along the roof’s edge and fell in soft, uneven intervals. The scent of petrichor rose to meet you, planting a smile on your face.

There weren’t many people left; most had already gone, disappearing into the weather with hurried steps and lowered heads. Just a few remained scattered along the road. The sound of footsteps approached hurriedly, alerting you enough to turn to where the sound was coming from. And there he was.

Juhoon slowed slightly when he reached the shelter, brushing a hand lightly through his damp hair as he stepped under the small overhang. A few droplets clung stubbornly to the ends, catching the dim light before slipping away. Neither of you spoke, just a small bow from both sides.

“You’re still here.”

“My bus hasn’t come yet,” you replied softly, the usual tone that came out unconsciously when he was around.

He nodded once. “I see.”

The rain filled the silence between you. He stood with his usual posture, his attention drifting somewhere ahead rather than toward you, just like you were doing.

A stronger gust of wind pushed the rain further in, forcing you to step back slightly at the same time he reached into his bag. The hairs on your skin stood on end, and your hands did their best to warm them, too focused on that to notice the umbrella that stretched wide above him.

“You can stand here,” the offer came with him shifting it slightly in your direction, inviting you to step closer.

The space between you disappeared almost instantly; the umbrella wasn’t large enough to keep a comfortable distance, not if both of you wanted to stay dry. Your shoulder brushed lightly against his, and this was probably the closest you two were in three years.

“Thank you,” 

He nodded. “It’s fine.”

The rain continued to fall around you, louder now against the fabric above that wrapped around the moment. It was almost impossible not to feel the warmth of him beside you, close enough to notice, but not close enough to reach. Sadly.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the strap of your bag.

Say something.

The thought came to your head like a whisper. You could.

It wouldn’t be that hard. Just a few words—simple, honest. Enough to shift whatever this was into one that didn’t leave you guessing every time you looked at him.

“Juhoon, I—”

The words stopped, and to your surprise, it wasn’t because you couldn’t say them; you actually could. It was how his gaze focused on the road ahead where the bus would eventually appear. Even when he looked at you, there was no sign that he was waiting for anything more than the bus to arrive, clearly having no space opened for you.

The realization came quietly and landed harder than you expected on the back of your head, your words slipping away just as quickly as they had formed. “…Do you think it’ll be late?” you asked instead.

He glanced at the road briefly. “Maybe. The rain usually slows it down.”

“Oh.”

“That happens sometimes,” You nodded anyway, gaze dropping slightly to your partially dirty shoes. In a way, you couldn’t wrap your head around how the quiet that once felt shared even without words, it stretched between you unevenly, pressing in on your chest in a way that made it harder to breathe.

You were so, so close, and yet it felt like you were the only one standing there whose thoughts were eating her alive. The rain softened slightly, though the sky remained unchanged as the grey clouds didn’t seem ready to clear anytime soon.

All these years, you lived saying, “Maybe it was nothing,” although right now, where you didn’t feel an ounce of willingness on his part to know you beyond the dinners both of your families shared, the small tea parties with Miss. Kang, it felt like you should truly stop using that phrase. 

Surprisingly, your father had been right: A face can catch your attention, but a person keeps it. And suddenly, you weren’t sure what was being kept.

The bus lights appeared in the distance, clearer as it approached. Juhoon adjusted his grip on the umbrella slightly, stepping forward just enough to guide both of you closer to the edge of the road. The movement was considerate in the smallest way, just not enough to feel like more.

The doors opened with a soft mechanical sound. Juhoon signaled you to step in first. “Thank you,” 

He gave a small nod. “Of course.”

And that was it. You climbed the steps, your fingers brushing lightly against the damp railing as you moved inside. There was an empty seat by the window—your usual one—and without thinking, you slid into it, your bag resting neatly on your lap. A second later, he took the seat beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched when the bus shifted forward again.

The window beside you was streaked with rain, blurring the outside world into shifting shapes. You rested your gaze there, watching as droplets chased each other down the glass, merging and separating without ever really stopping. Beside you, Juhoon adjusted slightly, the faint rustle of fabric breaking the quiet. 

“Here.” his voice caught your attention, watching him holding out a small tangerine as a simple gesture.

Still, your chest tightened slightly. “…Thank you,” you said, accepting it carefully.

He nodded once, already pulling his hand back, already moving on as if the moment had ended the second it happened.

“It’s from home,” he added after a beat. “My grandmother bought them.”

You glanced down at it, the bright color sitting softly against your palm. “They look good.”

“They are.” A gentle smile spread across her face, making you smile as well. You peeled it slowly, the scent rising faintly into the air. Naturally, you separated one slice, then hesitated for a second before holding it out toward him.

“Do you want—?”

He shook his head lightly. “You can have it. Grandma bought plenty.” That was it. That briefly friendly tone appeared.

“Oh… okay.” The slice was sweet, slightly tart on your tongue, but your attention wasn’t really on the taste. It drifted beside you instead, catching on the quiet shift in Juhoon’s posture. He hadn’t said anything after that.

He just sat there with his shoulder low; what you did notice was how his eyes blinked slowly, an action you often did when you were trying to keep up with something your body had already decided.

When they finally closed, it just happened; his head landed on your shoulder. You paused mid-eating at the warmth of him resting there, his hair brushed lightly against your neck as he slept without realizing it.

Your fingers tightened gently around the remaining slices in your hand, the peel crinkling faintly as the bus rolled forward. After what her grandmother had told you, you didn't move.

The concern rants about how she saw him stay up long after everyone else had gone to sleep, books spread out in the dim light. How it wasn’t just about school, not really, but about becoming someone his father could be proud of. The kind of effort that didn’t leave room for softness, or hesitation, or anything that might get in the way, like living a normal teenage life.

His behaviour made sense now to you, how carefully he carried himself and kept everything contained, neat and controlled, until he was with his friends, where he let himself loose to take a breath.

Your gaze drifted back to him, to the faint rise and fall of his shoulders, to the unguarded softness resting across his face while he slept. It was different like this. Lighter, almost. Whatever he carried during the day had been set down, if only for a moment.

You let yourself take it in, knowing it wasn’t something you were meant to see. Knowing that once he woke up, it would slip away, replaced by that familiar distance he wore so easily. And somehow, that didn’t make this moment feel any less real.

If anything, it made it more fragile, which was held only in the space between who he was for the world and who he allowed himself to be when no one was looking. And that was enough.

DUAL POV

Juhoon didn’t mean to come this way.

If anyone had asked, he would’ve said he was just walking—clearing his head after too many hours bent over his desk, loosening the quiet tension that felt too heavy on his shoulders whenever he stayed in one place for too long and had to listen to his father's constant speech about perfection. Lately, the air of his house had made him feel smaller than usual, and he didn’t care to name, especially when his father was home. So he walked.

It wasn’t unusual for him to take the longer route, to let his feet decide instead of his thoughts. Still, he knew this path wasn’t one he usually chose. It pulled him further out than expected, already past the familiar houses with their dim porch lights and the small shops already shuttered for the evening. At some point, he realized he didn’t quite know where he was.

That thought should have bothered him, but it didn’t; he actually felt a kind of relief.

He kept going, the rhythm of his steps slowing as the noise of the city thinned behind him. The wind came with a soft rustle ahead, and when he stepped onto a stretch of fallen leaves, the sound followed. Then the path opened. A lone ginkgo tree stood at the edge of a small clearing, its branches stretching wide against a pale, fading sky. Its leaves had already begun to fall, scattering across the ground in uneven patches of gold. 

Juhoon slowed once he realized there was someone there. At first, it was only a shape—a figure near the base of the tree, partially hidden by the slight dip in the ground. But as he stepped closer, the outline became so familiar that it made him stop without realizing it.

It was you, looking smaller here.

Not physically, but you fit into the space around you. The open clearing stretched wide, and there you were, kneeling beneath the tree as if you belonged to it more than the world beyond it. The wind moved gently through your loose hair, lifting a few strands before letting them fall again. Your hands were busy with something in front of you. He hadn’t expected you here, of all places.

His mind made him consider turning back; it would’ve been easy since you didn’t even realize he was there, yet destiny didn’t want it that way, forcing him to step forward. This time, the sound of leaves beneath his shoes gave him away, and when he saw your face, he couldn’t believe how his heart stopped.

There was no shock on your face, only a small pause; maybe his presence had arrived a second too early, but he didn’t feel entirely unwelcome. He was never good at reading emotions; that was his grandma's talent. He was grateful to pinpoint a sadness that didn’t ask to be seen resting beneath your face.

It sat gently in your expression, in the softness of your eyes, in the stillness of your lips. And somehow, it showed you in a light he hadn’t noticed before, or didn’t want to. A kind of beauty that didn’t try to be anything at all, and maybe that was why it moved him enough to make his ear warm up.

“Juhoon.”

“I didn’t know you came here.”

“I do,” you said simply. His gaze drifted, almost without permission, settling on the ground in front of you while his body didn’t know what to do. “Do you want to sit with me?”

Then he noticed it—a small blanket spread beneath you with enough space left beside you for him to sit, and he doubted only for a second before sitting down. Once he was next to you, two small markers that rested beneath the tree caught his eye. Probably, you sensed his curiosity since he couldn’t look away from them. “My family is here,” you added. He searched for the pattern in those markers—two crosses side by side—and could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Are you alright?”

“I am now. Yes.” The sentence came easily. You had already turned back by then, your attention returning to what you had been doing, hand brushing gently over the ground, moving a few fallen leaves aside with quiet care. He didn’t interrupt; he wasn’t supposed to disrupt.

After a moment, you reached into your bag, recognizing the binyeo in a second once you pulled it out. You had worn it for as long as he could remember—three years, maybe more, the fading light softly making it shine as usual, even brighter as you held it between your fingers.

Juhoon’s eyes followed the movement without thinking.

“This was from her,” you said quietly. “My mother.”

Carefully, you leaned forward and adjusted it where it rested, your fingers steady for a person who has been doing it over and over until it became easy, like a small ritual. “She liked things to be neat, said it made things feel in place.”

Juhoon stayed still, feeling how you were trying your very best to swallow that knot in your throat. “My brother used to tease her for it, he said she cared more about how things looked than how they felt, but he always let her fix his collar before he left. He was a student,” you said after a moment.

Your hand stilled for just a second.

“He thought he understood everything.” The corner of your lips curved, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “They died during the April Revolution.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it; it was better if it stayed lowered, fixed somewhere between the ground and the small space you had carefully cleared, so he couldn’t see the small tears forming in your eyes.

“He went out that day,” you continued quietly. “Said he was just going to see what was happening… my mother followed him because she knew deep down he lied.”

Juhoon felt his chest heavier once again as he kept listening. “She found him, before anything happened.” Your fingers brushed over the edge of the marker, lingering there. “And when it did… she didn’t let go. They were both brought back here.”

Juhoon swallowed lightly, his hands resting against his knees, unmoving. He searched for something—anything—that felt appropriate, and that could sit beside what you had just given him.

But nothing came; this was the first time he couldn’t ask a question.

“I see.” The words sounded small, even to him. You nodded, like that was enough, and it was in a way, knowing the lack of comfort he would give.

Neither of you spoke; he watched you adjust the binyeo again, though it didn’t need fixing, your fingers smoothing over it before pulling back. “They used to argue a lot, about small things. My brother always said he’d leave first,” you continued. “That he wouldn’t stay in a place that didn’t listen or feel understood. But he didn’t. because we all knew he was playing around.”

Your lips pressed together slightly, deciding to look at him as one tear finally dropped from the corner of your eye, wetting your cheek. “He stayed.”

Juhoon nodded once, though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. Deep in his mind, he wanted to say something, but asking what it had been after or how long you had been coming here seemed inappropriate. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask how you had carried it all this time and still smile to your friends so prettily and act like everything was fine with her grandma as he watched you from a distance.

The questions hovered somewhere at the edge of his thoughts, and they didn’t even reach his voice. Instead, he sat there, observing something he didn’t know how to step into.  After a while, he shifted slightly on the spot.

“I should go,” It came out gently. You didn’t look surprised.

“Okay.” Contrary to his tone, yours was dry.

“Take care,” he said instead.

You nodded. “You too.”

He stood, brushing a few leaves from his clothes before stepping back onto the path. The sound of them shifting under his shoes followed him as he walked away, quieter with each step. 

He didn’t look back, but just like anything related to you, the image stayed with him. The tree, the scattered gold leaves. Especially, you, sitting there with careful hands and a voice that carried more than it showed. The words from his grandma knocked some sense when he was far enough from you, realizing how little he had actually seen the whole you.

On the other side, you were never simply quiet—not in the way people found easy to understand. There was a depth to your life that resisted being seen, that was sadly shaped by loss and held together with quiet discipline to not show it to the only family you had. You had learned how to carry it without letting it show, folding it into softer expressions, small smiles that asked for nothing in return.

It was easier that way, for others to accept, and for you to move through the world without being asked questions you didn’t have the strength to answer.

He had seen that version of you—the gentler outline, the one that didn’t trouble anyone. Perhaps because it was all you allowed. Or perhaps because anything more would have required him to linger in a place he didn’t know how to stand in.

But there was nothing simple about you. You had endured the kind of loss that reshapes everything, leaving no visible fracture and yet altering the weight of every day that followed. You had learned how to live beside it, how to return to it, how to honor it without letting it consume what remained of you. And beneath all of that careful composure, there had been the faintest hope that someone might one day recognize it—not as something to mend, but as something to remain beside.

Under the ginkgo tree, you did not move.

The wind slipped into the space he had left, gentler than his presence had been, brushing against your face before passing through the branches above.

This place had always belonged to you—to you and to them. Tucked away from the rest of the world, it held everything you could not carry anywhere else. Without meaning to, he had found it. He had seen a piece of what you kept here, had listened as you gave voice to a version of you that you rarely allowed to surface.

There was kindness in him, you knew it. But kindness did not always know how to remain when things grew heavier or when silence stretched and asked for more than quiet company.

Your gaze shifted to the space beside you, feeling more tears rolling down your cheek.

Once, you might have imagined it differently—might have believed that if he opened enough like before and how his grandma wished, something in you would turn toward him without resistance, that the distance between you could soften so it can become steadier in hopes of being something more.

So when the space remained unchanged, you let it. 

JUHOON's POV

Considering how much the country had suffered in recent years, including outside his home, he couldn't avoid conversations that emphasized responsibility.

They came from everywhere now.

From the crackling radio his father listened to every evening, to teachers who lingered a little too long on civics lessons once their words slipped from memorization to more pointed ones, to older students who spoke in lowered voices near the gates, glancing over their shoulders like the air itself might carry their thoughts elsewhere.

Responsibility.

It used to feel like a distant word that was only meant for adults, for men who had already decided what kind of lives they would lead. Not for someone still in uniform, still worrying about test scores and neat handwriting.

But lately, he noticed it by how his father folded the newspaper more sharply than before, in the pauses between sentences at dinner. In the way his brother spoke about the future, one that wasn’t abstract and unavoidable.

And, sadly, he started to see that in himself.

Juhoon adjusted his grip on his pen, the tip hovering just above his notebook as the classroom buzzed faintly around him, a habit he had acquired. The teacher’s voice could be perfectly heard from the front, explaining something about economic recovery, but his attention was snagged on a single phrase.

“…the responsibility of the younger generation…”

He saw how a few students straightened their backs at that, while others looked down. His pen touched the paper again, writing without hesitation: Responsibility meant direction. Hence, direction meant decisions. And decisions meant there was less room for anything else.

“Hey.”

The whisper came from his left. Juhoon didn’t look up immediately.

“Hey,” the voice repeated, insistently.

He finally turned slightly. Keonho leaned back in his chair just enough to avoid the teacher’s direct line of sight, eyebrows raised.

“You’ve been writing the same line for the past minute.” Juhoon glanced down. He didn’t even realize that

“I’m listening,”

“Sure thing,” Keonho corrected, unimpressed. “Such an attentive student.”

From behind them, a soft snort slipped out.

“Leave him alone,” James murmured. “If he starts talking, we’ll all get in trouble.”

Juhoon didn’t turn fully this time, but he could picture the expression anyway—the relaxed posture, the half-smile that never quite looked forced. James was like that.

Where Keonho filled silence with noise, James would either let it sit or join. Where Juhoon measured his words, James didn’t seem to measure them at all, yet somehow never said the wrong thing. It made people gravitate toward him without trying.

“See?” Keonho whispered. “Even he thinks you’re too serious.”

“I didn’t say that,” James replied lightly.

“You didn’t have to.”

The teacher’s chalk hit the board a little harder than necessary. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Keonho straightened immediately. James lowered his gaze, the picture of innocence. Juhoon didn’t move. After a moment, the teacher turned back to the board, the lesson continuing as if nothing had happened.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes returning to his notebook, the word alone in a line: Responsibility.

After school, the courtyard filled like it always did. And despite being used to that movement to shake off the weight of the day, it felt different.

“Are you coming or not?” Keonho tossed the ball lightly between his hands, watching him.

“For what?” Juhoon asked.

“The river. Just for a bit. Seonghyeon and Martin can’t make it because of practice.”

“I have work to finish.”

“You always have work to finish. Come live a little.”

“That’s because I don’t leave it unfinished.”

Keonho groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Then go without me.”

“I would,” he said, then paused. “But it’s more fun when you’re there.”

Juhoon didn’t respond right away. From the side, James spoke again, softer this time. “Come for a little while,” he said. “You can still study after.” 

The kind offer made him hesitate. It would be easy to say no; it was easier than considering it. The way James said it made the refusal feel like an answer he couldn’t say. “Not long,” he said finally.

Keonho lit up immediately. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“It shouldn’t have been,” James added under his breath. Juhoon ignored that.

The walk to the river wasn’t long. As usual, Keonho talked the most—about a teacher he disliked, about a rumor he swore was true, about a plan he had already abandoned halfway through explaining, and most importantly, his next date with his girlfriend.

James listened, occasionally adding something small that somehow made the story better or complemented his ideas. Juhoon walked beside them quietly.

“…and then she actually said—” Keonho stopped mid-sentence. “Wait.”

“What?” James asked.

Keonho nodded toward the path ahead. “Look.”

Juhoon followed his gaze without thinking. A group of girls walked ahead, their uniforms moving softly with each step, voices blending into the late afternoon air.

He recognized them by the uniforms, more than anything. Dark skirts moving softly, white sleeves catching the light as they walked. The whole group moved in a pattern he had seen from a distance more times than he could count.

Then, her.

It wasn’t planned; the recognition just happened in such a quiet and immediate way, adjusting into place before he had the chance to question it. But she wasn’t where he expected her to be—not slightly behind or tucked into the edges of the group the way he had unconsciously placed her in his mind.

She was in the middle of it, leaning in as one of her friends spoke, her head tipping back when she laughed, the sound too soft to reach him, and it was clear enough by how her shoulders loosened. One of the girls nudged her, and she nudged back without hesitation this time, something easy and unguarded in the motion.

Her hands weren’t held close to her chest either. One moment, she gestured lightly with them as she spoke; the next, she adjusted the books at her side, only to forget about them again as the conversation pulled her in.

There was a rhythm to her he hadn’t seen before, an uncontained lightness.

She turned her head quickly—too quick to be measured—and said something that made the others react all at once. Even from where he stood, he could see how their steps slowed, and their attention gathered around her instead of passing through.

It didn’t feel like she was trying, and that was the part that caught him.

There was no effort in it—no awareness of how she might be seen. Just the certainty of someone who had forgotten to hold herself back. He watched a second longer than he meant to; the version he had built of her, without realizing it, broken into pieces.

And for a brief moment, that unsettled something in him. In his chest.

“You’re staring,” Keonho sang with the sole purpose of teasing him.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” Juhoon repeated, sharper this time. James glanced between them, then back ahead.

“…She’s in our class, right? The one in the middle,” he asked casually.

Keonho nodded. “Yeah. That's Y/N, the quiet one.”

“Mm.” That was it; there wasn’t any exaggeration, just acknowledgment that made Juhoon more aware of it, not less. “She doesn’t look that quiet to me.”

He looked away first, only to find James staring at her as if he were in a daze with a small smile on his lips, a state from which Juhoon made sure to snap him out of with a gentle nudge.

It didn’t mean anything.

They reached the river shortly after, the sound of water softly cutting through the last remnants of conversation. Keonho dropped his bag first, already crouching near the edge to check the temperature. James followed more slowly, hands in his pockets, before he finally sat down on a flat stone. Juhoon stood a moment longer, his bag hanging in his hand, to find a clean enough space to put it.

“You’re doing it again,” Keonho said without looking up.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking like you’re about to solve the country’s problems.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

James let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

Juhoon exhaled, finally setting his bag down. “…It’s just…” 

“What?”

“Things aren’t the same,” he said instead.

“That’s because we’re not fourteen anymore,” Keonho replied immediately. “Of course they’re not the same.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Juhoon looked toward the water, the reflection of the fading sky shifting with each ripple. “Everyone keeps talking about what comes next, like it’s already decided.”

“…And?” he asked.

“And I don’t think it is.” Keonho leaned back on his hands, quietly thinking about what he could say. 

“So decide it yourself.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“There are expectations,” he said finally.

“From who?”

“You know who.”

Keonho clicked his tongue. “Yeah. Sadly.”

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a choice.” James tilted his head slightly, gaze still on the water.

He frowned faintly. “It feels like I don’t.”

“Then maybe you’re only looking at the choices you think you’re allowed to make. Have you ever truly lived?”

The river moved the same way it always had, indifferent to everything else, comforting the silence that sentence created. Eventually, Keonho stood, brushing the dust from his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “If we stay any longer, he’ll start thinking again.”

“I never stopped,” Juhoon replied, smiling briefly. Keonho splashed a little water on him.

“Exactly my point.”

James stood too, stretching slightly with a groan. He removed his shoes before dipping his feet into the water.

“You should head back,” he said to Juhoon. “You’ll worry about it otherwise, and your dad will be pissed. Maybe on the weekend we can all hang out.”

He wasn’t wrong; it didn’t take long for him to pick up his bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Keonho said. “Try not to become a government official overnight.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“I know. That’s why it’s funny.” James just smiled, splashing more water on the youngest of the three.

On the walk back, the quiet returned. His thoughts didn’t scatter as they usually did—they narrowed on words. Responsibility, future, expectation—the words lined up too easily now, slotting into place as if they had always been waiting for him to notice them.

By the time he reached his street, the sky had darkened enough for the first lights to flicker on behind windows, another three words: Home. Routine. Structure. It should have eased him like usual. Instead, when he passed the low wall, he slowed.

Across the street, the gate stood half-open. A faint light spilled from inside, catching on movement. He didn’t mean to look, still, even though he could only see her out of the corner of his eye, he did it anyway.

She stood in the yard, her back turned this time, sleeves rolled just enough as she adjusted something near the entrance. It was either a box, maybe, or a stack of books. Her movements were casual and unhurried. He saw how she paused, her hands resting lightly against the edge as if she had forgotten what she was doing—or maybe she was just thinking. He couldn’t tell, and he shouldn’t have been watching long enough to wonder.

Juhoon shifted his grip on his bag, looking away when he sensed her gaze and kept walking. That was what made sense, and that was what he did—but not before his gaze flickered back once more, resting on her without reason, just taking a look at how the last rays of sunshine made her shine.

Then he turned fully, stepping through his own gate without hesitation this time.

Inside, everything felt the same. A difference was that his mother was next to his grandmother, drinking what he supposed was tea, the usual faint rustle of paper confirming his father's presence, and the familiar expectation fell back into place as if it had never left. His brother was nowhere to be found, his work consuming him until nightfall.

While seated at his desk with his books spread neatly in front of him, a couple of hours later, he found himself pausing more than usual. The material wasn’t difficult. He understood it completely, although his mind had different plans; his focus slipped only for a second at a time. It was either a movement outside, the sentence James had said, or the figure standing in fading light before.

Juhoon closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. This wasn’t like him. It couldn’t become a habit.

He picked up his pen again to force himself back into rhythm. The words came easier after that. Still, somewhere between one line and the next, his thoughts drifted again, not toward responsibility and the uncertain future, but to the simple realization that someone could exist so close, just across the street, and remain completely outside of his world. One look at his window showed that her bedroom window was fully open to let the night in.

She stood there, brushing her hair in absent strokes, the radio hummed “Ranch Lady in the Straw Hat” by Park Jae Ran, and she followed it without thinking, combining a small sway of her shoulders with a turn of her wrist, creating a rhythm that belonged to her. It wasn’t a performance meant for anyone, and maybe that was what held him there—the pure way she seemed to exist entirely for herself in that moment.

He hadn’t meant to notice her, simply doing a passing glance that was supposed to be dissolved as quickly as it came. However, a force prevented him from looking away as easily as he should have. He caught himself observing the details without understanding why: how the light reflected off her hair, the vacant look in her eyes, the slight movement of her lips, as if she were half-remembering the words. It was nothing, really. Less than nothing.

Nevertheless, it tugged some strings somewhere inside him, softly and without invitation.

When she slipped into a small, unthinking sway, losing the rhythm for a second before catching it again, the corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it. The smile was brief, almost accidental, and soon he looked down, not long after, a little too quickly. Noticing her at all had already felt like more than it should have been.

Still, when his eyes returned to the page, it was too late. His focus slipped once and for all, catching on the same line without moving forward. There was a faint and unfamiliar feeling sitting somewhere in his chest—nothing strong enough to name, just distracting him from what was important. He ignored it, or tried to, though it made it hard to forget entirely.

At first, nothing seemed different. The mornings came as they always had, taking the same walk to school, past the same voices gathering at the gates, into the same rhythm of footsteps brushing against pavement. You slipped into your place in the day, greeting your friends with an easy familiarity, taking your seat, smoothing your hands over your notebook as you had done a hundred times before, and, of course, talking with them before the classes started.

Everything remained exactly as it had been, and yet, deep inside, you had gone quietly still. You didn’t look for him in that instinctive, unthinking way you used to, when your attention would drift without permission, and your eyes would search for him before you even knew you were hoping. Now your gaze stayed where you placed it, anchored to the small ordinary things that asked nothing of you. 

The unusual part was that you didn’t decide to stop; there was no moment of refusal, no conscious turning away. It was only later that you realized the pull was gone.

And in its absence, there was something unfamiliar that managed to balance the softness you hadn’t expected to come with it. It was so easy that it felt almost undeserved, as though love at seventeen should have left something heavier behind that tarry and ached to demand to be noticed. But it didn’t. It slipped away from you gently, and you let it go without ever once turning your head.

“Are you feeling alright?” Wonhee asked one morning, leaning in slightly as she studied your face.

You glanced up, pen still in hand, with a soft smile on your face. “I am.”

“You’ve been strange.”

“... I’m always strange?”

“I know, but it’s... strange,” she said, unconvinced.

Yunah, who had been quietly flipping through her book, looked between you both before speaking. “She’s studying.”

Wonhee frowned. “She always studies, more than usual though.”

“Not like this,” Yunah repeated, echoing her earlier tone with a subtle difference. She nodded toward your desk. “She hasn’t looked up once.”

You hadn’t realized that. “There are tests this week, and the one I messed up last time can be improved with this new one.”

“There’s always a test, but you will do great this time,” Wonhee muttered under her breath, the last part gentle.

You didn’t argue, just giving her another small smile because this time it felt like enough of an answer.

“Also, we have something for you.” Then Yunah reached into her bag and placed a white envelope on top of your book. Your name neatly written on it and their names just beneath, you could recognize the envelope anywhere.

“It’s nothing big,” she said. “Just take it.”

Wonhee nudged it a little closer to you at the sight of you staring at it in disbelief. “Don’t leave it there.”

Your throat tightened before you could respond.

“And—” Wonhee hesitated, then took your hand, her grip warm and clumsy. “Next time you go… to the ginkgo tree—”

Yunah picked up gently, “—would it be alright if we came with you?”

You nodded before you could trust your voice. The room blurred, and you quickly looked down, pretending to adjust the envelope in your hands.

“Hey,” Wonhee said quietly, not letting your hand go, “don’t cry here.”

You let out a small breath before leaning forward, wrapping your arms around them both. “Thank you.”

As you heard your classmates rushing to their desks, the moment had to be broken apart, quickly putting your envelope away in one of your books to clean up the tears that escaped from your eyes, right before the teacher arrived a few seconds later.

Months ago, there had always been an awareness that sat beneath your thoughts, mostly the sense of where he was in the room, of whether he had arrived yet, of whether he would speak. Now that it was gone, the absence had shape and made you return to your focused self.

And that also goes to how the hours passed, barely noticing when the bell rang. Wonhee saw you placing your things without thinking about it. 

“Wait—already?” Wonhee called after you, her voice trailing as she wrestled her bag into place. “You’re leaving first?”

“I’m not leaving first.”

“You are right now.”

You adjusted the strap on your shoulder and glanced at her. “I want to go to the library today.”

“Are you actually studying there?”

“Yes.”

Wonhee let out a long, exaggerated groan. “You’re becoming unbearable.”

Yunah laughed, and you did too, the sound slipping out easily. “It’s only for a few weeks. Come with me next time—I’ll explain Civics to you.”

Wonhee physically recoiled at that, clutching her chest like she’d been personally attacked. “Fine. I’m taking that offer, but I won’t enjoy it.”

“I’ll go too,” Yunah added once she caught her breath. “Just in case she tries to escape.”

“I’ll see you girls, tomorrow! ”

You stepped away before Wonhee could argue again, slipping out of the conversation and to the same after-class scenery: clusters of students, familiar paths worn into the space, and several conversations. Nothing had changed, except that the way you moved through it had.

Crossing without slowing down, your gaze stayed forward, not sparing a glance at the corridor where he sometimes stood or the field as you just walked.

The absence didn’t pull at you or demand notice. It stayed to exist without asking anything of you and closing on its own. You hadn’t decided to come here more often. It wasn’t a plan you’d made or a habit you’d set out to build. To your luck, the library had begun to feel less of an obligation.

You had always come when you needed to finish an assignment or just to be outside your house, knowing how passionate your dad got while painting the walls with music. The librarian would even say hello to you since you used to arrive when there wasn’t a clear reason, like today, only wanting to read a new book that your father thought you might like in English, so you can improve.

It would have been easier to follow your friends out through the gates to enjoy the rest of the afternoon, but after all the studying you had done, you wanted to be alone.

The library received you with the soft turn of pages, the occasional scrape of a chair, the low presence of other people existing alongside you without interruption. You took your usual seat by the window after picking up the two grammar books for the next test. At some point, the rest of the day slipped past without you noticing, too focused on reading your book.

“…Is this seat taken?”

The voice pulls you from the quiet gravity of your book, a soft interruption that feels almost out of place in the stillness. You look up, blinking once, twice—more out of surprise than confusion. It takes a second to place him, not because you don’t recognize him, but because you hadn’t expected to see him here, out of all places.

Zhao Yufan, one of Juhoon’s closest friends.

A flicker of guilt passes through you. You’ve seen him before—of course you have—but only caught your eye once or twice when he did something funny with his taller friend just to make everyone else crack a smile. 

Still, you can’t deny it. He’s handsome.

You envied the balance of his features—soft, but not unremarkable. Defined, but not in a way that feels intentional. As if he wasn’t shaped to impress, he happened to be. Your gaze lingers on his eyes briefly. They’re the first thing that holds you there—calm, slightly downturned at the corners, giving him a thoughtful look. There’s no sharpness to them, no edge meant to intimidate. Not when he’s looking at you with such gentle eyes, it’s almost impossible to read.

His skin is smooth, even, marked here and there with faint scars. His expression rests in that space between neutral and curious. And his lips, softly shaped and with balanced thickness, sit in a relaxed line that makes you wonder for a moment what they’d look like if he smiled without holding back, which probably might change everything.

His hair falls in uneven strands across his forehead, slightly tousled, which doesn’t look intentional. It suits him effortlessly, softening whatever distance his expression might have created, and makes him feel closer somehow.

“Um… no,” you say, realizing a second too late that he’s asked you something. Your eyes flick to the empty chair across from you, and you gesture toward it. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

He moves quietly, pulling the chair out with minimal sound, setting his books down with the same careful ease. You brace yourself for the awkwardness that usually follows in this type of situation, but it never quite arrives. He doesn’t look at you again right away,  just opens his book, settling into his work like your presence doesn’t complicate anything.

You return to your own pages, this time from the grammar book for your English class. Eventually, you both reach for the same reference book, causing your fingers to brush.

“Oh—sorry,” you said immediately, pulling your hand back.

“It’s okay,” he replied, just as quickly. None of you moved after that, then he shifted the book slightly toward you. “You can take it.”

“You were reaching for it too.”

“I can wait.”

“…Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Totally”

You hesitated before taking it, your fingers brushing the edge of the cover instead of his this time.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Before you can think too hard about it, you glance up again. “How about we read it together?”

He doesn’t react at first, but when you see his eyes lift from the page, meeting yours with surprise, his gaze shifts briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you.

“…Together?” he repeats, like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod, suddenly more aware of how this might sound than you were a moment ago. “It’s—uh, kind of annoying to wait for it. We’re probably looking for the same thing anyway.”

A small pause follows before he leans back slightly in his chair, considering it.

“…Okay,” he says.

You made a small space next to you for him to put his chair, and the book was placed between you two for him to see. Your shoulders don’t touch, but you’re aware of how close they could. The silence came back between you two as you both looked down at the same page, silently figuring out where to start.

“Were you in this section?” you ask, pointing lightly to a paragraph near the middle.

“Yeah,” he replies, leaning in just slightly. “That part explains it better than the earlier one.”

You hum in acknowledgment, eyes tracing the lines as you read. It’s easier this time, and now and then, one of you points something out like a sentence, a detail, or a correction.

The rest of the time slips with quiet exchanges, shared glances at the same lines, the occasional murmur of agreement. Later, you stop keeping track of whose hand moves first, whose voice breaks the silence. It blends easily and unforcedly, and turns out, Yufan was good at English, so he helped you with the pronunciation from time to time.

Deep down, you felt a little disappointed at how quickly time had flown by, even though you’d been able to relax with Yufan for at least ten minutes earlier. You closed your notebook with a small exhale, gathering your things.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, closing his own book. “Me too.”

You weren’t sure why you waited, but you did just long enough for him to stand. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, announcing how the night was getting closer.

“You stay late often?” he asked after a bit of walking side by side.

“Recently. I do that when it’s exam season.”

“Mm.”

“You?”

“Not usually,” he admitted. “But I had more to finish today.”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on your bag. “You’re good at focusing.”

You blinked. “What?”

“In there,” he gestured lightly toward the school behind you. “You didn’t look up once.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t realized. “…I guess.”

“It’s impressive.”

“It’s just studying.”

“Still. I can’t even sit still for a couple of minutes—I just pulled it off to match your energy.”

There’s something playful in his tone that catches you off guard. You let out a small laugh before you can stop it, and the way his expression shifts—quietly pleased—makes it feel like he’d been waiting for that.

“That’s very kind of you, Yufan.”

“James.”

“Mh?”

“Call me James. It’s easier.”

“But I like your name.”

That, apparently, surprises him enough for him to lift one of his eyebrow lifts. “Liar.”

“I’m serious,” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I think it’s pretty… but if you want me to call you James, that’s okay. I can make that sacrifice.”

He laughs this time, it felt even warmer than the evening air, softer than the fading light. You slow your steps without meaning to.

“I go this way,” you say, gesturing ahead.

“Same,”

“I didn’t know you lived nearby.”

“Not too far.”

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward, but it soon fills with your conversations. “…Keonho talks a lot,”

A small laugh escapes you before you can hold it back, remembering how you and Yunah placed a bet once on who speaks the most, him or Wonhee. “He does.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know!”

“He just fills space with the most random things. So does Martin.”

“That makes sense,” you say, glancing down for a moment. “They get along so well.”

He looks at you then, briefly but directly. “You don’t.”

You frown, a little puzzled. “I don’t talk much.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You turn your head toward him, confusion softening your expression. He doesn’t explain right away, letting the moment sit there. “You don’t need to.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest feel different, but before you can figure out why, he nods toward a smaller street branching off ahead. “This is me.”

You stop. “Oh.”

“Let’s keep going,” he says.

“James, we’re in your street.”

“I don’t want to let you go alone; let me take you home safe.”

It’s said simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches out, hand hovering before gently nudging yours forward, urging you to keep walking. The contact is light, fleeting—but it made your face warm instantly and forced you to look away, walking forward before he has the chance to notice.

Or maybe he does.

The street stretches ahead as your footsteps walk side by side, the conversations growing as both of you arrive at your house.

“Hold on, you are Juhoon’s neighbor?”

“Yes, for a couple of years now, actually.” 

“I didn’t know that,” he says, glancing between your house and his, fitting pieces together a little too late. “That makes sense.”

You smile faintly. “Does it?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’re around more than I thought. I just didn’t notice properly.”

“Well,” you murmur with your eyes on him, “you’re noticing now.”

“Glad I am.”

You stood in front of the cool metal of your gate with your key in hand. “I had a good time,” he says then, almost like it surprises him to admit it out loud.

Again, you were caught off guard, but this time, it’s easier to smile. “Me too.” Your door finally opened. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, James.” 

You take a step back, already half-turning toward your door.

“…Yufan sounds nice, too.” Once the words lingered in the air, you looked back at him just to see the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Yufan,” you corrected, his smile growing a little in size.

“I’ll be happy to see you tomorrow,” he says. “Y/N.”

You nod once before slipping inside, closing the gate behind you. But even as you walk toward your door, you give one last glance back once more. He’s still there, waiting for you to enter safely and to wave his hand softly before he finally turns and heads home.

Who would have thought that Yufan was that sweet?

─── BLR DIDN'T WANT ME TO POST THIS BC OF THE 1K BLOCK LIMIT </3! Hence, I'm posting the first part out so you all can stop waiting (and yes, we are missing more scenes). The second part will come out hours later today or on Thursday, but it WILL. Tysm for waiting, it feels so good to be back on cortisblr yall 🚬🩷

PERMANENT CORTIS TAGLIST! @hyeon3y @cigarettestown @jesmightjumptmr @winterlico @jiyeons-closet @user28388727 @pixel-zombie @nevernowsa @miseulgaru @ivehan @cvntycapricornxx @one-chance-pls @pawcolypse @adynorris @teacuplps @heart4hees @xh01bri @emotiandon @loveseobie @rnares @angelyseo @glitchninx @lcvehyeon @me0wskii1 @kaikaikoi

[coconhovr]

ENTRY #17 𑣲 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

𝐆𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 ─── waking up to your sleepy yet super clingy boyfriend wrapped around you

★ bf ! james × fem!reader

word count ── 0.8k

˖᯽ ݁˖ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 coco speaking here! just a small fic this time because oh how i love domestic james :((( isn’t he the CUTESTTT 𖧧 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

The room was quiet in that soft, hazy way that only existed in the middle of a nap.

Sunlight spilled through the curtains in thin, golden lines, warming the sheets and brushing across your face. The air felt still, heavy with sleep, wrapped in the faint scent of laundry detergent and something distinctly him.

You stirred first. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sticking together for a second as you adjusted to the light. Everything felt warm, too warm, almost, and it took a moment to realize why.

James.

He was wrapped around you, not just casually either, completely, fully, impossibly clingy.

One arm was tucked tight around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, while the other was draped lazily over your side, his hand resting loosely against your arm.

One of his legs was hooked over yours, trapping you in place like you were something he refused to let go of, even in his sleep.

You let out the tiniest breath of amusement.

Of course, sleepy James was always like this.

You shifted just slightly, testing if you could move at all.

Big mistake.

His grip tightened instantly. A quiet, sleepy noise slipped past his lips, something between a hum and a soft protest, and his face buried deeper into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed against your skin, his breath warm and slow, fanning softly over your collarbone.

“Mmm… don’t move,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

You smiled, your hand instinctively coming up to rest against his arm. “I barely moved.”

“Too much,” he mumbled back, words slurred together as he nuzzled closer, tightening his hold like you might disappear if he loosened it even a little.

Your heart softened instantly. “Clingy,” you whispered teasingly.

He made another soft sound, something that almost resembled a whine, and shifted so that his forehead rested against yours now, his eyes still closed.

“Only when I’m sleepy,” he muttered.

“Liar.” That earned you the faintest, laziest huff of a laugh against your lips.

You couldn’t help it, you tilted your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm, his expression relaxed in that rare, unguarded way he only ever showed when he was half-asleep.

His reaction was immediate. His arms tightened again, pulling you even closer, if that was even possible, until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you.

“Stay,” he whispered, barely audible.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

The way he said it, so soft, so small, made your chest ache a little.

“I promise,” you murmured back.

That seemed to settle something in him. His shoulders relaxed just a bit, his grip loosening, but only enough to shift you more comfortably against him, not enough to let you go.

His thumb began tracing absentminded patterns against your arm, slow and gentle, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

You watched him for a moment.

The way his lashes rested against his cheeks. The way his lips were slightly parted, breathing steady and calm. The way he leaned into you even in his sleep, like you were something he naturally gravitated toward.

It made your chest feel warm.

Your fingers drifted up to his hair, brushing through it gently. He leaned into your touch without hesitation, a quiet sigh leaving him as his face tucked closer into yours.

“Comfortable?” you whispered.

“Mhm,” he hummed, barely coherent. “You’re warm.”

You laughed softly under your breath. “So are you.”

There was a pause. Then, “Good.”

The simplicity of it made you smile, neither of you moved after that.

Time passed slowly, lazily, the world outside fading into something distant and unimportant. It felt like you were suspended in this small, quiet bubble where nothing else existed except the warmth of the blankets, the soft sunlight, and him.

At some point, your eyes began to grow heavy again.

Your body sank deeper into the mattress, your breathing slowing to match his. His hand was still tracing those faint, absent patterns on your arm, grounding you, keeping you there.

Right before sleep pulled you under again, you felt it, his gaze. Your eyes didn’t open, but you knew.

James had woken up, fully this time.

His hand stilled slightly on your arm, his movements becoming more deliberate. You could almost feel the way he was looking at you, soft, quiet, like he didn’t want to disturb the moment.

There was something so gentle about it. Like he was afraid to break something.

His fingers brushed lightly against your cheek, tucking a strand of hair away from your face. The touch was featherlight, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Then, after a small pause. A kiss, a lazy, warm kiss pressed softly to the top of your head.

You felt his lips linger there for a moment, unmoving, like he was savoring it.

“…mine,” he murmured under his breath, voice barely above a whisper.

then, he settled back down. His arm wrapped around you again, pulling you close, his face tucking into your hair this time. His breathing slowed, evening out as sleep began to pull him under once more.

You didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Just let yourself drift, wrapped up in him. In the warmth, in the quiet, in something that felt a lot like home.

[miseulbae]

not v coherent rn bc this has highk rendered me speechless but.

i needed a break so bad and this is deadass the softest fic i’ve read ever omfg. if fic was soft and fluffy and wrappes up in clouds and silk and plush then it would be this

a bitch cried (im bitch)

[lovhyeon]

the art of restraint [PROLOGUE]

— eom seonghyeon

pairing. lord seonghyeon / f ! lady reader

warnings + info. bridgerton au, enemies to lovers, best friend's brother, forbidden love, situationship (as much as it could be in the 1800s), kissing, reader is an edwards, morally grey characters, bordering emotional infidelity, lowk toxic mindsets, love triangle w keonho kinda… LOL chill ik i packed this one HEAVILY

TAOR— TABLE OF CONTENTS...!

synopsis. the edwards family and the eom family have always moved in the same circle. you and seonghyeon have spent years perfecting the art of avoidance after... well. after his father's funeral when you both said things you couldn't take back. but the ton is small, his sister is your best friend, and eventually you run out of excuses and arguments. especially when he's looking at you like that across the ballroom. the only thing is… you’re soon to be engaged. will he get to your hand before a ring does?

LISTEN TO… enchanted and illicit affairs by taylor swift ... fallen star by the nbhd ... self control by frank ocean ... almost is never enough by ariana grande ... iloveitiloveitiloveit by bella kay ... close to you by gracie abrams ... we'll never have sex by leith ross ... i couldn't be more in love by the 1975 ... 18 by one direction

wc. 8.6k

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▸ feedback & reblogs are highly appreciated

taglist. comment to be added for fic taglist & permanent taglist here

maddy's note. so incredibly motivated by benedict and sophie rn..... put a little bit of a twist and uh… i'm aware this is a long enough teaser to be a first part.. Yikes sorry i was Super locked in n idk i just wanted to see what people thought of it and if ppl would actually read this type of writing.. IM SO UNEMPLOYEDOMG 😒😒

lovhyeon © 2026 | all content belongs to me

PROLOGUE —the season begins

𝑰.

A wife?

Imagine that.

Seonghyeon Eom laughed—though only internally, for his mother was watching him with that particular expression she had perfected over the years. The one that said she could see straight through his polite smile and into the depths of his cynical soul. It was most inconvenient, that look. Mothers, he had long ago concluded, possessed an altogether unfair advantage in such matters.

"You are not attending to a word I am saying," she said now, setting down her teacup with enough force that the porcelain sang against the saucer. Not enough to be improper, of course—his mother would sooner perish than commit an impropriety—but enough to convey her displeasure.

Across the breakfast table, his sister Eunji hid her smile behind the rim of her chocolate cup. The morning light streaming through the tall windows of their London estate caught in her dark hair and made it shine like polished mahogany. She was dressed already in a morning gown of pale yellow muslin, far too cheerful for the hour, in Seonghyeon's opinion. But then, Eunji had always been cheerful. It was one of her more aggravating qualities.

"On the contrary, Mama," Seonghyeon said, reaching for another piece of toast with studied casualness. "I heard every word. Marriage. Duty. The continuation of our illustrious family name. The ball this evening. Eligible young ladies of good breeding and better fortune. Have I missed anything?"

His mother's eyes narrowed. She was a handsome woman still, despite the threads of silver that had begun to weave through her dark hair these past two years. Two years since his father had—

But no. He would not think of that. Not this morning. Not when there was a ball to endure and a season to survive and a parade of simpering misses to politely discourage.

"You make light of everything," his mother said, though her voice had softened somewhat. "Just as your father did."

There it was. The bittersweet mention, delivered as one might mention the weather. His father would have loved this, would have laughed at that. Never dwelling, never mournful, but present nonetheless. Like a pleasant memory rather than an open wound.

It had been two years since Seonghyeon had taken on the role of head of household, and while the weight of it still pressed heavy on some days—most days, if he were being honest—he had grown accustomed to the burden. One adapted, after all. One had to.

"Father would have found the entire marriage mart absurd," Seonghyeon said, allowing himself a genuine smile. "He would have hidden in his study with a good book and left you to manage the social warfare entirely on your own."

"He most certainly would have," his mother agreed, and an emotion similar to amusement flickered across her features. "But he also would have been absolutely delighted to see Eunji make her debut. He always said she would be the belle of the season."

Eunji, who had been doing an admirable job of pretending she was not listening, flushed pink. "Mama, please—"

"It is true," their mother insisted, turning her formidable attention to her daughter. "You shall have every eligible gentleman in London at your feet by the end of the evening. Mark my words."

Seonghyeon felt something tighten in his chest at that—it was protective and altogether irrational. Eunji was eighteen, perfectly of age to debut, and more than capable of managing the attentions of overeager gentlemen. And yet, the thought of those same gentlemen looking at her, dancing with her, courting her—

"Not every gentleman, surely," he heard himself say. His voice came out rougher than intended. "I shall be screening them most carefully."

Eunji rolled her eyes with all the dramatic flair of a girl who had spent her entire life managing an overprotective older brother. "You shall do no such thing. I am perfectly capable of determining which gentlemen are worthy of my time."

"Nevertheless—"

"Seonghyeon." His mother's voice cut through his protest with the precision of a well-aimed blade. "Your sister is not a child. And you are not her father."

The words landed with more force than she had likely intended. For a moment, the breakfast table fell silent save for the gentle clink of silverware and the distant sounds of servants moving through the house.

"No," Seonghyeon agreed quietly. "I am not."

But he was all she had, was he not? All either of them had, really, beyond their mother. And if that meant being cautious, being protective, being perhaps a touch overbearing—well. So be it.

His mother reached across the table and placed her hand over his. Her fingers were warm and familiar. "Your father would be proud of the man you have become," she said softly. "But he would also want you to live, my darling. Not simply to endure."

Seonghyeon looked down at their joined hands and felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. Living. As if it were that simple. As if one could simply decide to feel things and—what? Fall in love? Build a life on something as insubstantial as sentiment?

He had seen what love did. He’d watched his mother grieve, had felt the absence of his father like a missing limb. Love was loss waiting to happen. Love was vulnerability one could ill afford when one had responsibilities, obligations, people depending on you to remain steady and strong and decidedly not falling apart.

Better to be practical. Better to be cautious. Better to—

"You are doing it again," Eunji laughed, her voice pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. "That thing where you disappear inside your own head and convince yourself of something terribly noble and terribly stupid."

"I have not the faintest idea what you mean."

"You are thinking that love is impractical," she said, with the confidence of someone who had known him her entire life. "That marriage should be a matter of duty and compatibility and nothing so foolish as genuine affection."

Seonghyeon stared at his sister. "That is not—"

"It is exactly what you were thinking." Eunji set down her chocolate with a decisive clink. "And it is utter nonsense. Father and Mama were desperately in love, and they were perfectly happy."

"Until he died," Seonghyeon said, and immediately regretted it.

His mother's hand tightened on his. Not in reproach, but in understanding. "Yes," she said simply. "Until he died. And I would not trade a single moment of what we had, even knowing how it would end. Not one moment, Seonghyeon. Do you understand?"

He did not. Or rather, he did, but he could not—would not—allow himself to accept it. Because if he did, if he admitted that love might be worth the risk, worth the inevitable pain—

What then?

What terrifying, wonderful, impossible thing might he allow himself to want?

"The ball," he redirected instead, withdrawing his hand and reaching for his coffee. The bitter taste of it grounded him and pulled him back to safer territory. "You mentioned there would be a number of eligible young ladies in attendance."

His mother recognized the deflection for what it was. He could see it in her eyes, the way her mouth pressed into a thin line. But she allowed it, as she always did. She pushed—of course, but never too far. Guided, yet never forced.

"Indeed," she said, settling back into her chair with the air of a general preparing for battle. "The Ashford sisters will be there, of course. And the Beaumont girl—the eldest, goodness, not the younger one who caused that dreadful scandal last season. Oh, and Lady Pemberton mentioned her niece would be attending. From the country, I believe. Fresh-faced and biddable, according to her aunt."

Seonghyeon made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been the precursor to a slow death by boredom. "How delightful."

"You could at least pretend to care," Eunji said, though she was smiling. Then, more carefully, "The Edwards family will be attending as well."

Something in Seonghyeon's chest tightened at the name. He reached for the jam with studied casualness. "Will they indeed."

"Of course they will," his mother said, her eyes far too knowing. "We have been friends with the family for years. Though I do hope the eldest Miss Edwards arrives on time this evening. You know how she can be."

He did know. Far better than he cared to admit.

You had been late to nearly every social engagement for as long as he could remember. Balls, garden parties, afternoon teas—it mattered not. You arrived when you pleased, with some excuse or another that your brothers seemed to find charming and Seonghyeon found infuriating.

Not that he paid particular attention to your comings and goings.

Not that he noticed when you swept into a room, always looking as though you had not a care in the world, even as you offered some perfectly reasonable explanation for your tardiness that somehow made everyone forgive you instantly.

Not that he found himself unconsciously tracking your movements at every social gathering, telling himself it was merely because Eunji was your dearest friend and he was simply being a responsible brother by keeping an eye on his sister's companion.

It was all perfectly rational. Perfectly explainable.

Perfectly false, but he had become rather skilled at lying to himself these past two years.

"She is not always late," Eunji said, coming to your defense as she always did. "And when she is, she usually has good reason. You remember last season at the Ashford ball—her youngest sister had torn her gown and she stayed to help repair it."

"How very noble of her," Seonghyeon said dryly.

"It was noble," Eunji insisted. "Wonyoung was in tears. But of course you would not understand such sisterly devotion, being the overbearing brother that you are."

"I am not overbearing—"

"You threatened Lord Hartwell for simply asking me to dance."

"I did no such thing. I merely inquired as to his intentions."

"You asked if he had a death wish."

"A perfectly reasonable question under the circumstances."

His mother made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been despair. "Seonghyeon, you cannot interrogate every gentleman who shows interest in your sister. She is making her debut. Dancing is rather the entire point of the exercise."

"I am aware. I am simply being cautious."

"You are being impossible," Eunji corrected. Then, with a sly smile, "Though I notice you take no such protective interest in Miss Edwards, despite her being my dearest friend. Surely if you were so concerned with propriety, you would be equally vigilant about the gentlemen who court her."

Seonghyeon felt heat creep up the back of his neck. "Miss Edwards is perfectly capable of managing her own affairs."

"As am I."

"That is different."

"How?"

Because you were not his sister. Because the thought of you dancing with other men, smiling at them, allowing them to court you, did not inspire protective brotherly concern but rather something far more dangerous and entirely inappropriate.

Because he had spent the better part of two years trying very hard not to think about you at all, and failing spectacularly at it.

"It simply is," he said instead.

Eunji's smile turned knowing. "Of course it is."

"Eunji—"

"I only hope she arrives in time for the dancing," his sister continued, mercifully changing the subject even as her eyes danced with mischief. "She has been so looking forward to this evening. She even had a new gown made. Blue silk, I believe. It will look stunning on her."

It would. Everything looked stunning on you. It was most inconvenient.

"How delightful," Seonghyeon said flatly.

"You should ask her to dance," Eunji suggested, all innocence. "It would be the polite thing to do, considering our families are so close."

"I shall be dancing with whomever Mama deems appropriate."

"I deem Miss Edwards entirely appropriate," his mother said, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in her voice. "In fact, I insist upon it. A waltz, I think."

A waltz. Of course. Because apparently the universe had decided that Seonghyeon's suffering should be as thorough as possible.

"If you insist," he sighed, aiming for indifference and landing somewhere closer to resignation.

"I do." His mother rose from the table, smoothing her skirts. "Now, I must oversee the final preparations. The flowers arrived this morning and I want to ensure they are arranged precisely as I specified. Seonghyeon, do try to be in a more pleasant mood by this evening. And Eunji, darling, you should rest. Tonight will be a long evening."

She swept from the room, leaving Seonghyeon alone with his sister and her altogether too perceptive gaze.

"You could simply admit that you find her attractive," Eunji teased once their mother was out of earshot.

"I have not the faintest idea—"

"You have been in looove with her for years."

His sister’s words landed like a physical blow. Seonghyeon rolled his eyes after setting himself straight and set down his coffee with rather more force than necessary. "That is simply absurd."

"Is it?" Eunji tilted her head, studying him. "You watch her at every gathering. You ask me about her constantly—how is she, what is she interested in, has she mentioned any particular gentleman showing interest. You once threatened Martin Edwards for making her cry when we were children, despite the fact that she had started the altercation by pushing him into the pond."

"He deserved it. He had been tormenting you."

"And she was defending me, yes. And you defended her. You have always defended her, even when you pretend to find her nothing but a nuisance."

Seonghyeon felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. "She is your friend. Of course I would—"

"You are not this protective of any of my other friends," Eunji interrupted gently. "Only her. You have always been different with her."

He wanted to argue. Wanted so badly to insist that she was wrong, that she was seeing things that were not there, that his occasional awareness of your presence was nothing more than the natural result of your friendship with his sister.

But Eunji had always been able to see through him. It was, he thought bitterly, a most inconvenient trait in a younger sister.

"It matters not what I feel," he conceded finally, quietly. "I am the head of this household. I have responsibilities. Obligations. I cannot afford to—"

"To what? Be happy?"

"To be reckless." He stood, suddenly unable to remain seated. "Love is a luxury I cannot afford, Eunji. You know this. We have discussed this."

"We have discussed your ridiculous conviction that feeling anything is somehow a betrayal of your duties," Eunji corrected. "Which is utter nonsense and you know it."

"Father died—"

"And Mama lived," Eunji said, rising to face him. "She grieved, yes. She suffered. But she lived, Seonghyeon. She still lives. And she has told you, again and again, that she would not trade a single moment of what she had with Father, even knowing how it would end. Why can you not believe her?"

"Because I cannot be what Father was," Seonghyeon snapped, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. "I cannot be the one who leaves you both to grieve. I must be steady. Reliable. I must—"

"You must stop punishing yourself for being human," Eunji coaxed softly. She crossed to him, placing a hand on his arm. "Father would not want this for you. This half-life you have constructed, where you refuse to feel anything lest it prove inconvenient. He loved deeply and lived fully, and he would want the same for you."

Seonghyeon looked down at his sister—when had she become so wise?—and felt a crack in his carefully constructed armor.

"I do not know how," he admitted.

"Then perhaps," Eunji said, squeezing his arm, "you might start by dancing with her tonight. Really dancing with her. Not as a duty, not as a favor to me, but because you want to."

"And if she refuses?"

"She will not."

"You seem very certain."

Eunji smiled. "That is because I am her dearest friend. And I know things."

"What things?"

"Things," she repeated mysteriously. "Now, I really must go rest. Unlike some people, I actually care about looking well tonight."

She swept from the room, leaving Seonghyeon alone with his thoughts and the uncomfortable realization that his sister was right.

He had been half in love with you for years.

And tonight, you would walk into his ballroom in blue silk, and he would have to dance with you and pretend that his heart was not attempting to beat its way out of his chest.

God help him.

𝑰𝑰.

The ballroom was stifling.

Seonghyeon had been standing in the receiving line for what felt like hours—though in truth it had likely been no more than forty minutes—and already his face ached from maintaining his polite smile. Wave after wave of guests flowed into Eom House, each family more determined than the last to secure their position in society's good graces.

"Lord and Lady Ashford," the butler announced in his resonant baritone. "And the Misses Ashford."

Seonghyeon bowed. Lady Ashford simpered. The Misses Ashford—there were three of them, each more aggressively blonde than the last—giggled in unison like a flock of particularly vapid birds.

"Mr. Eom," the eldest Miss Ashford said, her voice pitched to what she likely believed was an alluring register. "How wonderful to see you again."

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Ashford," Seonghyeon lied smoothly. He had perfected the art of lying through social niceties. It was, he had discovered, an essential skill for surviving the season.

They moved on, thank God, and Seonghyeon barely had time to take a breath before the next family was upon them.

"The Marquess and Marchioness of Pemberton," the butler intoned. "Lord Pemberton."

Ah. Lord Pemberton. Seonghyeon knew of him, though they had never been formally introduced. The man was perhaps forty—possibly older, though he dressed like a much younger man, which had the unfortunate effect of making him look desperately foolish. His coat was cut too tight, his cravat too elaborate, his manner too familiar.

"Mrs. Eom," Pemberton said, bowing over Seonghyeon's mother's hand with entirely too much enthusiasm. "What a triumph this is. The entire ton will be speaking of nothing else for weeks."

His mother smiled graciously, extricating her hand with the skill of long practice. "How kind of you to say, Lord Pemberton."

Pemberton's eyes slid to Eunji, lingering just a moment too long. Seonghyeon felt his jaw tighten.

"And this must be Miss Eom," Pemberton said. "Making her debut this evening, I understand. How delightful. I do hope you will save me a dance, my dear."

Eunji, to her credit, maintained her composure admirably. "How very kind, Lord Pemberton. Though I am afraid my card is quite full already."

It was a lie—her card was nothing of the sort—but Seonghyeon could have kissed her for it.

Pemberton's smile strained. "Surely you can spare one dance—"

"I believe my sister said her card was full," Seonghyeon said, his voice pleasant but his eyes hard. "Perhaps another time, my lord."

The older man's gaze shifted to Seonghyeon, and something unpleasant flickered across his features before he mastered himself. "Of course," he said stiffly. "Another time."

He moved on, and Seonghyeon made a mental note to ensure that Pemberton stayed far, far away from his sister for the remainder of the evening.

"Well handled," his mother murmured once the man was out of earshot. "Though you might have been more subtle."

"I was perfectly subtle."

"You looked as though you wanted to call him out."

"I was considering it."

His mother sighed but said nothing more, turning her attention to the next arrivals.

The receiving line continued. More families, more simpering daughters, more calculating mamas. Seonghyeon smiled and bowed and said all the right things while internally cataloging his escape routes.

But mostly, he found himself glancing toward the entrance.

The Edwards family had not yet arrived.

You had not yet arrived.

Not that he was paying particular attention. Not that he had noticed the precise moment when the clock had struck eight and you should have been here already. Not that he was aware of every minute that passed with the entrance doors remaining frustratingly free of your presence.

"They will arrive when they arrive," his mother said quietly, and Seonghyeon realized with some horror that he had been staring at the doors.

"I have not the faintest idea what you mean."

"Of course you do not, dear."

Ten more families. Fifteen. Twenty. Seonghyeon's face was beginning to ache in earnest now, his patience wearing thin. Where were you? It was one thing to be fashionably late to a garden party, quite another to keep your hosts waiting at a ball. Especially when your dearest friend was making her debut and might reasonably expect your support.

"The Viscount Edwards," the butler finally announced, and Seonghyeon's attention sharpened immediately. "Mr. James Edwards, Mr. Martin Edwards, Mr. Juhoon Edwards, Miss Wonhee Edwards, and Miss Wonyoung Edwards."

Only five. You were not among them.

James Edwards approached first, bowing with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to leading his family. He was a year or two older than Seonghyeon, had inherited his title young as well, and the two of them had developed a mutual respect born of shared responsibility.

"Lady Eom, Mr. Eom," James said. "Thank you for the invitation. Eunji, you look lovely this evening."

"Thank you, my lord," Eunji said, smiling warmly.

"I apologize for our incomplete party," James continued, and something in his tone suggested this was not the first time he had made such an apology on your behalf. "My sister sends her regrets. She will be arriving shortly."

"Of course," Seonghyeon's mother said graciously. "These things happen."

Seonghyeon said nothing. He was too busy trying to ignore the way his chest flipped at the confirmation that you were, indeed, late. Again.

Martin Edwards grinned as he bowed over Eunji's hand. "Do not let my brother fool you with his diplomatic excuses. She was still deciding between gowns when we left. I believe she has gone through her entire wardrobe twice."

"Three times," Juhoon corrected quietly. He was the most reserved of your brothers, but Seonghyeon had always rather liked him. He was nice and rather attractive, even to him. "And she threatened Martin with bodily harm when he suggested she simply wear the first one."

"It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion," Martin protested.

"It was a perfectly stupid suggestion," Wonhee said, rolling her eyes. "You know she has been looking forward to this evening for weeks. Of course she wants to look perfect."

Perfect. As if you needed to try.

Seonghyeon bit back the thought immediately, forcing his expression to remain neutral as the rest of your family moved past him into the ballroom. Only Wonyoung lingered, bouncing slightly on her toes with barely contained excitement.

"She really will be here soon," the youngest Edwards sister said earnestly, looking up at Seonghyeon with wide eyes. "She promised. She just wanted everything to be—" She paused, then smiled. "Well. You will see."

"I am certain I shall," Seonghyeon droned dryly.

The receiving line finally, mercifully, came to an end. The ballroom was full now, packed with the cream of London society in all their finery. The air was thick with perfume and candle smoke and the murmur of a hundred conversations. The musicians were tuning their instruments in the gallery above, preparing for the first dance.

"I believe," his mother said, linking her arm through his, "that it is time for you to do your duty."

"I am always doing my duty."

"Then you will not mind when I introduce you to Miss Beaumont. And Miss Hartwell. And Lady Pemberton's niece. And—"

"I begin to suspect you have compiled a list."

"I have compiled a very thorough list."

Seonghyeon resigned himself to his fate.

For the next hour, he danced. He danced with Miss Beaumont, who spoke only of the weather and her needlework. He danced with Miss Hartwell, who giggled at everything he said even when he was not attempting to be amusing. He danced with Lady Pemberton's niece, who was indeed fresh-faced and biddable and so very, very dull.

He smiled. He charmed. He said all the right things.

And all the while, he found his gaze drifting toward the entrance, watching for your arrival with an attentiveness that was becoming difficult to justify even to himself.

It was merely because Eunji kept asking if you had arrived yet, he told himself. His sister was anxious to see her dearest friend. It was perfectly natural that he should be aware of your continued absence.

The fact that his chest tightened every time the door opened and it was not you had nothing to do with anything.

He was midway through a dance with Miss Hartwell—who was currently giggling at his observation that the weather had been rather fine lately, which had decidedly not been intended as humor—when he saw Eunji's face light up across the ballroom.

He turned, following her gaze to the entrance.

And there you were.

You stood in the doorway, and Seonghyeon's breath caught in his chest despite every effort to prevent it.

Eunji had been right about the blue silk. The gown was the deep, rich blue of a twilight sky, and it made your skin luminous in the candlelight. The cut was impeccable—modest by society's standards but somehow more devastating for it. Your dark hair was swept up in an arrangement that managed to look both elegant and effortless, a few carefully placed curls framing your face.

But it was not the gown or the hair or any of it that made him forget, for one terrible moment, how to breathe.

It was the way you held yourself. The slight lift of your chin, the set of your shoulders. You looked like someone who had taken her time arriving precisely because she could. Because you answered to no one, not even the demanding schedule of a ball.

You looked magnificent. You looked like his personal torment.

Your eyes scanned the ballroom with that same cool assessment he had seen a thousand times before, taking in the crowd with the air of someone cataloging exits and potential annoyances with equal efficiency. Then your gaze found Eunji, and your entire face softened into a smile that was so genuine, so warm, that Seonghyeon felt something twist painfully in his chest.

You had never smiled at him like that.

You had never smiled at him at all, really. Not in years.

Not since—

But he would not think about that. About the funeral. About the way you had found him in his father's study, surrounded by papers he did not understand and responsibilities he was not ready for. About how you had simply sat with him in silence until he could breathe again.

About how he had never thanked you for it.

About how the next time he saw you, he had been so careful to rebuild his walls that he had pushed you away entirely.

Miss Hartwell was saying something. Seonghyeon had not heard a word of it.

"Forgive me," he said, offering her his most charming smile. "I am afraid I must attend to something. Would you allow me to return you to your mother?"

He told himself it was merely to greet you. To fulfill his duties as host. To make polite conversation with the daughter of a family friend.

He told himself he was lying.

You were laughing at something Eunji had said when he approached. The sound of it was low and genuine and entirely too appealing and sent a rush of warmth through his chest that he steadfastly ignored. Your head was tilted back slightly, exposing the elegant line of your throat, and one hand had come up to rest against your collarbone in that unconscious gesture you always made when you were truly amused.

He had catalogued that movement years ago. Had filed it away in the part of his mind reserved for things he should certainly not be noticing about you.

Your fingers were long and delicate against the blue silk, and he found himself tracking the way they moved as you gestured—animated, expressive, so utterly unlike the practiced restraint of every other young lady in the ballroom. You had never learned to make yourself smaller, to contain your enthusiasm. It was one of the things that made you so—

He swallowed hard. His throat felt unreasonably dry.

"Miss Edwards," he approached, coming to stand beside you. His voice came out rougher than intended, and he cleared his throat quietly.

You turned, and the transformation was immediate. Your expression shifted from open joy to something far more guarded. Politely inquiring. Giving away absolutely nothing.

It was a look he knew well. He had seen directed at him more times than he could count over the past two years.

It was the look you gave him when you were pretending you did not care.

The candlelight caught in your eyes as you assessed him, and Seonghyeon found himself noting details he had no business noting. The way a few strands of hair had escaped their pins to curl softly at your temple. The faint flush on your cheeks from laughing. The particular arch of your eyebrow—the left one, always the left one—when you were preparing to say something cutting.

"Mr. Eom," you greeted and your voice was perfectly neutral.

He ran a hand through his hair—a nervous habit he thought he had broken years ago. "How good of you to join us," he quipped, and could not quite keep the edge from his tone. "We had begun to wonder if you would attend at all."

Your eyes narrowed fractionally. It was a minute movement, barely perceptible, but he caught it. He always caught these small shifts in your expression, had been cataloging them since he was old enough to understand what cataloging meant.

"I sent word that I would be delayed. I trust my family conveyed the message?"

"They did. Though they were rather vague on the cause of said delay."

"How strange." You tilted your head, and he felt the heat creeping up the back of his neck. "I was under the impression that the specifics of my schedule were none of your concern."

Eunji made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been a laugh hastily converted. "I shall just—go speak to Mama," she said, backing away with poorly concealed delight. "You two enjoy your conversation."

"Eunji—" Seonghyeon started, but his sister had already disappeared into the crowd.

And leaving him alone with you.

Well. Not alone, precisely. You both were surrounded by a hundred guests. But it felt alone. It always felt alone when you looked at him like that. Like you could see straight through all his careful defenses and found that what you saw disappointing.

His ears were burning now. He could feel it—that telltale warmth that meant his composure was slipping. He touched his hair again, pushing it back from his forehead, and forced his hand back down to his side.

"You look—" He paused, searching for something appropriately neutral. His mouth felt dry again. "Well. Uh, you look well."

"How very generous of you to say so."

"I did not mean—"

"I know precisely what you meant, Mr. Eom." You tilted your head slightly, studying him with those too-clever eyes, and he found his gaze dropping—just for a moment, just a fraction of a second—to your mouth. The way your lips curved when you were holding back a smile. "You meant that I look acceptable enough to pass muster at your family's ball, despite my unconscionable tardiness."

He dragged his eyes back up to meet yours. "That is not—"

"Is it not?" You raised an eyebrow—the left one, as predicted. "Then please, do enlighten me as to what you actually meant."

He could not tell you what he actually meant. Could not possibly admit that you looked like every dangerous, impossible thing he had spent two years trying not to want. That the blue silk made your eyes luminous. That he had noticed the exact shade of it matched the ribbon you used to wear in your hair when you were children, practicing dances in the drawing room at Edwards Hall while your fathers discussed business over brandy.

He could still remember those afternoons with startling clarity. You had been perhaps twelve, him fourteen. Your governess had insisted you practice your steps, and you had dragged him into it with the sort of imperious determination that even then, he had found impossible to refuse. You had stepped on his feet constantly. Argued about every correction he tried to offer. You even made him laugh so hard his sides ached.

And even then—even then—there had been something about the way your hand felt in his. The sight of you now had driven every tedious dance partner from his mind in an instant. That he had been watching for you all evening and was furious with himself for it.

"I merely meant that you seem in good health," he fired back stiffly, running his tongue across his lower lip. His mouth was impossibly dry. "It is the sort of thing one says when engaging in polite conversation."

"Ah. Polite conversation." Your lips curved into something that was not quite a smile, and his gaze dropped to them again before he could stop himself. "How very dutiful of you."

There was that word again. Dutiful. As if it were an insult rather than a virtue.

"Someone must maintain standards of decorum," he said, fingers twitching at his side with the urge to touch his hair again.

"How very noble. Though I confess I am surprised you have time for such trivial pursuits, what with all the young ladies your mother has been parading before you this evening."

He blinked. "You were watching?"

"It is rather difficult not to notice when one's host is dancing with every eligible miss in London." You paused, and something flickered in your eyes that he could not quite name. Something that made his chest tighten. "Miss Hartwell seemed particularly taken with you. She has not stopped giggling since you returned her to her mother."

Were you—was that jealousy? No. Impossible. You had made it abundantly clear that you had no interest in him beyond the forced civility required by your families' friendship.

And yet.

"Miss Hartwell giggles at everything," he said, his voice coming out lower than intended. "I could recite the alphabet and she would find it amusing."

"How very trying for you." Was that amusement in your voice? The corner of your mouth twitched, and he found himself staring at it again. "To be so devastatingly charming that even your most mundane observations inspire such enthusiasm."

"I am not trying to be charming."

"No?" You tilted your head, and a curl brushed against your cheek. He watched it move, tracked the way it caught the candlelight. "Then what, precisely, are you trying to be?"

Available for eligible young ladies, his mother would say. Dutiful toward his family obligations. Responsible in securing the future of his household.

None of which he could say to you. Not when you were looking at him like that. Not when the blue silk made you look like a night sky and he had spent two years trying very hard not to notice how beautiful you were. How the line of your neck made his fingers itch to—

He swallowed hard.

"I am merely trying," he tried finally, "to survive the evening."

Your expression softened just slightly. Your shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he noticed the way you shifted your weight to your left foot—the way you always did when you were beginning to let your guard down. He had noticed that particular tell years ago. "A noble goal. Though perhaps you might have more success if you stopped scowling at everyone."

"I am not scowling."

"You have been scowling since I arrived."

"I have not—" He paused, running a hand through his hair again. Damn it. "Have I?"

"Dreadfully. You looked as though my tardiness had personally offended you."

It had. Though not for the reasons you likely assumed. Not because of propriety or social conventions, but because every minute you were absent was another minute he spent watching the door like a fool. Another minute of that hollow feeling in his chest that only seemed to dissipate when you were near.

"The receiving line is a courtesy extended to all guests," he said instead. "When someone fails to observe it, it is—"

"An unconscionable breach of etiquette, yes, I am aware." You waved a hand dismissively, and he watched the movement—the graceful arc of your wrist, the way your fingers spread and then curled. Everything about the way you moved was different from other ladies. You were less practiced and more natural. More you. "Your disapproval has been duly noted. Is there anything else you would like to chastise me for, or may I go find Eunji and enjoy the evening?"

He should let you go. He should bow and excuse himself and return to his duties as host. Should stop standing here arguing with you like a fool when there were a dozen other guests who required his attention.

His throat was dry again. He licked his lips.

"Dance with me," he offered instead.

The words emerged before he could stop them. Before reason could reassert itself.

You stared at him, and he watched your eyes widen fractionally. The way your lips parted slightly in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"Dance with me," he repeated, and now that he had said it, he found that he could not unsay it. "The next set. Dance with me."

"Why?"

It was a fair question. He did not have a good answer. Not one he could voice, anyway.

Because I have been watching you all evening. Because Miss Hartwell's giggling nearly drove me mad because it was not your laugh. Because two years of pretending I do not want you has left me exhausted and desperate and completely undone by the sight of you in blue silk.

"Because Eunji will pester me endlessly if I do not," he lied, touching his hair again. The heat in his ears was spreading to his cheeks now. "She seems to believe that our families' friendship necessitates at least one dance between us."

"How very romantic."

"I am not attempting to be romantic."

"Clearly." Your eyes were unreadable, but he caught the way you bit your lower lip—barely, just the slightest pressure. He made himself look away. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I shall be forced to endure Eunji's disappointment for the remainder of the season."

"What a terrible fate." You considered him for a long moment, and Seonghyeon found himself holding his breath waiting for your answer. His hands flexed at his sides. "Very well. One dance. For Eunji's sake."

"For Eunji's sake," he agreed, even though they both knew it was a lie.

"Though I should warn you," you continued, a hint of mischief entering your voice that made something warm bloom in his chest, "I have been told I am a rather difficult dance partner."

"By whom?"

"By you. Last season. Your Lordship said I had a tendency to lead rather than follow."

He had said that. After dancing with you at the Ashford ball, when you had been so determined to prove you did not need his guidance that you had nearly stepped on his feet twice. Just like when you were children. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

"I was attempting to be helpful."

"You were attempting to be insufferable. As always."

"I am never insufferable."

"You are frequently insufferable." But you were almost smiling now. Almost. The corner of your mouth tilted up, and he felt his pulse quicken. "It is one of your more consistent qualities."

The musicians were beginning the next set. A waltz. Of course it was a waltz.

Seonghyeon held out his hand, acutely aware of how steady it appeared despite the fact that his heart was attempting to beat its way out of his chest. "Well, shall we prove how insufferable I can be?"

You looked at his outstretched hand for a long moment. He watched your gaze travel from his fingers to his face, searching for something. Then, with a sigh that suggested you were humoring him against your better judgment, you placed your gloved hand in his.

The contact sent a shock of awareness up his arm that he absolutely did not acknowledge. Even through the layers of fabric—your glove, his—he could feel the warmth of your palm. The delicate bones of your hand. The same hand that used to grip his with such determined concentration when you practiced dances as children.

He led you onto the dance floor, acutely aware of every eye that followed your movement. Of his mother's satisfied expression. Of Eunji's delighted one. Of James Edwards watching with the protective concern of an older brother, the same way your father used to watch from the doorway of the drawing room at Edwards Hall.

None of it mattered.

Because you were placing your hand on his shoulder, and he was settling his hand at your waist, and the feel of you beneath his palm—even through silk and stays and all the proper layers—made his mouth go dry all over again. He could feel the curve of your waist, the warmth of you, and suddenly he was fourteen again, practicing the waltz in your family's drawing room while trying very hard not to notice how his hand fit perfectly against your waist even then.

Then the music was beginning and you were moving together as though you had done this a thousand times before.

Which, he supposed, you had. Every ball, every gathering, your families inevitably ended up partnered at least once. A courtesy between friends. A nod to propriety.

But there had been those afternoons too. Before propriety mattered. Before everything became complicated. Just you and him and the sun streaming through the windows at Edwards Hall, and your governess calling out counts from the corner while you complained about the steps and he tried not to laugh.

It had never felt like this before.

"You are staring," you said quietly, and he realized with some horror that his gaze had been fixed on your face for longer than was strictly appropriate.

"I am merely appreciating the gown," he lied, even as his eyes traced the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck where it disappeared into silk. "It is very fine."

"It is blue silk," you quipped unenthusiastically. "Rather unremarkable, all things considered."

Liar, he thought. Nothing about you had ever been unremarkable. Not when you were twelve and arguing with him about dance steps. Not when you were sixteen and sitting with him in his father's study. Not now, when the candlelight made your skin glow and he had to consciously remind himself not to pull you closer than propriety allowed.

"It suits you."

"How very generous of you to say so."

He swallowed, his throat clicking. "Must you turn everything I say into an argument?"

"Must you say everything as though you are delivering a criticism?" You countered, and he watched the way your lips moved around the words. Particularly the slight furrow that appeared between your brows. "I cannot help but notice that your compliments always sound rather like insults."

"That is because you insist on interpreting them as such."

"Or perhaps you are simply terrible at giving compliments."

He probably was. He had spent so long trying not to notice you, trying not to feel anything, that he had forgotten how to speak to you with anything resembling genuine warmth. he had forgotten how easy it used to be, in those long-ago afternoons when you were simply you and he was simply him, before duty and distance and his father's death had complicated everything.

You moved together through the steps, and his body remembered before his mind could catch up. The way you favored your right side on the turns. The way you always tried to anticipate his lead rather than follow it. The way you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes because even in your dancing slippers, you barely reached his shoulder.

His hand tightened fractionally at your waist, and he felt you shift in response. Closer, though just a fraction. Probably imperceptible to anyone watching, but he felt it.

God, he felt it.

"You are deliberately provoking me," he said, and his voice came out lower than intended.

"I am merely making conversation. It is what one does when dancing."

"Most people make pleasant conversation."

"I have never claimed to be most people."

No. You most certainly were not most people. Most people did not argue with him at every turn. Most people did not look at him with such naked challenge in their eyes, as if daring him to be honest for once in his carefully constructed life. Most people did not make him want to forget every rule he had ever set for himself.

Most people did not make him acutely aware of every point of contact between their bodies—your hand in his, the brush of your skirts against his legs as you moved. Most people did not make him notice the way the candlelight caught in your hair, or the way you bit your lower lip when you were concentrating on the steps, or the faint scent of rosewater that clung to your skin.

Most people did not make him want to pull them closer and damn propriety entirely.

He ran his tongue across his lower lip again. His mouth was impossibly dry.

"Why were you truly late?" he asked, surprising himself with the question.

You blinked up at him, and he watched your lashes flutter. "Does it matter?"

"I am curious."

"Since when have you cared about the details of my evening preparations?"

Since always, daft girl, he thought. Since that afternoon in his father's study when you sat with him in silence and he fell a little bit in love with you. Since he pushed you away and have spent two years regretting it. Since he saw you in blue silk barely thirty minutes ago and forgot how to breathe. Since he was fourteen years old and you stepped on his feet while practicing the waltz and he realized he would let you step on my feet for the rest of my life if it meant he got to hold you like this.

"Humor me," he settled for instead. HIs voice shook and was rougher than he ever wanted you to hear from him.

You studied his face for a moment, your eyes searching his, and he wondered what you saw there. Could you see the way his ears were burning? The way his pulse was racing? The way he was fighting the urge to let his gaze drop to your mouth again?

"I was anxious," you said finally, quietly, and something in your expression softened in a way that made his chest ache. "About tonight. About Eunji's debut. About—" You paused, and your hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his shoulder. "About many things. And I could not decide which gown would be appropriate for such an important evening."

"Any gown would have been appropriate."

"That is an appallingly low bar for appropriateness."

"I meant—" He exhaled, frustrated with himself and your wit. With his inability to simply say what he meant. "I meant that you would look well in anything."

The words hung between you, more honest than he had intended. He watched your eyes widen, watched the way your lips parted slightly, and had to actively fight the urge to let his gaze linger there.

Your eyes widened slightly. "Mr. Eom—"

"Seonghyeon," he interrupted, and the word came out almost desperate. "When we are alone, you may call me Seonghyeon."

"We are not alone. We are in the middle of a ballroom."

"Then when we are as alone as one can be in the middle of a ballroom."

You were quiet for a moment, and he thought perhaps he had overstepped. That you would pull away, offer some cutting remark, return to the safety of formality and distance.

Instead, you said, very softly: "We have not been Seonghyeon and—" You paused, and he watched your throat work as you swallowed. "We have not been anything but Mr. Eom and Miss Edwards for two years."

He knew. God, he knew. He was the one who had built that distance. Who had retreated behind formality because it was safer than admitting what he felt. Safer than acknowledging that the girl who used to practice dances with him in her family's drawing room had grown into a woman who undid him completely.

His hand flexed against your waist, fingers spreading slightly against silk, and he felt you inhale sharply.

"Perhaps," he said carefully, his voice barely above a murmur, "that was a mistake."

"Was it?"

The music was beginning to wind down. In a moment, the dance would end, and he would be expected to return you to your family, to continue his duties as host, to pretend this conversation had not happened. To pretend he was not acutely aware of the warmth of your body beneath his hand, of the way you were looking up at him with something in your eyes that made his heart stutter.

"I do not know," he admitted, and his thumb moved—just slightly, just a fraction of an inch—against your waist. He felt you shiver. "But I find that I am tired of pretending."

"Pretending what?"

You, he thought. That I do not think of you. That I do not notice when you arrive late to every gathering. That I do not watch you across every ballroom and wonder what you are thinking. That I did not spend two years building walls against you only to have them crumble the moment you walked into my ballroom in blue silk. That I have not been half in love with you since I was fourteen years old and you refused to let me lead in the waltz.

But he could not say that. Not here, of all places. Not yet. Not when his throat was tight and his ears were burning and he could barely string two coherent thoughts together because you were this close and looking at him like that.

"That I do not enjoy arguing with you," he redirected instead, and watched your lips curve into a smile.

You laughed—surprising and genuine, and the sound of it traveled through him like electricity. "That is possibly the strangest compliment I have ever received."

"I've warned you I was terrible at them."

The music ended. Seonghyeon found himself reluctant to release you, his hand lingering at your waist a moment longer than strictly proper. He could feel the curve of you beneath his palm, the warmth of you, and for a desperate moment he considered simply not letting go. Considered pulling you closer, propriety be damned again, and—

You noticed. Your eyes met his, and something passed between you. Something warm and terrifying and altogether too dangerous for his peace of mind. Something that reminded him of those long-ago afternoons at Edwards Hall, before everything became complicated. Before he learned to guard his heart. When it was just you and him and the possibility of something he had not yet learned to name.

He made himself release you. Made himself step back. Made himself ignore the way his hand felt empty without you in it.

"I should return you to your family," he said, though his voice came out rough, almost hoarse. His throat was so dry he could barely speak.

"You should," you agreed. But you did not step away immediately. You stood there, looking up at him, close enough that he could see the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. Close enough that if he leaned down, if he let himself—

He swallowed hard and offered you his arm before he could do something truly foolish.

"Though perhaps—" He paused, licking his lips again. "Perhaps we might take some air first? The ballroom is rather warm."

It was a transparent excuse. You both knew it. The ballroom was not particularly warm. But he felt feverish, his skin too tight, his cravat too constricting. He needed air. Needed space. Needed to put some distance between himself and the crowd before he did something reckless.

Before he forgot himself entirely.

"That would be acceptable," you said carefully, and he did not miss the way your voice had gone slightly breathless. "For Eunji's sake, of course. As her brother and her dearest friend, we should ensure we are on civil terms."

"Of course. For Eunji's sake."

"And because the ballroom truly is stifling."

"Unconscionably so."

You were almost smiling now, and he found his gaze dropping to your mouth again. To the way your lips curved. To the way they had felt against his fingers once, years ago, when you had been seven and he had been nine and you had gotten a splinter and he had tried to help remove it while you complained the entire time.

He wondered, briefly, insanely, what they would feel like now.

"Lead the way then, Mr. Eom."

"Seonghyeon," he corrected quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You met his eyes, and this time when you spoke, your voice was soft enough that only he could hear: "Seonghyeon."

The sound of his name on your lips—his given name, intimate and familiar in a way that "Mr. Eom" had never been—did something devastating to his composure. Something cracked in his chest, some carefully constructed wall crumbling, and he had to consciously remind himself to breathe.

His ears were burning. His throat was tight. His hand trembled slightly as he offered you his arm—properly, as a gentleman should—but when you took it, when your fingers curled around his sleeve, he felt that touch like a brand.

He led you through the crowd toward the terrace doors, acutely aware of your hand on his arm. The way you moved beside him, your skirts brushing against his legs with each step. Of the faint scent of rosewater that seemed to surround you.

Behind him, he was dimly aware of his mother's knowing look. Of Eunji's barely contained delight. Of James Edwards watching with the protective concern of an older brother—the same way your father used to watch when Seonghyeon would visit Edwards Hall as a boy.

None of it mattered.

Because you had said his name, and he was leading you out into the night, and for the first time in two years he was allowing himself to want something.

Even if it was dangerous. Even if it was impossible.

Even if it terrified him completely.

Even if his heart was racing and his throat was dry and he could not stop touching his hair and his ears were burning and he had spent the entire dance trying not to stare at your mouth.

Even if this—whatever this was—felt similar to falling.

𝑰𝑰𝑰.

The terrace was mercifully empty.

The cool night air was a relief after the oppressive heat of the ballroom, though Seonghyeon suspected the fever in his blood had less to do with the crowded room and more to do with the woman standing beside him. London sprawled beyond the garden walls, a city of light and shadow, and above them the sky was dark and starless—too much smoke and gaslight for stars to penetrate.

You moved to the stone balustrade, and he watched. Catalogued, memorized—the way your skirts swayed with each step. The way your hand came up to rest against the cold stone, fingers spreading slightly as if seeking its solidity. The blue silk of your gown caught the light spilling from the ballroom windows, making you look like something from a dream. Like something he had conjured from want and memory and two years of desperate denial.

Seonghyeon stood beside you, maintaining proper distance even as every instinct screamed at him to move closer. Close enough to feel your warmth. Close enough to—

He swallowed hard. His throat was still impossibly dry despite the cool air.

"I forgot how pleasant it is out here," you said after a moment, your voice softer now than it had been in the ballroom. Away from the performance of it all. "Away from all the noise and scrutiny and prodding mamas."

He watched the way the moonlight painted your profile in shades of silver and shadow. The delicate line of your nose. The curve of your cheek. The way a few escaped tendrils of hair moved slightly in the breeze, curling against your temple.

"You have been on this terrace before?" A daft question indeed. Of course you had. What was he even thinking?

"Many times. When we were children." You glanced at him sidelong, and even in the dim light he could see the question in your eyes. The challenge. "You truly do not remember?"

He did, actually. More than vaguely. With a clarity that sometimes startled him in quiet moments. Summers when your families would visit, when he and Eunji were tasked with entertaining you and your siblings. There had been games in the garden. Hide and seek among the roses, your laughter echoing off the stone walls. You falling into the fountain—he could still see it perfectly, the way you had emerged soaked and laughing, water streaming from your hair, your dress clinging indecently while he had fretted about whether you would catch cold.

You had been nine. He had been eleven. And even then, something about your fearlessness had both terrified and captivated him.

When had that changed? When had the easy companionship of childhood transformed into this careful distance? This aching awareness?

He knew the answer. Knew the exact moment everything had shifted.

His father's funeral.

"I remember," he admitted quietly, running a hand through his hair. The nervous gesture again. He could not seem to stop himself.

"Do you?" You turned to face him fully, and there was something searching in your gaze that made his breath catch. The moonlight made your eyes darker, endless. "Sometimes I wonder if you remember any of it. The way we used to be. Before—"

Before I built walls, he thought. Before I decided that feeling anything was too dangerous. Before I pushed everyone away, including you. Especially you.

"Before," he finished simply, because he could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

You were quiet for a moment, and he found himself watching the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. The way your fingers curled slightly against the balustrade. The way you bit your lower lip—he made himself look away.

Then: "Why did you stop speaking to me? After your father died. I tried to—I wanted to help. But you shut me out completely."

The question was so unexpectedly expected he stilled. He had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this conversation would come eventually. That you would demand an explanation for the way he had treated you.

He had not expected it to hurt quite so much to hear you ask.

His ears were burning again. He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, spreading across his cheeks. He touched his hair again, pushing it back from his forehead in a gesture that was becoming increasingly desperate.

"I do not—" He paused, searching for the right words. Licking his lips because his mouth was so dry he could barely form sentences. "I was not myself. In those first months. Everything felt—too much. Too loud and too heavy. And you—"

"I what?"

He turned to face you properly, and the movement brought him closer. Not touching, not quite, but close enough that he could see the way your pupils had dilated in the moonlight. Close enough to catch that faint scent of rosewater again.

"You made it harder." The admission came out rougher than intended, his voice dropping lower. "Being near you made everything harder because you made me feel things when I desperately needed to feel nothing at all."

You drew in a sharp breath, and he watched the way your lips parted. Watched the way your hand came up to rest against your collarbone—that gesture again, the one you made when something affected you deeply. He had been cataloging your tells for so long he could write volumes on them.

"Seonghyeon—"

The sound of his given name on your lips made something crack wider in his chest.

"I know it was unfair," he continued, the words spilling out now that he had started. He could not seem to stop himself. "I know I hurt you. But I did not know how else to survive it. The grief, the responsibility, the weight of becoming the head of my household when I still felt like a child myself. I needed to be strong. Needed to be steady. And I could not do that if I allowed myself to—"

He stopped himself. Too much. He was saying too much. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling into fists to keep from reaching for you. But you were looking at him with such understanding in your eyes that he found he could not regret it.

"To what?" you prompted gently, taking a small step closer.

He noticed. God, he noticed. The air between you felt charged, electric almost. He could feel the warmth radiating from your body despite the cool night air.

To care for you. To want you. To admit that losing my father made me realize how temporary everything is, and the thought of losing you too was more than I could bear. To acknowledge that you sat with me in my father's study. And I fell so in love that I had no idea what to do with myself.

His throat worked. He swallowed hard.

"To be vulnerable," he said instead, and his voice came out almost hoarse.

"And now?"

He watched the way the breeze caught another curl, pulling it loose to brush against your cheek. His fingers itched to tuck it back. To touch you. To trace the line of your jaw the way he had been imagining for the past hour.

"Now I am discovering that my careful defenses are rather less effective than I believed them to be."

Your lips curved into a small, sad smile, and his gaze dropped to them automatically. He made himself look away. Made himself focus on the London skyline beyond the garden instead of the curve of your mouth.

"Because of Miss Hartwell's giggling?"

"Because of you," he said, and turned back to meet your eyes. Watched them widen. Watched the way your breath caught. "Because you arrived late in blue silk and I forgot every reason I have spent two years avoiding you. Because you argue with me and challenge me and refuse to allow me to hide behind politeness. Because—"

A sound from inside the ballroom made you both turn. Through the windows, Seonghyeon could see Lord Pemberton making his way toward the terrace doors, his expression determined and predatory in a way that made Seonghyeon's blood run cold.

"Damn," Seonghyeon muttered, and without thinking, moved closer to you. He positioned himself slightly between you and the approaching doors. Protective, in a sort.

"Is that Lord Pemberton?"

"Unfortunately."

"Has he been bothering Eunji?"

"He attempted to. I discouraged him rather firmly."

"How very brotherly of you." You glanced toward the approaching figure, then back at Seonghyeon, and he watched worry flicker across your features. "I should likely return inside before—"

"No," Seonghyeon said firmly, and the vehemence in his voice surprised even him. His hand moved—unconsciously, automatically—to rest at the small of your back. Not quite touching, hovering just above the silk, but close enough that you would feel the heat of it. Close enough that if you shifted even slightly, you would feel his palm against you. "Stay. Please."

He watched your eyes widen at the contact. Watched intensely at the way your breathing changed, becoming shallower.

"Seonghyeon, if we are discovered alone—"

"Then let us be discovered." He turned to face you fully, and something reckless was rising in his chest. Something that felt dangerously like hope. His hand was still at your back, and he could feel the warmth of you through the layers of silk. Could feel the way your breath hitched. "I am tired of propriety. So tired of doing what is expected. Tired of pretending I do not want—"

The terrace doors opened. Pemberton stepped out, his eyes finding you immediately, and Seonghyeon's hand dropped from your back even as he remained close. Closer than propriety would dictate. Close enough that anyone with eyes could see this was not merely polite conversation between family friends.

"Ah, Miss Edwards," Pemberton said, his voice carrying that particular tone that made Seonghyeon's protective instincts flare white-hot. That made his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists at his sides. "I have been searching for you all evening. I do hope you have saved me a dance?"

Seonghyeon watched the way you straightened your spine. The way your chin lifted. The way you transformed from the soft, vulnerable woman who had been talking to him moments ago into something made of steel and ice.

"I am afraid my card is quite full, Lord Pemberton," you said coolly, and there was no warmth in your voice. None of the gentle teasing you had directed at him in the ballroom.

Pemberton's smile tightened, becoming something ugly. "Surely you can spare one dance. It would be terribly rude to refuse, especially given—"

"Given what?" Seonghyeon interrupted, his voice cold as winter. He moved—just slightly, just a fraction—but it placed him more fully between you and Pemberton. He felt you shift behind him, felt your hand come up to rest lightly against his arm. A warning, perhaps. Or trust. "Given that Miss Edwards has already declined? I assure you, my lord, she has been perfectly clear."

Pemberton's gaze shifted to him, and something unpleasant flickered in his eyes. Something calculating and mean. "Mr. Eom. I was not aware you were chaperoning Miss Edwards this evening."

Seonghyeon felt his ears burn hotter. He felt the muscle in his jaw jump as he clenched his teeth. His hands flexed at his sides.

"I am not chaperoning her. I am enjoying her company. There is a difference."

"Is there?" Pemberton's tone turned ugly, and he took a step closer. Seonghyeon stood his ground, acutely aware of your hand still resting on his arm. Of the way your fingers had tightened slightly. "It seems rather improper, the two of you alone on the terrace. One might wonder—"

Seonghyeon moved forward, closing the distance between himself and Pemberton until they were nearly nose to nose. His voice dropped to something dangerous, something he barely recognized as his own. Every protective instinct he possessed had roared to life, drowning out reason and propriety and everything else.

"One might wonder," he said, each word precise and cutting, "why a gentleman of your age and position is so very interested in young ladies barely out of the schoolroom. One might wonder if such interest is entirely appropriate. One might even feel compelled to mention such wonderings to others in society."

The threat was clear. Crystal clear. And Seonghyeon meant every word of it. He would ruin this man's reputation without hesitation if he so much as looked at you—or Eunji—the wrong way again.

Pemberton's face turned an alarming shade of purple, mottled and furious. His hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment Seonghyeon thought the older man might actually take a swing at him.

He almost hoped he would.

"You would not dare—"

"Try me," Seonghyeon said softly, and smiled. Though his dimples were out, it was not a pleasant smile.

For a long, tense moment, they stared at each other. Seonghyeon could feel his pulse in his ears, could feel the adrenaline singing through his veins. He could feel your hand still on his arm, grounding him, reminding him not to do anything truly reckless.

Then Pemberton turned on his heel and stalked back into the ballroom, slamming the doors behind him hard enough that the glass rattled in its frame.

Silence fell over the terrace.

Seonghyeon stood there, breathing harder than he should be, hands still clenched, every muscle in his body taut with unspent tension. He could feel the anger still coursing through him, hot and protective and entirely inappropriate in its intensity.

He ran a hand through his hair again, then touched the back of his neck, trying to calm himself. His ears were still burning. His throat was tight.

"Well," you said after a moment, and he could hear the smile in your voice. "That was exciting."

He turned to look at you, and something in his chest eased at the sight of your expression. You were smiling—actually smiling at him, warm and genuine and entirely too appealing. Not frightened. Not scandalized. Just... amused.

And perhaps impressed, if he was reading the slight flush on your cheeks correctly.

"He will likely spread rumors," Seonghyeon said, his voice still rough. He swallowed, trying to find his composure again. "About us. About being discovered alone."

"Let him." Your eyes met his, and there was challenge in them. It was fierce and fearless that made his pulse quicken all over again. "Unless you are concerned about your reputation?"

"I am concerned about yours."

You stepped closer, and he felt his breath catch. He watched the way the moonlight played across your features. The way your lips curved into something knowing.

"How very chivalrous. Though I must confess I care rather less about my reputation than society believes I should."

"That," Seonghyeon said, his voice dropping lower as he let his gaze trace the line of your throat, the curve of your shoulder, "is abundantly clear."

"Is that criticism or compliment?"

He met your eyes again, and found he could not look away. Could not stop his gaze from dropping—just for a moment, just a fraction of a second—to your lips.

"I genuinely do not know anymore."

You laughed, and the sound of it made something warm bloom in his chest. It made him want to close the distance between you. Made him want to—

"You are terrible at this."

"At what?"

"At whatever this is." You gestured between the two of you, and he tracked the movement of your hand. The graceful arc of it. "This conversation. This—thing we are doing."

"I warned you I was terrible at compliments."

"You did." You took another step closer, and now you were well within reach. Close enough that if he lifted his hand, he could touch you. Could trace the line of your jaw. Could tuck that errant curl behind your ear. "Though I confess I am beginning to find it rather endearing."

Endearing. You found him endearing.

His throat clicked as he swallowed. His hands flexed at his sides, every nerve ending aware of how close you were standing. Of the warmth radiating from your body. Of the faint scent of rosewater that made him want to lean closer and—

He was doomed.

"We should return inside," he said, though his voice came out hoarse. Though he made no move to do so. Though every fiber of his being was screaming at him to stay exactly where he was. "Before anyone else discovers us."

"Yes," you agreed, but you did not move either. Did not step back. If anything, you swayed slightly closer.

You stood there in the moonlight, blue silk and sharp eyes and everything he had spent two years trying not to want. Your lips were slightly parted, and he could see the rapid flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat. He saw the way your chest rose and fell with each breath.

And Seonghyeon found that he could not bring himself to care about propriety or reputation or any of the careful rules he had constructed around his heart.

Not when you were this close. Not when you were looking at him like that. Not when every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to close the distance between you and damn the consequences.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again but this time it lingered there.

He watched your lips part further and the way your tongue darted out to wet them—just barely, just the slightest movement—and felt his entire body tighten in response.

"One more moment," he whispered quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"One more moment," you agreed and it was equally soft.

And in that moment, something shifted between you. Some invisible line being crossed. Some silent acknowledgment passing between you that this—whatever this was—was something neither of you could control. The air felt heavy and every breath seemed too loud in the quiet of the terrace.

He lifted his hand—slowly, giving you time to pull away, to object—and finally, finally allowed himself to do what he had been wanting to do all evening.

His fingers found that errant curl brushing against your cheek. The silk of it was even softer than he had imagined. Warmer. He tucked it behind your ear with a gentleness that belied the way his hand was trembling slightly. His fingertips grazed your cheek. Just barely. it was just enough to feel the warmth of your skin, the slight intake of breath you took at the contact.

And then he did not pull away.

His hand lingered there, fingertips resting lightly against your cheek, his thumb at the corner of your jaw. Your skin was impossibly soft. Impossibly warm. And you were not pulling away. Were not objecting. Were instead leaning infinitesimally into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

When they opened again, they were darker and wider. Fixed on his with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

"Seonghyeon," you whispered, and his name had never sounded like that before. It had never carried such weight, such want.

He was acutely aware of every point where his skin met yours. Of the way his pulse was racing. Of how dry his throat was, how hot his ears felt, how his entire body seemed to be vibrating with the effort of maintaining what little distance remained between you.

He watched your gaze drop to his mouth. Watched the way your lips parted further. The way you sway forward.

An invitation.

His hand slid from your cheek to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. His other hand found your waist—properly this time, no hovering, just his palm flat against silk and the warm curve of you beneath it.

You made a sound—soft and barely audible—and stepped into him. Close enough that he could feel the whisper of your breath against his lips. Close enough that if either of you moved even slightly, you would be—

His eyes dropped to your mouth again. He could not seem to look anywhere else. He could not seem to think about anything except how desperately he wanted to close that final breath of distance between you.

"We should not," he heard himself say, even as his thumb traced the line of your jaw. Even as he tilted your face up toward his. Even as every atom of his being was screaming yes, yes, finally.

"No," you agreed breathlessly. "We absolutely should not."

Neither of you moved away.

His forehead came to rest against yours—when had he leaned down?—and you both stood there, sharing breath, sharing space, teetering on the edge of something that would change everything.

"One more moment," he whispered against your lips, so close now that they nearly touched.

"One more moment," you echoed, and he felt the words as much as heard them.

And in that suspended moment, with moonlight painting you both in silver and shadow, with the sounds of the ballroom distant and dreamlike, with his hand cradling your face and yours fisted in his coat—

A wall broke. Something gave way. And Seonghyeon stopped fighting.

And in that moment, something shifted between you. This weird inkling of possibility. Like the beginning of something neither of you could control. Like falling.

And he knew that to stay afloat in the midst of you, he needed desperately to practice the art of restraint.

PREV | NEXT

[cranialberry]

trash magic - martin edwards

ˋ°•*⁀➷ i will never understand you, when will i stop trying?

.⋆❦ tags: popular skaterboy! martin x weird girl! reader | SCENARIOS | highschool setting | reader has morbid curiosity (into dark stuff) | mentions of bullying | kissing (say less from me) | martin’s down horrendous | skinship !! | the sneaking-out-and-climbing-up-your-window agenda persists (w.c. 10k)

.⋆❦ Martin Edwards has a plan. He's had a plan ever since that day his skateboard almost rendered you unconscious. To charm and maybe even ensnare one wonderfully and hauntingly pretty girl. Now, he can only hope that you see him through whatever sorcery or keen intuition you wield.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ mari here! this idea came to me after third wheeling with an irl and her normie skater bf and watching a grown man become so mesmerized while she talked ab the lizards she kept preserved in jars <33 ROMANCE IS ALIVE AND WELL I PROMISE YALL !! anywho to the ppl in my inbox asking for part 4 of coalg i swear its gonna come hahahaaa been busy so a hiatus is not impossible for me now...

🎶 ”Nice to meet you”. Is it really, though? ᯓ★

People put a lot of faith in first impressions, don’t they? Apparently, one quick look is enough for you to think you’ve got them figured out. It’s not always accurate, of course. In fact, it rarely is. But these impressions make up most of our social perceptions. 

Which makes Martin wonder what your first impression of him was.

After all, the first time you two met, he almost killed you. 

Okay, backtrack, that sounds terrible. 

But unfortunately for Martin, it’s also kind of true. 

That day crawled by like molasses. Most of the teachers were stuck in some endless faculty meeting, which meant no classes, and no real reason to be anywhere in school. So naturally, while everyone was trying to kill time, Martin and his friends had taken over the bleachers by the field. 

Their boards were strewn across the concrete, Keonho had somehow smuggled in a couple pizza boxes, and the group had settled into that easy groove of accomplishing absolutely nothing. 

“Man, this place is dead. You think we can leave?” Seonghyeon groans, sprawled across the bench under the relentless afternoon sun. 

James glances up from his console and shakes his head. “Can’t. Gotta wait till 3.”

Martin clicked his tongue as his board rattled along the same ledge, over and over, five minutes of nothing but perfect repetition. He was so bored out of his mind, he could feel it crawling under his skin. 

Security had started pacing near the entrance as well, which meant he’d have to be a little more strategic.

“I’m hitting the back stairs.” 

He skates past the guard's line of sight and cuts around the back of the gym. The pavement’s uneven back there. Curbs to clear, small bumps perfect for all sorts of tricks. The wind hits him square in the chest as adrenaline sparks a million veins, and he feels like pure electricity. 

There’s a slim alley tucked behind the building, with a side entrance that leads to a stairwell plunging downward. The rails ran smooth, and the ledge solid. He could make this drop sound twice as impressive. 

So Martin commits and pushes off, grinds the ledge like he’d been born to do, smooth and–

And then there are candles. 

In a split second of panic, he leaps forward, loses control, and lands all wrong. His body hits the concrete with a harsh thud, and his board slides across the floor, clattering to an abrupt stop. 

“Hah–shit.” He pants, muscles trembling in protest as every nerve vibrates in alarm. 

“Are you alright?”

He lets out another groan, rolls to one side, and finally turns toward the source of the voice.

Your hair curled and stuck out in wild angles from the way you’d ducked, a notebook splayed open before you, looking like some darkly painted muse plucked straight from one of those moody Gothic portraits he’d seen in museums. 

Martin had never put much thought into the idea of destiny. Sure, he was a bit of a hopeless romantic, but he was also a pretty straightforward guy at heart, so his loyalties were simple: pizza, Nirvana, and the privilege of an occasional nap.

But that day, he had decided to thank it, because when you looked at him how you did then, he thought, without complication or any pretense at all, that you were beautiful. 

And he also thought you were a witch. 

In his defense, you did look like you were trying to summon something. 

“I–yeah, yeah I’m alright.” He scrambles upright, brushing off dust from his pants and trying (failing) not to stare at the intricate symbol in the center of your little candle circle.  

There really are normal ways to meet someone. This was not one of them. 

“What is all of this?” 

“Nothing.” You barely looked at him, tapping the pen one last time against the notebook before snapping it closed and tucking it into your bag. With a shrug, you hoisted the strap over your shoulder and tilted your head in his direction, a small nod of acknowledgement.

“I should get going.”

“Woah, hey, wait–” He stumbled forward like a complete fool, grabbing the railing as he dragged his skateboard by foot.

You look back, eyebrows arched in confusion. “What?”

“Aren’t you gonna clean all this up?”

“The candles will burn themselves out. And the chalk, well, it’s not like it's permanent.”  

You flicked a hand so casually, as if the whole setup were no more consequential than the ordinary. Martin, for his part, didn’t know much about the paranormal other than that it usually meant no good. But there stands a contradiction in front of him. Here you were, as startlingly breathtaking as you were strange. 

“Were you trying to perform a ritual? What if something crawls out of the ground or–”

You clicked your tongue sharply to interrupt him. He must have pissed you off, that much he was certain of now. 

“Relax. Thanks to your little stunt, the energy’s all disrupted. Crisis averted.”

“Ah… right.” He picked up his board, peeking around the dim space before looking back at you, a spark of something like hope and desperation in his expression. 

“Can I get your name at least?”

“No.” Not a second thought. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel like getting reported today.”

“I wouldn’t do that, I swear, I just–”

Think, Martin. Any excuse. It could be stupid. Literally anything that'll keep her from leaving.

“Can you read palms?”

“I can read your face just fine.” You say dryly. “And I’ve predicted that you’re going to experience quite an embarrassing moment later today, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

All Martin managed to process from that was the part where you’d been looking at his face. 

“Okay, psychic.”

“Not psychic.”

“Then tell me your name?”

“You don’t really need it.”

And just like that, you turned and left. 

Never has Martin felt so boyishly alive, a dizzy sort of teenage rush as he wanders towards where the guys are waiting. He comes back with a dreamy shine catching in his eyes and a lopsided grin he hasn't been keen on shaking off, making Juhoon ask what on earth had happened while he was gone. 

“Pretty girl,” was all he could say, and all he could think, really. Pretty, weirdly mysterious, hopefully a student here and not some ominous trespasser, because he very much wanted to see you again. 

Hours later, he’s riding his board home, mind still circling around one obvious subject. Then, in front of his friends, and unfortunately a handful of other onlookers, he attempts a trick and promptly eats pavement. 

As his friends gather around to ask if he’s okay, he stays sprawled on the ground as he traces back to what you said to him earlier, then stares up at the sky in pure burning embarrassment, and a little disbelief.  

“... You’ve got to be kidding me.”

🎶 And there’s a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear. Have I known you 20 seconds, or 20 years? ᯓ★

The next time Martin bumps into you, you were burying something.

It’s in the stretch of trees across the field. He had PE before that, and he’d been cutting around the back to head to the cafeteria when something strange caught his eye near the hedges lining the path. The shrubs rustled faintly as if something, or someone, was crouched behind them. 

Curiosity had a way of making him do it’s bidding. Like now, creeping forward, tilting his head, and peering through the leaves at whatever was causing the movement. 

He’d just been thinking about you, and now here you were. Maybe you really were a witch. 

“Hello again.”

You froze mid-motion. Slowly, you looked up at him from where you were crouched, and he could see something tiny cradled in your gloved hands. 

“Are you following me?”

“No,” he said quickly, lifting both hands in defense. “But you’re pretty hard not to notice when you’re–”

His eyes had finally discerned what you were holding. 

“...Is that a dead frog?” 

“Robert.” You said calmly. “He died of unknown causes.”

Martin’s unsure what the correct response to that was supposed to be. 

Not knowing what else to do, he shuffled closer and crouched beside you while you carefully lowered Robert into the small hole you had dug. 

“So was that your… pet?”

“Mmh.”

The image of a dead frog resting in someone's hands should have been enough to make him look away.

And it was, so he settled on looking at you instead. 

Meanwhile, you’d been busy wondering when this 6 foot something prying lurker might finally take the hint and leave. Or better yet, when one of your friends might show up and rescue you. He’d run into you twice now, which meant he was clearly onto you.

And he seemed eager. You couldn’t quite figure out why. 

But anyway, the main event: Robert's burial. If this guy wanted a front-row seat, you weren't going to stop him. Might as well put him to some use.

“Could you hand me the shovel?”

“Oh, yeah sure.” 

Martin scanned the ground for a tool, and when he spotted it, picked it up and handed it to you. You began scooping dirt to cover the small hole where Robert had been laid to rest. Once the earth was level, you pressed it flat with the shovel, then carefully placed a flower and shoved a tiny wooden cross in the dirt. 

Now that he thought about it, he’d seen similar tiny crosses around school before, some tucked at the edges of the soccer field, others hidden between shrubs in the gardens. Had they all been your doing? 

“So listen, about–”

“A moment of silence for the dearly departed.”

Martin quickly shut up. When he looked over, you’ve pressed your hands together, eyes closed, head in a faint bow. Albeit a little awkwardly, he follows suit. Goodspeed, Robert. 

After what looked like a solemn farewell to some unseen spirit, you brushed off your jeans and rose to your feet. 

“I’m leaving.”

“Wha–again?” He stumbled over his words, unable to hide the mix of surprise and frustration. “You did this last time too.” 

“I did it last time… because I was leaving then too.” You picked up the bag you always carried, wiping at the faint layer of dirt clinging to it. 

“You don’t just leave people hanging, y'know."

“What were you hanging around for, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know? Thought you were interesting.”

You stay quiet for a few seconds, weighing whether to respond, before muttering, “Whatever you say.”

You hear him sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“So how many of these pets of yours have you buried around school?”

You wonder briefly how on earth he managed to figure that out. 

“12, at most.” You admit. 

He whistles low, then lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “You can’t bury them in your backyard?”

You shrug, tugging the strap of your bag even tighter over your shoulder. 

“My mother thinks it's weird. I've tried preserving them in jars, but I can’t seem to figure out how to get rid of the smell.”

Martin grimaced, nose wrinkling at the thought of dead reptiles and rodents sitting preserved in glass jars, suspended in some strange liquid. He’d always assumed that stuff was just weird propaganda the movies fed him about these kinds of people. Clearly, he’d been wrong.                                          

But you had actually told him something that had nothing to do with escaping the scene this time, so he figured you were really into this sort of stuff. Not that he could judge. Everyone’s passionate about something, after all. If he’s into rock bands and vintage vinyl collections, you’re into… well, whatever this was. It’s not so different in the end. 

He actually thought it was kind of cute. Strange girl with even stranger hobbies. 

“That does sound like a problem, huh?” He tries to sound casual, though the edge of unease still leaks into his voice.

“It is.” You reply curtly, looking anywhere but at him as you tap your fingers against the strap of your bag. 

A few seconds of awkward silence stretched between you, filled only by the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of the football team on the field. You huff out a breath, shoulders stiff, and turn sharply on your heel. 

“Goodbye.”

“Wait!” He lunges a step forward, heart hammering faster than he’d like to admit.

You pause mid-stride, one foot hovering as if to turn and leave anyway, eyes darting back to him. 

“What is it?” you ask, skeptical. 

“Are you heading to the cafeteria?” 

“Uh… yeah? It’s lunch.”

“Perfect. I’m going there too. Let’s go together.” He says it smoothly this time, mentally patting himself on the back. 

You glance at him, noting that he hasn't really left you any room to argue. With a small, resigned sigh, you reply,

“Sure.” A touch too reluctant. 

Martin finally finds out your name and that you’re both in the same grade. It strikes him as off that he’s never seen you around before. You explain, in your usual understated way, that you’re good at staying unseen. Because of that, you then hint at why circumstance keeps bringing him across your path. 

He walks you through the crowded halls leading to the cafeteria, receiving a bunch of greetings and some very pointed stares. He doesn’t quite understand the looks, but they register for barely a second anyway. His thoughts are entirely on something else, because for once, he’s got you talking, and that, more than anything, has to count for a win. 

When you both step inside, he immediately notices the space you put between the two of you. Just a step or two, but enough that he feels the intention in it. Your eyes dart left and right, scanning the room with a kind of awareness he hasn’t seen from you before.

That’s odd. 

Martin glances around the crowded cafeteria. “So where were you—”

“Y/N!”

A girl breaks through the noise of students and strides straight toward you. She’s dressed almost exactly like you, and something about her demeanor feels eerily similar too. Actually, the table she came from looked like an entire gathering of that similar variety.

So you’ve got a whole group to be weird with. Good to know.

The girl glances between the two of you, clearly confused. You shake your head, waving it off, and turn your back to Martin just long enough to give him a small, acknowledging nod before walking away.

“Thanks.”

He smiles, lifting his hand in a quiet wave. 

“See you around.”

He meant it and wished it would be true. He isn’t sure if you even like him much, and the uncertainty gnaws at him. He tried being as welcoming as his demeanor could get, if snooping around your business was anything to go by. 

You, on the other hand, have already started to figure things out as you walk next to Martin. He’s very well-known, charming, and people respond to him instantly. And you can’t help but notice how those same critical glances aimed at you turn warm and admiring when they fall on him. So artificial. 

For whatever reason he was here, you just wished he’d leave you alone. 

🎶 I can’t do the little things I hold so dear, ‘cause it’s all those little things that you fear, ‘cause I’m just a girl I’d rather not be. Oh, I’m just a girl, guess I’m some kind of freak. ᯓ★

After much persistence and scheming on his part, lingering glances, and the occasional shove through the cafeteria line just to exchange a word or two, you finally agreed to teach him of this “new interest” of his. Really, it wasn’t the witchcraft he was thinking about. What he really meant by ‘interest’ was you. 

Martin just hadn’t thought he’d be sitting across from you in an empty classroom with a Ouija board when he told you that. 

What’s in front of him is, so to speak, absolutely terrifying. The board is covered in neat little letters, numbers, and the words YES, NO, and GOODBYE, all circling a tiny wooden planchette that suddenly looks far too imperative for something that probably came from a novelty shop. It’s roughly on par with the weirdest things he’s ever seen on Gravity Falls. 

“You’ll be alright.”

“Famous last words, Y/n.”

You finish arranging the candles and the other little things you insisted were necessary: salt in a small dish, a matchbox, and the board set perfectly between you. Martin watches the whole process with a mix of dread and fascination. 

Yes, this was kind of creeping him out. But he’s also at that age where a pretty girl sitting across from him is reason enough to ignore most of his better judgment.

Then you reach for his hands. 

You place them lightly over the planchette before settling your own fingers there, too. When you’re done, you look up at him and give a small, confirming nod. 

“Ok. Ask it something.”

Martin glances down at the board like it might suddenly bite him. 

“Anything?”

“Yes, Martin.”

“And you’re sure it’ll come true?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think the spirits are gonna lie to you?”

“Let’s hope not.”

The two of you lower your heads slightly, concentrating, while Martin keeps his question tucked quietly inside his mind. He shifts in his seat, trying to think of something worthy of consulting the dead for, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then the planchette stirs beneath your fingers and begins to glide slowly across the board, straight toward YES.

You gently lift your fingers from it and look up at him. 

“Well?” you ask. “What’d you ask for?”

“I asked the spirits if you’d agree to going on a date with me.”

You blink. 

“What?”

He shrugs, trying and failing to keep his grin from reappearing. 

“You said spirits never lie, Y/n. Your word against mine.”

Suspicion settles over your face. “You moved the piece yourself, didn’t you?”

Martin gasps and places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Accusing me now? It’s as real as it can get. These are omniscient beings we’re talking about Y/n. Have some respect.”

“You’re just giving me shit, Martin.”

He pushes his chair back, standing up like the matter has already been settled. 

“I’ll text you. Wear something cute.” He says witha“Never.”

Martin flashes you an easy grin as he grabs his bag. 

“Then have fun getting possessed.”

He leaves the classroom before you can throw something at him. It seems you’ve been cornered into this.

You pack the things away slowly, sliding the planchette back to the center like you’re resetting something that had no business moving in the first place. On the way down the hallway, your footsteps echo louder than usual.

“Stupid spirits,” you murmur to yourself. As if they had anything to even do with it. 

Still, hours later, when your phone lights up from your desk with a message, your hand reaches before you can think better of it. 

🎶 Why do you act crazy? Not an act, maybe. So close a lady, shifty eyes shady. ᯓ★

He shows up in full skater fit, two iced coffees in hand, like meeting up at a cemetery is the most normal Saturday activity imaginable. It probably was for you, though. 

Of course, you had come prepared. A small blanket to sit on, sandwiches wrapped neatly in wax paper, strawberries, and, tucked in between the picnic items, your growing collection of obituaries.

Well, at least you actually did wear something cute today. 

Martin blinks at it once, then twice, trying to reconcile the fact that he likes this about you but also doesn’t understand a single thing about it.

You fan them out beside the food the same way someone might deal a deck of cards. Martin leans forward, fingers hovering uncertainly above one, as if touching it might wake something besides the photograph of the dead woman printed on the brittle paper. 

“This woman was a nurse.” You begin, voice calm. “No kids, but there is a husband.”

Martin feels a little queasy. “Mmh. May she rest in peace.” 

The combination of your calmness and the macabre intrigue makes him feel lightheaded. 

“So,” he says after a pause. “D’you bring all your dates here?”

You lift a brow at him as you take a bite of your strawberry. “Besides my friends, you’re the first.”

You add: “This isn’t a date, though.”

Martin tilts his head as a grin spreads. “It’s not? I could’ve sworn you agreed to it yesterday.”

“You threatened me.” You fire back.

He laughs and holds his hands in mock surrender. “The ouija board wasn’t my idea, now was it?”

You can’t help but notice how out of place he looks here. Between the tombstones and the long shadows, his bright hair seems to almost glow. His clothes, patterned and lively, and that skateboard of his splattered with graffiti stand out sharply against the pale grey earth. You wonder if this is how the rest of the world sees you when you leave your own little corners behind. 

“Why do you persist with this…” You lower your voice and stare dwn at your lap, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on the blanket.

Martin turns to you from where he's leaning against the rough bark of a tree. “With what?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug lightly. He notices a strand of hair fall over your eye, and itches to draw it back. 

“Don’t you have those friends of yours? The real rowdy ones?”

He laughs at that. “What about them?”

You search for the right way to say it.

“I don’t exactly… fit that criteria.” 

He tilts his head, as if to say it was obvious. “I know. I like it that way.”

The wind rustles the leaves overhead, carrying a faint scent of dirt and grass, and you shift your weight on the blanket, unsure of how to follow that.

“So what's your deal with me?”

Martin exhales slowly, scratching the back of his neck like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing, 

“Oh y’know,” A question he’s too shy to answer, but his attempt at restraint is useless. 

 “Just really like you.”

You look down flatly. “Alright.”

Martin thinks, Great. Fantastic. Kill me now. 

“That’s your reply?” He asks.

“Is something the matter?” You sound genuinely confused, which only makes it worse. 

“No… nevermind..” He mutters quickly, glancing away as he nudges a stray pebble with the tip of his shoe. 

Martin tries not to dwell on how thoroughly he’d been shot down by the most neutral response imaginable. He quickly learns that it’s not hard to get you talking. Ask the right questions, and you'll ramble endlessly, laugh at yourself, share stories, debate infinite nonsense. 

You both hadn’t noticed the day passing, and by the time you’d realize, night had arrived without so much as a warning.

So here Martin was, walking you up the steps to your front door, the picnic basket balanced in one hand, his skateboard tucked under the other. He’d draped his jacket over your shoulders to fend off the chill and insisted on carrying your things as well. His father had taught him once about how a proper date worked. The only things she should carry are herself and maybe a bit of lipstick. The rest would have to be on him. Of course, Martin intended to follow that rule to the letter. 

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way here.” You say, pulling the jacket tighter over your frame.

Martin shakes his head. “Yeah? It’s alright. I live kinda close by.”

You squint at him immediately. 

“Liar. You said you lived twenty minutes the other way.” You point vaguely down the street.

Martin flashes a grin as he sets the basket down on the porch. “I know my shortcuts well.” 

A small laugh slips out of you. “Then maybe use them more often. You were late earlier.”

“I know.” 

He shifts his weight and takes a small step higher onto the porch, just enough that he becomes eye level with you. The contact makes you shiver, though it’s not hard to tell whether the reason could be the night air creeping from under the sleeves of his jacket, or him. 

“So,” You clear your throat and glance toward the door behind you. “I guess you can leave now?”

“I probably should.” But he doesn’t move, and rocks back slightly on his heels “Unless you want me to hang around until your parents come find us.”

You snort softly and shake your head. “Don’t get any ideas, Edwards.”

“I never do.” He says through his helpless smile.

You bend to pick up the basket from the porch. Before stepping inside, you glance back at him one last time, giving a small wave and mouthing a quiet bye before turning to open the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Slowly, you turn back around with a look of confusion. You try to retrace the night in your head, but nothing seems to stand out. Still, Martin’s watching you expectantly, and now you’re beginning to wonder.

Was I forgetting something?

You think of those movies your mother used to watch, the ones where the boy walked the girl to her door, and something sweet would happen that'd make her hide behind a pillow in her room. Maybe that’s what Martin was hinting at. 

Before you can overthink it, you take a few quick strides back toward him. You pause for half a second before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to his cheek. Before Martin’s brain can catch up with what you’d done, you’ve already slipped inside your house. 

A crooked grin spreads across his face, as slow and disbelieving as the time he took to comprehend all that. He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head to himself as he picks up his skateboard from where it rested against the railing. 

Martin meant the jacket, really. You’d forgotten to give it back. But as he makes his way home, he realizes he can’t complain much. The jacket looked good on you anyway. The traces of lipstick on his cheek, even more so. 

🎶 “Heard a lot about you” from a couple of friends. What I hope I’ll never hear again. ᯓ★

You were terrible at skateboarding. 

This realization comes to you as you lie sprawled on the cement, your bum throbbing from the impact and every ounce of hope draining out of you like water through a sieve. 

Martin walks over from the bleachers, hands stuffed in his pockets as he tries not to laugh. 

“You’ll get the hang of it.” Martin says, crouching down to pick up his skateboard, the sunlight of the first hours of noon glinting off the edges of its wheels. 

“I won’t. Better to give up early.” You mutter, brushing a streak of dirt off your bottoms. 

“No, seriously? It’s only been a couple of days.”

“Yeah,” you snap back, crossing your arms. “You’d think I could at least stand without falling by now.” 

Your voice is stubborn, but your cheeks betray you, pink in your frustration and something else. Right now, neither your balance nor your pride feel particularly steady. 

Martin steps closer and holds out a hand. “C’mon. Up.”

You let out a reluctant sigh and take it, letting him help you back to your feet. He steadies you, and together you shuffle toward the bleachers where your things are waiting. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, you look to him and throw a look. Stop laughing at me. His barely contained smile does little to save him. 

“Going to lunch with some friends for a bit.”

“Ok. I gotta go someplace too. Text me if you need help carrying some stuff home, alright?”

Your eyes roll as you tug your bag a little higher on your shoulder. “I don’t need you to carry my stuff home, Martin. I did it everyday before I met you.”

He shrugs, as if conceding the point. “Then text me just because.”

You pretend to consider it as you brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah sure. See you.”

See you.

You’re not entirely sure why he still seeks you out. You hardly share any classes, and your circle of friends don’t exactly overlap. On paper, you barely seem alike. How he’s managed to stay this consistent with you is still something of a mystery. 

 The thought nags at you as you drift toward the cafeteria. 

“Hi!”

A quick tap on your shoulder snaps you out of your thoughts. You turn around to find a girl standing there, and she’s pretty, unmistakably so. She looks familiar, though you can’t quite place where from. For a moment, you’re almost in awe of her.

And then something about her felt… off. 

“Um, hello.” You say as you force a polite smile.

The girl in front of you looks you up and down for a split second before speaking. 

“Y/n, right?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m Ji-Ah. Martin’s friend.”

It clicks then. You’ve definitely seen her before. She’s usually on the sidelines during games, bright cheer uniform, high ponytail. More often than not, she’d be on that same field you were at earlier, pom poms flashing with the rest of the squad.

“Ah, I recognize you now. You’re in cheer, right?”

“How’ve you been?”

Well, she completely swerved my question. 

“Been good. You?”

“Great.”

You try to step around her, thinking the conversation may be over. But Ji-Ah is still looking at you like she’s waiting for something. So you stop. 

“Did you need something?” you ask, gesturing vaguely.

Ji-Ah smiles like she’d been hoping you’d ask.

“You and Martin seem close, huh?”

You blink. “Oh. Right, he’s very persistent.”

Ji-Ah hums softly.

“Speaking of, I saw you both at the bleachers earlier.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, he was teaching you how to use that skateboard of his, right?”

She pauses, eyes flicking over your expression.

“And you were laughing like you’ve known him forever.”

You shift your weight. There’s something strange about the way she’s saying it. 

She cuts you off before you can respond. 

“But don’t you think it’s kind of weird?”

You didn’t. Not anymore. 

“What do you mean?”

Ji-Ah shrugs lightly, like she’s simply stating the obvious. You hate how naive it makes you feel.

“I’d hate for you to get caught up in something silly. He’s… well, Martin is… he’s not really the type to stick around, you know?”

He’d stuck around for a few months already, and you weren't exactly the type of person his friends would gravitate towards. You figured that had to count for some kind of exception. 

“I don’t think that's fair.” You reply, oddly defensive. “He’s been nothing but kind.”

“Kind? Sure. But maybe you’re just reading too much into it. He’s him, and you’re… you. You have your friends too, right?”

What did she mean by that?

“I just wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”

“Comfortable.” You repeat flatly.

“Yeah.” 

She flashes a bright smile, suddenly cheerful again. The shift is so abrupt it unsettles you. 

 “Well, I’ll see you around!” 

You did think it was kind of weird before. There was no point in lying to yourself. But once you got into hanging out with Martin, it hardly seemed to matter. He didn’t seem to notice, and eventually, neither did you. At the heart of it, you were just two people hanging out. 

Maybe there's more to it. Martin wasn’t exactly the subtle type. You could feel the intent behind him, but it was never cruel or selfish. In your mind, he could never be anything less than good. 

But these ugly doubts had been planted in your mind, and the thought wouldn’t leave you alone. 

🎶 Hung down with the freaks and ghouls. No apologies ever need be made. I know you better than you fake it, to see that we don’t even care. ᯓ★

You had dragged Martin out into the woods today. The voicemail he received said nothing but ‘I want to listen to the birds’, and naturally, he obliged. Birds were clearly a serious matter. 

“Be honest,” Martin says, glancing around the trees. “You didn’t bring me out here to murder me, right?”

“Martin, what?”

“Sorry. This place is freaking me out.”

“Technically speaking, if you were to drag someone out here, how would anyone even notice? Most people vanish in the woods before you hear a thing.”

“Comforting,” he mutters. Martin’s never quite sure why you know things like that. 

You cross a small stream and wander past a few more trees before the woods open into a quiet clearing. A patch of grass sits in the middle as sunlight pours through a break in the canopy above. Martin tries to show off by doing a trick on a fallen log. He slips and nearly eats dirt, and you laugh, because laughing around Martin had always been far too easy.

Eventually, you settle into the grass and begin idly plucking at the wild trilliums, pulling their petals apart little by little while the birds chatter somewhere above. 

Martin drops down onto the grass beside you, brushing dirt from his hands after his failed skating attempts 

“Oh yeah. There’s a party at James’ this weekend. He told me to invite you.”

You look up from the flower you’d been slowly dismantling between your fingers.

“You sure you didn’t just invite me yourself?”

Martin scoffs, leaning back on his elbows. “I’m serious! The guys seem to find you really interesting.”

“They’ve never even met me.”

“That’s because,” He points accusingly at you, “everytime they try, you, like, vanish.” 

You roll your eyes and place the bare flower stem on the ground. 

“Don’t you wanna go with Ji-Ah? She seems to really like you.” You say, nudging him lightly.

Martin shakes his head and brushes a hand through his hair. “Well I don’t like Ji-Ah. Not like that.”

“But she cares a lot. Always smiling at you.” She hates me too. 

“Not my style.” It couldn’t be any clearer.

After a few minutes of quiet, Martin asks the question.

“Come with me?”

“Absolutely not.” 

He tilts his head. “Why not?”

You throw up your hands in exasperation. “Why not? Because! Martin–me being there is staining. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t even know what I’d do there.”

“So? Just stick with me.”

“And that'll help how? Now I’ll just look even more out of place.”

Martin scoffs. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because I already heard your friend call me a weirdo. I don’t want everyone to think you’re with a–”

He leans forward, sudden and quick, until he appears to you in small details. He’s so close now that you want to twist your stomach into knots. 

“A what?”

You look into whatever flicker of understanding Martin’s eyes hold. It was obvious. It had already been so obvious what. 

“A what, Y/n?”

Martin’s eyebrows pull together like you've lost your mind. But you haven't. You know you haven’t. Otherwise, the stares wouldn’t stand out to you the way they do, or that you wouldn’t have to remember the things your friends said they’d heard people joking about. 

“When will you understand–Christ, I don’t care who thinks what.”

You forgot how careless Martin can be. It’s something oddly refreshing to you, and maybe that’s why you liked him so much. You’ve always been the complete opposite. 

“Not of you, not of me.”

Not of either of you. You’d always been a little envious of that. 

“I’m so sick of coming up to you in school, and sometimes all you’d tell me is ‘people are watching’ before you leave. That’s not even something I think about.”

Martin drags his hands over his face and lets out an exasperated breath before looking at you again. If he was going to say it, it had to be now. He thought you’d already understood, from the way he was always the one starting things with you, even if it made him look a little pathetic. Especially then. 

“Or,” He exhales again, this time a little helplessly. “Or when you let me hold your hand sometimes, and when someone passes by you act like my fingers are on fire.” 

He doesn’t know how long it'll take for you to believe him, but he needs you to know that these things mean little to him. Compared to wanting you, nothing does. 

“What's the matter? Why does it have to be a big deal–”

You cut him off. “What do you think?” 

“I don’t think anything!” His voice comes out louder than he means it to, and he hopes you know it doesn’t come from a place of frustration. His hands twitch restlessly, his whole body lit up with nerves. 

“I think of…you? That’s all.” He breaths out. 

“That’s all.”

Just so you’re sure. 

When you tilt your head down, he follows suit, searching for a hint. It’s just some stupid party, you tell yourself. A couple of hours tops. You can survive that. 

“Okay.” 

Martin’s caught off guard. “What?”

“I’ll go.” You finally look up.

“With me?” He leans closer. You hope he doesn’t hear it, the wild drum in between your ribs.

“Unless you want me to go with the other guy that asked me–”

“Who?”

You huff out a small laugh. 

“Martin, I’ll go with you. Happy?”

A slow grin spreads across his face. 

“Very.” 

That weekend, you really tried your best to dress the part. Your friend who's been helping you get ready said you were practically unrecognizable, so much so she doubted Martin would even be able to find you. You told her he still would. 

And Martin did recognize you, albeit a little surprised. 

“Oh. Is that you?”

“Yeah, and I know you’re already thinking it. I look ridiculous but my friend told me I’d blend in fine looking like this.”

“No, I think you look great. Not that you already didn’t look great before. I mean it's you, but–yeah don’t worry about it.” 

He’d caught the faint stutter in his own voice and prayed you hadn’t noticed. 

Watching you now, though, he finds that you actually do get along quite well with others. Every time he looked for you, you were always mid-conversation, no frown in sight, whatever their intentions were. 

And when he found you again, you were chatting with a guy he recognized from senior year. Martin knew the type: flashy, narrowly opinionated, a little self-important, and it struck him as strange. You, so kind, talking so easily with someone like that. You weren't someone to waste on him. 

Or maybe he’s just jealous. Oh well, the cat’s long since been out of the bag anyway. 

You, meanwhile, are managing alright. You’re not exactly sure what you’re supposed to do here. Martin warned you not to accept drinks from anyone and avoid sitting on chairs, or you might stain your jeans with… something. Beyond that, all you can do is talk to people, which hasn't been too difficult tonight now that they’re actually giving you a chance. 

In hindsight, the ease of it all should have set off alarms. It was always only a matter of time before things would go downhill. You knew that better than anyone. 

You were in deep conversation with a girl by the drinks aisle, bonding over shared interests. She was fun, easy to talk to, and you’d gone through the usual friendship ritual: swapping socials, trading gossip, joking over recent happenings. 

And then you’re soaked. 

You freeze, and everyone from your near vicinity seemed to have paused too. Mostly though, you freeze because your body won’t stop shivering. The water from your soaked clothes seeps into your skin, and the air conditioning was only making it worse. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the girl you’d been talking to rushing for a towel, but before she could even reach you somebody was already yanking you away by the arm.

“What the hell, Ji-Ah?” 

Through the still-blaring music, you recognize Martin’s voice cutting through the noise. Then comes a laugh, Ji-Ah’s most likely, right as the bucket once full of ice water hits the floor. 

“Ice bucket challenge!” someone from the crowd yelled, the drunken cheer in their voice betraying how staged the moment was. 

“Who the fuck even does that anymore?” Martin called back. 

“We thought she was someone else!” Ji-Ah says, her grin stiff as she flicks a glance at you, then back at Martin.

“I didn’t see her, Mars. No one can, really.”

Martin’s stare is sharp. “Then take my advice and get some prescriptions the next time you show up here.” 

“Mars, c’mon. You’re missing out on the fun–”

The rest of what she said barely caught on to you as you get pulled away again. You had no idea if anyone was watching, and you really hoped they weren’t. 

You’re pulled into a quiet room, not sure whose, probably whoever owned this house. Martin makes you sit on a chair and couches in front of you as he tries to make you look at him. He notices the faint traces of tears in the corners of your eyes and gently brushes them away with his thumb. He knows you hate looking like you’ve just cried in public. 

“Hey, you’re okay.” Martin brushes your hair away from your face. You shake your head, and it falls back down.

“I’m not.” You pull your arms over your body in an effort to fight the cold.

“People are so mean sometimes, I never know why.” 

Martin knows he wouldn't be able to handle the sight of you crying. He could barely handle the disappointed look on your face earlier. All he wants now is to get you out of here, god, you were smiling not that long ago. 

“Let’s leave, yeah? We’ll leave. Here, put this on.” 

Martin shrugs off his hoodie and gently pulls it over your head. Now, he’s left standing in a thin tank, and you’re pretty sure it’d been freezing cold outside before you came in.

“I can hitch a ride you don’t have to—“

“But I want to.” The words come out steady and certain.

He nods towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Martin leads you out the back door and around the house to the street up front where his dad's truck is parked, the same one he used to drive him and the others here earlier. 

“Your friends got a ride back?”

“Told me they'll figure it out. Hop in.” He nudges the passenger door open. 

The ride was quiet, broken only by the occasional glance Martin threw your way. You could feel it every few minutes. It’s the quietest you’ve ever been around him, save for the day he first met you. 

You thought, dimly, that maybe trying to fit a certain mold never really worked. Parts of you will always stick out. You turn toward the window to let the wind rush over you, and wish it would swallow you whole. 

The truck rolls to a stop outside a small burrito place, and Martin steps out without a word. He figured you hadn’t really eaten much at the party. Truthfully, he wishes he’d never mentioned that party at all. 

When he comes back, he drops a wrapped burrito into your lap. Eat, he said, and as you peel the foil open to take a bite, he turns the ignition once more and moves the truck into a proper spot in the empty parking lot. 

“It’s good?” Martin asks as he unwraps his food as well.

“Yeah. A little soggy.” 

“I mean,” He says through a mouthful, “It’s pretty late.”

You nod, take another bite of your food, and the truck falls quiet again. 

When you turn to Martin, you find he’s already looking at you. You want to ask him why he’s doing all this, or why he even persists at all. 

But I want to.

The words loop in your head over and over, but no matter how many times you hear them, you’re still not sure what they’re meant to mean. 

“You got curfew?” He considerately asks. 

“Not really. Why?”

“I don’t know.” He looks out the window when he says it. 

“Just wondering how long I can keep you here for.”

Here where? The parking lot? The truck? With him?

“Pretty long.” You say. 

You want to tell him to stop saying things like that, or at least stop saying them in that way. There’s too much room to overthink them. 

Instead, you ask if he can put on some music. If there's one thing Martin knows how to do well, it’s that. He leans over and rummages through the middle compartment and pulls out a few CD cases, muttering something about the radio not being able to pick up signals. He chooses one after a second and pushes it into the player, hitting play. 

In the summertime driving up the West Coast. Me and my Valentine, we ain't got no place to go. Nothing ahead but the open road, oh. 

Martin starts the truck again and drives you both up to an open field where a few other cars are also parked. Beyond the grass and the dark outlines of trees, a bright full moon hangs high in the sky. 

You finally turn to him. “So what's the deal with Ji-Ah?”

Martin exhales through his nose, leaning back slightly against the seat. 

“Sorry about that.” 

“It’s not your fault though.”

His voice breaks through the music. “It kind of is. She’s tryna get with me, y’know?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s getting a bit… persistent.”

“You’re saying that like you’re not.”

He glances at you, a sheepish smile tugging at his face. “D’you think I’m being persistent?”

“Absolutely.” There isn’t a hint of hesitation in your voice. 

She’s determined, you'll give her that. Awful at showing it, sure. But she must like him enough to pull other people into the fallout. You’re not sure if that's something to admire, considering you were one of the unfortunate casualties. 

Martin hops out to take a leak, mentioning offhand that there are more CDs in the front compartment if you ever wanted to change the song. When the door shuts and you’re alone again, you lean over, pull open the small compartment to your front, and start flipping through the cases inside. 

Among the scattered CDs, you find a small notebook with a familiar pattern on the cover. It’s the same one you’ve seen Martin carrying around from time to time. He’d always kept it a little secret from you, had always been a little guarded about it. 

Secrets, you believe, aren’t meant to sit around waiting to be found like this. So you glance through the windshield to make sure he’s nowhere near, then flip it open. 

You’d half expected it to be a diary. Which, granted, makes it sound pretty bad that you were so willing to snoop. Maybe it was just a notebook full of lyrics. That would've made much more sense. Martin loved scribbling random song lines into your notebooks whenever he got the chance. 

What you weren't expecting was to flip through the pages, trying to find one that didn’t have your face on it. 

You found one, and then another, and another.  

There are several. Some quick, some careful. In each one, you look different from the other. A certain angle, a slight change in expression. But they’re all captured in the same soft, striking strokes. The lines are messy in places, but the resemblance is unmistakable. 

You don’t recall ever posing for any of them, which meant he must’ve drawn them when you weren't looking, or from memory alone. The thought makes you want to tear your chest open from the pounding. You’re still a girl at the end of the day, and some guy had been paying attention. You wished you knew what to do with the feeling. 

Caught up in your own mind, you barely hear the door open. Martin steps back in, settles into his chair, and his eyes fall on the little secret you’ve uncovered. 

He’d forgotten that was there, and now he wished he hadn’t. Seeing you so quiet and avoiding his gaze, he knew this was going to be painfully awkward to explain.

“So about tha–”

“They look really nice.” You cut him off steadily, finally putting the notebook down to look at him.

He wants to say they do. He’d made sure you looked exactly how he’s always seen you, or the way you looked when you weren't there and all he could do was imagine. Pretty, so very pretty. 

“Yeah?” He breathes out.

“Yeah.” . 

He looks at you then with the same persistence you’d called him out on before, one he’s determined to make real. Before he realizes it, and because he can never resist when it comes to you, he grabs you by the arm, pulls you into the driver's seat with him, and kisses you in a fit of unconstraint. 

Martin goes back to the day he almost gave you a concussion with his skateboard to now, thanking whatever cosmic force made him stumble through some improbable timeline that's got you kissing him back. As he pulls you closer, he thinks with a kind of awe, that the Ouija board must have worked, because what he actually asked that day was if you’d want him back. 

Between his heavy breaths you breathe in and the warmth that has already dried the dampness of your clothes, you think of a few things:

That you want him to think of you. You want to strike yourself into the crooks of his mind so subtly he’ll forget it was even you. To bite at the rims of his voice until it shivers. To set his shadow on fire, press your hands against his chest until his thoughts spill out. You want to drag his pulse into you, stitch them into your own, so that they may never go anywhere else. 

I, I know what to do, 

Now that I’ve got a man like you

In the summertime, it can be so cruel

Baby, don’t be cruel

You lean onto him in the driver's seat, your ribs against his, and whisper it: that you want to eat him alive. Martin doesn’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled, but he’s counting you on that now. 

🎶 Hold on to love, that is what I do now that I’ve found you. And from above, everything’s stinking. They’re not around you. ᯓ★

It’s late into the night when Martin scales the fence to your back gate. He’d made it a small mission to get to you before eight, knowing you’d already be asleep by then after the long day you’d had. The cold air nips at his hands as he lands on the other side, but something warm sparks in his chest when he looks up and notices your window is still faintly lit from the inside. 

What else can a boy in love do, after all, but sink? Martin is learning this the slow way, and it’s the first time he’s ever had the chance. It comes to him in different forms: some in waves, sometimes in pain, but most of the time it’s a tender feeling.

So, driven by the sort of desperate determination he seems capable of only when it involves you, he tucks his skateboard behind the shrubs by your house, pulls his backpack snug against hi`back, and begins climbing, making a sincere effort not to fall to his death halfway up. 

Meanwhile, you lie awake long past a reasonable hour, reading through a book your friend had lent you. Astrology, of all things, It was only half familiar territory, something you were trying to dabble in more seriously. You figured it was worth learning if only to justify the astrolabe you’d impulsively bought at a vintage shop. Something that expensive ought to be useful for something.

There’s a faint rustling outside your window that catches you off guard, followed by a soft knock, knock, knock. You freeze. If kidnappers are capable of climbing, then this is most definitely how you die. 

Grabbing the nearest weapon available, a broom, you creep slowly toward the window, and another knock follows. It’s strangely polite, almost patient. The quietness of the night makes the whole thing feel suspiciously calm.

With a sudden motion, you yank the curtains aside and raise your broom–

It’s just Martin. 

You let out a sigh, half in relief, half in irritation, and let the broom clatter to the floor. Carefully, you slide the windows open, wincing at the chilly evening air rushing in. 

“What the hell was that?” 

You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed. “You really need to tell me before doing these things, Martin. I was ready to smite a serial killer.”

He smiles an easy one. “You’d like that, huh?”

You can only roll your eyes. “Just get in.”

Martin makes quick work of the ledge and somehow compresses his towering frame into your very modestly sized window. You swing it shut behind him, ready to launch into a scolding, but he’s quick to lean in and press your lips together, and you forget about it altogether. 

Before he can coax you into another form of distraction, you pull away and give him a steady look.

“What are you doing here?”

Martin blinks at you. He thought the answer should’ve been obvious. 

He shrugs. “I came to see you.”

You cross your arms together. “I can see that, but why? It’s not exactly the weekend.”

“I don’t know. Just wanted to.”

Then, as if remembering something important, he lifts his backpack and gives it a little shake.

 “I also burned some CDs for you.”

You tilt your head at him. “How romantic.”

A crooked grin spreads across his face. “Only for you.”

Despite the fact that it was a school night, you kept your room locked and let the hours drift later and later. Martin was in one of those oddly bright moods, restless in the way he usually was, so he busied himself however he could. Eventually, you had him lie with his head on your lap while the two of you rested on your bed. As you talked him through the things unfolding in your little book, he idly traced small shapes against your stomach, half listening, mostly content. 

Martin glances around your room, noticing it looked much the same as the first time you’d let him inside. The walls are still crowded with symbols and odd bits of ephemera: old newspaper clippings, obscure pictures, and strange signs that probably mean something he’ll end up asking you about later. Above it all hangs your display board of carefully pinned dead and dried insects. The sight of it had unsettled him the first time, though he realized it hardly ranked among the strangest things you keep. 

He’s been making an effort to learn about what fascinated you. He isn’t entirely knowledgeable as you are, and the same abstruse books you read might as well be written in another language to him. Still, he likes seeing you like this. So absorbed in some never-seen-before world. There are only so many things that could frighten him when it came to you. He thinks there might not be any at all. 

Finally, he turns to look at you. In a room filled with oddities and peculiar little relics, you are as captivating as they come. It was hard not to watch, even harder not to wonder, and impossible not to imagine. So he pushes himself up from the bed, reaches for your CD player, and begins shuffling through the stack of CDs in the box by your desk, all from him. He picks one at random and slides it into the player. 

He’d never had the chance to go to a school dance with you. Last year he went with a girl whose face he can hardly recall now. This year, you’d been away on a family trip, so he ended up going alone. Because of that, he’s never gotten to pull you into a slow dance the way he’s imagined plenty of times. 

Tonight, though, your parents are asleep, and the floorboards don’t creak as much. There’s only one thing he wants from you now. 

“Get up.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the Beatles.” 

“So?”

“I wanna dance.” 

You don’t bother asking why anymore. Martin does things like this sometimes, things that don’t always follow a clear line of reasoning. But they’ve never come from a bad place. You’re fairly certain he isn’t built for that. So you indulge him. Besides, now that you think about it, you wouldn’t mind dancing either. 

He stretches out a hand for you, and you take it. When he pulls you in, your arms slip around his neck, until the space between you is almost nothing. 

You wonder if this is why he wanted to dance with you. Maybe he loves you. He’s said it before, so you don’t know why it’s still a question of ‘maybe’ in your head. A while ago, the idea would have twisted your stomach into knots. But now that he’s here, the thought doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore. You want to be closer, and maybe admitting it would finally take you there. 

“Martin.” 

“Hmm?” He hums softly, distracted by the sway of your body in his arms.

“I love you.”

A lump rises in your throat. Now you understand why saying them felt like stepping off a cliff like how people described it to be. 

“Just wanted to say it before I step on your foot, or something, and you hate me afterwards.” You add, and your voice shakes.  

He swallows, and the tip of a nervous grin tugs at the corner of his lips. But his eyes, bright and endless as you saw them, are on you.

“I couldn’t even if I tried.” 

When the song comes to an end, Martin’s impatience breaks loose. He presses himself against you with all the clumsy, stupid urgency of someone entirely done for, and kisses you stupid. In no time at all, you’re both collapsing onto the bed, limbs to breaths, hearts tangled and racing. 

Tiny, the little gecko he’d given you a while back, watches silently from its terrarium. You’d told him once that you named it Tiny because Martin was anything but. And it’s true. He’s large in presence, in thought, in feeling. Since meeting you, the world seems only big enough for extremes, so he can’t do anything in halves. He feels in torrents, in leaps, in the kind of degree that has no middle ground. 

So it might have looked odd, even to those who knew you both best. Martin Edwards, tall, dreamy, a little wild, threading through the crowded halls with his arm around you, or catching a crooked smile tugging at his lips whenever he passed you by. Your friends may have questioned it, and he understood. His friends had done the same. 

But what no one could ever know was the sweet weight in his chest when he looked at you then, and the pull of something bright he longed to keep forever. You made him want to ask questions he feared answers to, and perhaps this was love’s truest cost: the audacity to be completely unafraid. 

When you drift off in his arms later that night, Martin glances up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across your ceiling, looking for a sign that he’d done it right. They can only glow back the same in turn, but some things, he realizes, he’s already certain of. You were the first. 

[miseulbae]

ok uhm. i will come back to this when im in a better headspace but i js wanna say that i asked holly for some comfort fic recs and this was one of them and.

mari 🥹🥹🥹😭😭😭😭 i have had the worst fucking week but this fic js made me feel sm better.

[kaikaikoi]

(  PARTY TEXTS    ) ──── when you and your boyf got diff friend groups @ the party but still text in-between 😪🤞

# INCLUDES   . . .  ZHAO YUFAN × FEM!READER    ( fluff, suggestive, humor, slight angst ) && ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP!AU underage drinking slight mutual jealousy kissing james & reader match each other's freak 😝🙏 party's @ martin's for context

( 𝓀aikai. ) this blog is in SUCH a yufan drought I'm sorry 😭 to all my yufan lovers 😭 i love my silly billy jamie #james please do another solo live I miss u #mukbang next #i been plotting on u since the start of time

[miseulbae]

hello kai i am BACK AGAIN because you have ruined me through your smaus. AGAIN. HOW THE HELL DOES ONE EVEN DO THAT I DONT UNDERSTAND BRO.

ok side note actual deep thoughts didn’t occur to me until much later in the fic and i started screaming at my phone so here’s some misc commentary until i get there.

“YOU GUYS TAKE FOREVER 😭😭😭😭” james please. that’s LEGIT half the fun of parties!! the getting ready part!! like istg every time i have an event i enjoy getting ready for it more than the actual event itself

“where am i on the hierarchy” guys. guys. DO YOU UNDER HOW FREAKING HEALTHY A RELATIONSHIP HAS TO BE FOR THESE JOKES TO NOT ONLY FLY BUT BE FUNNY FOR BOTH PARTIES. james isnt even JEALOUS at the notion like omfg i will forever be screaming into the void that jealousy is a natural feeling but for it to not even pop UP (or if its being controlled) is the GREENEST FLAG EVER

“we plot on that fine shyt DIFFERENT” no i felt this one in my SOUL. like genuinely you guys will never understand the lengths me and my hgs go to plot on the huzz it should genuinely be studied atp

“show me that upstairs yea?” CHILLLLL BRO CHILLLLLLLLLLLL

ok we at the part where i got some Deep Thoughts so lesgo

the last few pictures had me genuinely thinking. and yes, part of it is definitely because i’ve had a few failed attempts at love these past few months.

but.

i would hope that everyone would have someone out there who would fight for them. if not physically (because what the hell james you csn go to jail for that shit!!) then verbally. emotionally. in relationships, in friendships, within family ties. having someone in your corner who is willing to not only stand up for you but fight for you when you feel like you can’t (or even if you don’t want to!) is so incredibly important and powerful.

because how truly loved must you be for someone to go to war for you? i would say that you are loved beyond your own comprehension, beyond everything you could ever imagine.

and if you know who that person is, i’d tell you to cherish them. protect them as they would you, because that kind of love doesn’t come often.

anyways. i’m rambling atp.

[miseulbae]

to annotate like crazy (alr read and LOVED)

user nujins’ i can see you (I LOVED THIS SO MUCHHHH)

user martinflms’ how to lose an idol in 10 shows (genuinely one of the best martin fics out there)

user studioeisa’s lost in translation (my favorite minghao fic. hands down)

user sailorsoons’ rain room (OH MY GODDDDDDD)

user ghoultin’s martin bf headcanons (a bitch cried)

user hollyoonga’ extra 2 + extra 3 (because this entire series has such a huge chokehold on me ohmfg)

user shy9-29’s the love letter i never sent (because i screamed like crazy at this fic)

user suigenerisisadiva’s static on the line (i loved this so much OMLLL)

to read! (and annotate like crazy)

user hollyoongs’ myungjae’s journal

user kaikaikoi’s…actually i don’t know what it’s called all ik is that juhoon is a baller and i think it’s this fic

there’s definitely more but i can’t find them rn

for later (as in the author has paused/not updated this series in a hot minute)

i can’t find it anymore and i’m so pissed but it was a hanahaki ljh series. WHERE ARE U MY LOVE 😭😭😭 COME BACK TO MEEE

user kaikaikoi’s white keys series (MY BELOVED 🤧🤧

[teacuplps]

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE? ⸻ zhao yufan

romeo!james x juliet!reader ♡ set in 1960s shanghai

( syn. ) only a boy stupid in love would risk his life coming to the side of the city he’s not supposed to be in. but for the son and heir of the zhao family, it’s easy to be a fool if the evening promises james a night of his two favourite things: dancing, and you.

( tags ) r&j au • implied f!reader • set in the 1960s (though not too sure how accurate my writing is…) • forbidden love trope • implied gang violence (i don’t condone😭🤞) • mentions of blood • some lines can be taken as suggestive but this one shot is sfw • slightly inspired by ‘these violent delights’ by chloe gong/ ‘romeo and juliet’ by willy shakespeare) and ‘something stupid’ by frank and nancy sinatra as requested by my snoopy @soupysnoopy1 ♥️ • author’s note at the end! • wc: 4415

ONCE THE SUN HITS the horizon, everyone knows it's time to call their children inside and close all doors. 

No matter how much the romantically orange sky may call one’s name, the blood feud on Shanghai’s streets isn't to be brushed off casually. Indeed, the Zhao family and their allies keep the threat of violence lingering in every corner, as each streetlamp begins to mechanically turn on. 

But against all reasoning of safety and logic, Shanghai’s youth can’t help themselves from meeting after sunset. After all, when the days are gripped in helpless fear of bloodshed, it's the night that lets you feel alive. Which is why, when the familiar sound of pebbles being thrown on your window catches your attention, you don’t find yourself waiting too long to make your way to tie the velvet purple curtains back. 

Leaning against your polished windowsill, you thank the stars your room is on the right side of your home – the window secluded from the main road and with it, any wandering eyes. 

You thank your stars even more for the sight below you; Zhao Yufan, standing like a fool, hoping for simply a glimpse of you.  

“My father will kill you if he sees you,” you state plainly, after sliding the window open. 

“I’ll try my chances,” he shrugs, a smile already growing on his face. It’s going to be a lucky night for him – he can feel it in his bones. He put on his best dark grey suit for it too. 

“I’m serious, y'know? The stunt your uncle pulled last Saturday… you shouldn’t be on our side of the city these days.” You warn. “Someone could walk past right now, and in two rounds of Chinese whispers, you’d be in a box.” 

“Then I should make my way up to your room, shouldn’t I?” He tilts his head, never breaking your gaze as he does so. 

The light breeze wafts through the strands of your hair. From his position, he swears you look like an angel – or maybe it’s just the light of the lampshade in your room. He makes a mental note to check, because he simply cannot accept you’re waltzing around looking like that so effortlessly. 

“Oh, I don’t know… you’ll ruin that fancy suit of yours,” you retort. There’s no chance you haven’t eyed the way his shoulders look broader in it either.  

To that, he simply scoffs. Skillfully stepping back, he makes a long jump at the crevices in the walls outside your home. The route he uses – the grasping of specific tree branches, and the stepping on certain bricks that stick out – has become a familiar one. 

The combat training passed down from his elders since his childhood, has made the boy an expert at using his strong arms to get to you. The Zhao family would shudder in disappointment knowing his agility is being used to sneak into your room, but we digress. 

“Good evenin’,” he breathes out. He isn’t bothered by the physical movement done moments before, and so, he decides the trouble in his lungs right now must be attributed to finally, finally, being with you again. Two days is far too long spent away from you.

The Zhao family, known for their elegance as the prestigious powerhouse of Shanghai, has only one son, and he’s now a blushing mess in your room. All elegance of prestige thrown out the window he just climbed through.  

You’ve moved back to let him in, admiring his gelled and styled hair up close. He must have something planned for the two of you tonight, and it’d be a lie to say you weren’t already eager to go. “Hello, Yufan.” 

His hands, which weren’t wasting a second to reach out to hold you, suddenly short-circuited. 

At his pause, a small laugh chokes out of you. 

“You know that’s not what you call me here. Not when we’re alone,” he sighs, taking a small step towards you but still not yet letting himself make contact.

Giving him a short nod, not wanting to tease him as much as you normally do, you playfully sigh back. “So high maintenance,” you smile at his slight pout. “Hello, James.” 

The name he’s chosen – the one with no ties to his family and his title in Shanghai – being said out loud by your voice, is all the permission James needs to place his hands on your waist. 

Your secret moments with him these past few months still haven’t gotten you used to the way James feels when he touches you. His hands, warm like the sun, set you on fire. 

“Seonghyeon is hosting a gathering tonight. Think you’ll have the time to spend an evening with me?” James starts smart – he knows this is an event you couldn’t resist. 

A breath of relief escapes you. Unbeknownst to him, James was right. This was something you could agree to being whisked away to. 

The Eom family had stayed neutral – or as neutral as one family could be – between the two sides of the city. Their connections to the West left them at an advantage over all families within Shanghai, and so, both the Zhaos and your family, have remained in their debt to access international goods. 

In fact, you’ve seen the Eom children around often. Free to pass through both of the city’s divided parts, they’d made it their duty to host the secret get-togethers of Shanghai’s youth. 

Seonghyeon, the heir to the Eom’s legacy, was well known to be the first in town to have records from foreign artists. His bona fide gramophone, and endless collection of music so smooth you couldn’t believe your ears, made his social gatherings the most anticipated within your social circles. As long as your parents believed the Zhaos and their allies weren’t in attendance, you were free to do whatever you willed with the Eoms.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” You ask, excitement growing, and James can’t stop both sets of dimples from appearing on his face. “I have nothing to wear!” 

Suddenly jumping out of his arms to run to your neatly organised dresses, you sift through each hanger as quickly as possible. James grumbles at your absence, but makes his way to your canopy bed. 

“Easy,” James shrugs, allowing himself to get comfortable. “Wear the red one I like.” 

You glance back at him, knowing his intentions immediately. Unfortunately, his suggestion is one you don’t disagree with.

The red dress, in all its glory, is at the back of the line. You’re about to turn around with it off the hanger, when with no explanation, James suddenly rolls off of your sheets, sliding himself underneath the bedframe with the ends of his shoes peaking out from the canopy bed’s curtains. 

“What are you doi-” You don’t finish your question. Without warning, your mother sharply opens your door.

“Who are you talking to?” She demands, a line of suspicion on her forehead, gazing right to the window where she thought you’d be. It hasn’t been the first time she’s caught you talking to the Zhao boy – against her wishes, at that.  

“Myself, ma.” You say immediately, stepping into the act of a perfect daughter as naturally as you can. You will yourself to calm your nervous heart and do everything in your power to not even blink in the direction James is hiding in.

Your mother hums, eyeing the dress in your arms. “I could’ve sworn you were talking to that boy again.”

Worse. ‘That boy’ in question was underneath your bed, his long frame threatening to peek out even more from under the overdraped covers.

You knew you had already tested your mother’s patience with the Zhaos. She was used to brushing off your questioning when you were younger, simply explaining the feud between your family and his as something you’d understand later in adulthood. 

But after the one instance he walked you home, finding you hurt five months ago, she’s had her suspicions about the developing relationship between you two. Your mother personally believed you could’ve made it home with your bleeding arm on your own, but secretly appreciated the act of chivalry from Zhao Yufan, nonetheless. 

The three of you knew better than to tell anyone else about that day’s events. Especially your mother, who noticed the way James had stared at you like you were something out of his dreams. She had sent him home immediately, and forbade you from making contact with him again. 

Such warnings went in one ear and out the other however, when he came back, throwing pebbles at your windows only hours later. You’d barely even known his name back then, only that he was a Zhao. 

Smiling fondly at the memory of the first encounters with your James, you shake yourself out of your thoughts. 

“No, ma.” You start, “Yufan doesn’t call for me anymore.” 

Lie. 

“Well, I’d hope not. Your arm’s been long healed.” Your mother huffs, as she gestures towards the dress in your hands. “Going somewhere?” 

You shake your head, “Only leaving it out for tomorrow.”

Another lie. 

Your mother watches you intently, reaching a cold hand out to take hold of your cheek. “I miss when you weren’t such a grown girl.” 

“Easier to control?” 

A scowl spreads across her face. “Don’t say horrible things like that.” 

Ruining her mood always cuts short her times in your room, with tonight not an exception. Your mother makes her departure, and when she’s finally closed the door behind her again, you scramble to change out of your nightgown. 

A voice from under your bed interrupts your movements. “Can I come out yet?” 

“You tell me, James.” You continue zipping up the soft fabric of the red dress. “You were the one who heard her footsteps before I did.” 

Feeling his legs beginning to ache from crouching in the uncomfortable position for so long, James pushes himself out from his hiding place. Close call. 

He takes a minute to adjust his eyes to the brightness of your room again, but all the trouble goes to waste when you step out from behind your closet door, sliding in a hairpin behind your ear. 

His jaw clenches at the sight of you, and it takes a few heartbeats before James’ breathing steadies. “Was a bad decision asking you to wear that dress,” he mumbles. 

“You like?” You ask, giving him a small twirl with a devilish smile plastered on your face. You already knew the answer, of course – there’s a reason this dress isn’t worn regularly. It’s saved for special occasions, where you feel bold enough to let the darker shade of red hug your figure the way it does. You just enjoy seeing James flustered.  

“Agreeing that I only ‘like’ it would be an understatement.”

He takes three long strands to get to you, and dares to trace the skin of your shoulder that’s exposed. The dark look in his eyes reveals to you everything you need to know, and a slow, satisfied, smirk takes over. 

“Time to go, James.” You tell him, not wanting to miss a minute more of Seonghyeon’s music. “I want to dance.” 

Regretfully following you to the window, James makes sure you get out safely first, before starting to climb out after you. Your dress makes the departure down a slow one, but you’re a giggling mess by the time you and James are on the ground, already high off of the thrill of being with him in the night again. 

To be seen with a gentleman during the evenings without a chaperone was scandalous on its own, but to be caught with James, would be the start of something far worse. A slaughter for both sides of the long-standing feud that you don’t even want to imagine. 

Thoughts of your families vanish into thin air when you’re with him though, as being with James doesn’t feel like you’re doing anything wrong. Instead, it’s quite the opposite – you’ve almost forgotten the girl you were before he came into your quiet life, filling it with shades of bright colours you didn't even know had existed yet. For something so looked down upon within the city’s scene, it felt so, so right.

It’s not long before the two of you make it outside the entrance of Eom Seonghyeon’s lounge. It crosses the unmarked border of your side of the city, but you know you’re safe here – you’re safe with James.

From an outsider’s perspective, the silent street doesn’t allude to anything remotely interesting happening inside. The venue’s harsh doors and long stairway, capture all the music underground.  

Seonghyeon, with his hair slicked back, and his typical grey suit jacket on his shoulders, greets the both of you with a warm hug when he sees you make your way down the stairs. The red dress is hard to miss. 

“What’s on the menu for tonight, Hyeon?” James asks, the different shadows and lights of the room casting a gorgeous glow on his already warm cheeks. 

“Jazz, my boy.” Seonghyeon walks backwards as he points to the gramophone playing an unfamiliar, curious melody. “New Sinatra!”

The place is busy with Seonghyeon’s usual circles from both sides of the city. Groups had begun to mingle already – friends of the Zhaos mixing with the Edwards and Ahns as if Shanghai’s historical boundaries didn’t exist. Suppose, they didn’t seem to. Not when the evening was blossoming with fresh tunes.

This city’s gangs may be networks of criminals above the law, but above these family feuds, was simply the art of jazz.

Attending as what looked like a couple, you and James had been a mysterious topic of conversation between Shanghai’s youth – could you two really be together? 

It’s a great trust the two of you have put in the teenagers and young adults here. A murmur of a rumour to the older generations would add fuel to the fuse that never seems to end… but the logic was simple: I won’t tell my parents you’re here, if you don’t tell your parents I’m here too. 

And so, the children of Shanghai’s notorious families dance the nights away together in as much harmony as they can, every Thursday night. 

James’ presence lights up the room, the same way he lights up your heart. The Zhao boy, known here for his natural rhythm in footstep, used to have girls lining up for just a chance of one dance with him.

Almost everybody had taken a glance at James when he walked in, and with you in his arms right besides him tonight, it was a sight of envy for every boy in the venue.

“Come with me,” James says in a low voice, his right hand moving from your waist to take hold of your own hand. He pushes through the crowds and leads you straight to the middle of the dancefloor. You can already feel the electrifying way your blood is pumping through your body.

“I love jazz,” you smile up at him, once the two of you had found a spot of your own. James looks stunning in this light, sharp features but soft gaze, all paying attention to you. 

“I know,” his eyes are crinkling now too. Oh, the things he’d do to keep that smile on you ‘til the end of time. “You wanted to dance, right? Let’s dance.”

James’ style was so different from any other boy you had danced with before. His movements were smooth, gliding the two of you across the room like he’s done this with you thousands of times. Entranced by being so close to him, and the heat of his body radiating onto yours, you let yourself follow his footwork. 

He’s lucky his body remembers how to take over when he’s dancing – muscle memory, the same in combat – because James’ head is currently too busy, filled with how intoxicating your perfume is. Inhaling your now-familiar scent, James never wants to let you go. Even straying away for a second to let you twirl is too far away for him (but the bright joy on your face makes the sacrifices worth it). 

Ignoring the way you feel many eyes on you, your confidence grows as you move beautifully in time with James. Ballroom dancing had been a mandatory task your parents put you in as a child, but it is with James, that you feel the impact of its culture. 

It’s only three songs on the floor together before you already need a break. “Drink?” you mouth to James, face flushed from the dancing. He nods before the two of you make your way to the refreshments table, nodding and waving to various people as you go. The whispers and giggles as people watch, can no longer be avoided. 

“Have you been practicing?” James begins to tease. “You’re getting better. You’ll possibly be better than me soon.”

He’s pouring you a cup of iced tea before your small conversations are interrupted by a keen voice. No introductions or greetings necessary, Kim Juhoon cuts through the current Vietnamese jazz track like a knife. 

“It’s funny,” Juhoon glances between you and James, “Eom told me not to come tonight, but I had to see with my own eyes if Martin was pulling on my leg or not.” 

The Kim family was close with yours – you and Juhoon had grown up across the road from each other. As children, your parents had always believed the two of you would eventually get married too, sealing the alliance like a transaction. 

It was a shame for both your families, when both of you had only strictly seen each other as siblings. Juhoon, overprotective of you from the day you had met, immediately took a dislike to the Zhaos. At first, you thought he had simply fallen victim to his family’s teachings, but you couldn’t help but wonder if his distrust towards Yufan recently had to do with the knowledge that you thought he was beautiful.  

“No trouble here tonight, man.” James responds, starting to pour a second drink for himself. 

A chuckle. “If anything, you’re the one starting trouble, Zhao.” Juhoon’s eyebrows lift in your direction.

The intentional use of family names angers you enough to speak up. “Leave me be, Juhoon.” Even before you had started seeing James, Juhoon made it clear he didn’t approve of any boys in Shanghai showing you romantic attention, let alone the son of the Zhaos.  

“So the whispers are true? You really are messing around with him.” Juhoon continues, only looking at you now.

The accusation of ‘messing around’ leaves a sour taste in James’ mouth, and no amount of sips of iced tea is sweetening it out. What had been growing between you two these past few months, was beginning to feel more to him than simply being curious about the girl his family felt generational hatred towards. 

Juhoon lets out a low whistle. “I’m just saying… I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s only hanging around for some ulterior motives. You know what they’re like.” 

James makes a threat to step forward, but Juhoon takes a step back faster, with a playful expression, and hands raised to show retreat. 

“I suggest you go.” James says, “I said no trouble tonight, but we’re still on my side of Shanghai.”

When Juhoon is back in his own circle with Martin and the youngest Ahn boy, you turn towards James and pull him close. Taking the refreshments with you, you drag James to a loveseat in the corner of the lounge – the music is quieter here, the sultry strings of guitar becoming a backdrop for the rest of the time you want to spend with your boy. 

“I’m sorry about him, James.” You begin. “Thinks he’s my brother or something…”

But James just shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. He brought up what we’ve been avoiding anyway.” 

He says your name as a question, unsure of how to begin the conversation. 

How does James even start trying to accept that soon, he can’t be with you? That neither of your families will allow it? That one day, you’ll both be forced into unhappy marriages with somebody else? The mere thought of that last question makes him resort to unbelievable anger.

Having only spent a few months with you, James already knows you’re it for him. There can’t possibly be somebody, who ever makes him feel as much as you do. Who makes him feel as alive as you do.

“You want to discuss this now? In here?” You glance at the lounge, still bustling with young adults finding each other in the darkness to dance. 

A gentle laugh escapes him, as he calls your name once more, to get your attention back on him. 

In a serious tone now, James asks, “You don’t believe what Juhoon was talking about, do you?”

You swallow. It had occurred in your mind at first, yes, given the cat and mouse game your family had been playing with his for years, long before the two of you even existed. Members of your family, your friends, and at one point, you, had all been hurt at the hands of the Zhaos – falling for their only son was a complicated, and dangerous line you’d been tiptoeing since November.

“Not anymore,” you admit. 

But he understands. “It would’ve been foolish if you hadn’t. I had my suspicions at first too.” 

There was once a time when you swore you were only saying yes to his evening endeavours for your family – acting as an inside spy to what the Zhaos were like, and hoping for James to reveal any useful information you could’ve brought back home. 

But nights quickly began to blur into hours of exploring something else with him, something real. It was so easy to be conjured up in the midnight conversations, where the world was empty save for the two of you. 

“And now?” You ask, another small huff of laughter escaping. 

And now, James wants to take you away from Shanghai. Away from this mess, where he can love you as freely as any man should. He’d ask you to elope tomorrow if he could. 

“Would you let me say it out loud?” James tests the waters.

Your head tilts in confusion. What more was there to say except that the two of you have found a liking for one another? 

Your name again, and then, “I lo-” 

That’s when your eyes widen in realisation. 

“Don’t,” you say suddenly, pressing two fingers on his soft lips. “Don’t spoil it all by saying something stupid.” Your voice is kind though, hoping he knows you’re not stopping him because you don’t feel the same way, but because saying it out loud makes the fantasy you two are in, vanish. Saying it out loud makes it real, with its consequences and all. 

For a few moments more – just a few more if the stars will allow it, you don’t want to be the daughter and son of a Shanghai feud again. You want to stay here, being you and James.

Your eyes are so intensely staring into his own earnest ones, you almost don’t realise he’s kissed the two fingers still on his lips.

“Alright,” he sighs, moving his head back, almost looking like he’s in pain to do so. “I won’t say it, but know that I feel it. I feel it so much, I can’t feel anything else.

The things Juhoon said… I wouldn’t dare to have any ill intentions towards you. I never have… that’s all them.”

“I know, James.” The way you say his name goes straight to his heart again. “I feel it all the same, you have to know that too?”

He had an inkling – a spark of hope, that maybe you had been falling just as fast and hard as he had – but hearing your unspoken way of saying it out loud meant more than he could even process. James’ eyes would fill with tears later that night, when he replays this entire conversation in his head over and over again. You feel it all the same.

And when he remembers how he touches you, and holds you, and whispers sweet secrets for your ears only, it makes him hate his family name even more. Why would the stars be so cruel and keep you from him all this time? 

“No more talk now, let’s go back to dancing.” You say, after an hour of going back and forth with James on what the two of you will do tomorrow, and the day after that, and any time in the future he can make his way to you again. Satisfied knowing you’ll get to at least see him again, you’re longing to go back to being twirled around to the beautiful melodies of these foreign songs. 

James had been absent-mindedly playing with the strands of your hair the entire time you two have been talking, and the way his fingers kept brushing your neck is making you itch to have his hands on you properly. 

Frank Sinatra’s rendition of ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ takes over the room, and other couples have made their way back to the dancefloor too. Before he places one hand on your waist, and takes the other to hold yours, extending them out for a tango-like premise, James presses a kiss to your forehead.

“James! People will see,” you whisper, heart spiking in fear, knowing that eyes are on you two again.

“Let them,” James says simply, placing another kiss on your left eyebrow, and then one on your right cheek – dangerously close to the end of your lips. If he dies tonight, at least he’ll die a satisfied man. “This is how I can tell the world I’m yours.” 

Your body melts into his, like pieces of a puzzle fitting perfectly, and the two of you are off again. Spinning around the lounge, and gliding across the room, his eyes never leaving yours for a second. You were here together now, and that’s all that needed to matter. 

Against the disapproval of your families… of your friends… and of Shanghai, something beautiful is brewing in this helpless city of hatred. Something that you and James don’t dare to admit out loud, keeping these violent delights bubbling between the two of you instead.

And somehow, it’s the most pure and precious love these streets will ever come to see.

( #🫖’s note ) ROMEO SAVE ME THEY’RE TRYNNA TELL ME HOW TO FEEL!!!! THIS LOVE IS DIFFICULT BUT IT’S RE-ALLLLL!!!! what’s up chat 🔥 it has come to my attention that my new readers dont know i’m the biggest james girl to exist. makes sense because i write for martin the most but trust me when i tell you that that yufan guy is never not on my mind 😹 lord half my screentime is me js rewatching edits of him like 😹 if you made it this far… ☹️☹️ thank you so much for reading!! people on twt said that james in the dior suit didn’t hit but they don’t get the vision the way i do. that’s my romeo.

this was for my snoopy: hi queen i am So sorry this took me so long 😭😭 the original idea was following the lyrics of them having a dance and drink or two but i felt like it was a bit too basic 😣 decided to add to the lore to make it a bit more intriguing but now here we are 💀 cortis are sons of shanghai’s gangs in the 60s yasss ok!! 😄💯 lock this girl uppp 😄💯 so it’s a bit different, but i hope you liked it snoopy 😭🤞♥️♥️♥️♥️

[miseulbae]

hi twin + moot in law turned moot 🫶🫶 i have a billion gajillion blogs but i use this one to scream at peoples genius gorgeous brains. ur my newest victim xox BC HOLY SHITTTTT BRO THIS WAS ACTUALLY SO INSANE OF YOU!!!

—

a few lil opening remarks!

this fic was genuinely so beautifully written, from the concept itself to the execution 🤍 i am a huge, huge literature nerd and an absolute sucker for angst! so when you set one of the most tragic love stories of all time against the backdrop of shanghai…oh, miss teacuplps. I’M ACTUALLY GEEKING SO HARD.

oki let’s get into it. mwahaha.

The Zhao family, known for their elegance as the prestigious powerhouse of Shanghai, has only one son, and he’s now a blushing mess in your room. All elegance of prestige thrown out the window he just climbed through

this. THIS RIGHT HERE. god your writing style is actually so scrumptious and i’m kicking myself mentally for not discovering your fics sooner.

i don’t know how to explain it. but the way you write james makes him feel so alive here. sharp and soft and clumsy and nervous and real. which really is an incredible feat and you should be so proud.

“You know that’s not what you call me here. Not when we’re alone,” he sighs, taking a small step towards you but still not yet letting himself make contact.

i started pointing at my screen when i read this part LMAO. this is so completely unrelated to everything else i’m gonna day but this is such a smart way to include both his names !!!

Your mother watches you intently, reaching a cold hand out to take hold of your cheek. “I miss when you weren’t such a grown girl.”  “Easier to control?”  A scowl spreads across her face. “Don’t say horrible things like that

oh, ivy.

this bit may not be that deep, and i’m not sure if it was meant to be interpreted this way or not.

but this small bit of dialogue is giving me flashbacks.

i grew up in a household where my father controlled nearly all areas of my life. not because he was trying to hurt me, but because that was simply how he showed he cared; he thought he could keep me from getting hurt by others if he limited my interaction with the world around me.

some might say it’s a bit too mother gothel-rapunzel-esque. i say it’s the traditional asian household.

but as i grew up, it turned into a dynamic of you can control my life, but you don’t get to know who i am on my end. to put it into simpler terms, as i got older, i grew further and further away the more my dad tried to tighten his grasp over my life. and i see this reflected in the way this interaction is written very much.

the reader’s mother is my father and i am the reader and james is my entire life.

i don’t know if this was meant to be seen in this light, but you made me feel seen.

and i want to thank you for that.

There can’t possibly be somebody, who ever makes him feel as much as you do. Who makes him feel as alive as you do.

this might just be me.

but i think everyone deserves someone who makes them feel alive. and i hope you find someone who makes you feel alive.

“Don’t,” you say suddenly, pressing two fingers on his soft lips. “Don’t spoil it all by saying something stupid.” Your voice is kind though, hoping he knows you’re not stopping him because you don’t feel the same way, but because saying it out loud makes the fantasy you two are in, vanish. Saying it out loud makes it real, with its consequences and all. 

THIS IS SO WELL WRITTEN ITS INSANE.

but the reader has a point, no? (if we ignore the fact that they have the weight of their families and a potential gang war weighing on their shoulders.)

love is scary.

love is so, so scary. because love is different than a crush; you’ll know when you’re in love and when you simply like someone. because instead of being nervous around them, you’re reassured. instead of being unsteady you’re secure. instead of overthinking everything you’ll find you can let yourself shut down around them.

and that’s the scariest part.

that you’ve allowed yourself to fall apart in front of this person, that you’ve given them access to your entire being and you just have to trust them with that wholeheartedly.

but! our dearly beloved reader has chosen the right person to entrust her heart with 🙂‍↕️ me nd who when

—

some misc commentary bc i was giggling and kicking my feet hehe

Without warning, your mother sharply opens your door “Who are you talking to?”

i’m so slow because i JUST realized here that reader’s family and james’ family were the montagues and capulets but UGHHH THIS IS SO DELICIOUSSS

“Then I should make my way up to your room, shouldn’t I?” He tilts his head, never breaking your gaze as he does so. 

MISS IVY IM SCREAMING.

The Zhao family would shudder in disappointment knowing his agility is being used to sneak into your room, but we digress. 

its giving the office vibes

Juhoon lets out a low whistle. “I’m just saying… I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s only hanging around for some ulterior motives. You know what they’re like.” 

juhoon ml pls stfu before i fight you

“I’m sorry about him, James.” You begin. “Thinks he’s my brother or something…”

oh twin BFR 😭😭🙏🙏 JUHOON WANTS YOU ARE YOU BLINDDDD

—

tldr this was very, very lovely to read and i hope you know i will be stalking ur mlist now!

[starriniqhts]

.｡.:*☆ dear. my darling - taesan.

♡ part of the love letters i can't send event by @k-records!

⋆｡°✩ pairing bf!taesan x gn!reader wc 1.776k tw implied character death, unspecified illness genre angst, hurt/comfort, fluff if you squint.

⋆˚꩜｡author's note here is my contribution to the valentine's day event hosted by k-records! jumped on the angst bandwagon bc we can't all be happy on the day of love /j anyway writing this made me tear up at 2 am. enjoy and happy (?) reading <3

⋆˙⟡ synopsis taesan writes letters to his dearest darling - you.

♬⋆.˚ listen to dear. my darling (boynextdoor).

⋆⭒˚.⋆ reblogs + feedback very much appreciated! ^^

letter 01.

dear y/n,

today is the first day of spring.

today will be the first time i welcome your favorite season without you next to me.

it feels surreal, not seeing your smile.

not seeing your messy hair in the morning.

not hearing you say my name, because no one knows how many times i've said yours.

last year, you made me wake up early. you were so excited for such a mundane day, pushing me out of bed into the freezing world only to drag me from park to park to see the flowers about to bloom. you pointed out every tiny bud, tinged sickly green at the bottom and pale shades of pink and yellow and red and orange at the top. the same shades of the countless mugs you kept in the cabinet over the stove.

i had to make you hot chocolate in those mugs when we arrived home soon after. you barely let me wrap my scarf around your neck. of course, you insisted on underdressing for the weather. it’s spring, you said. the season for new beginnings and rejuvenation. you were shaking like a leaf in the wind. did you mean to include the beginning of you becoming your own heater?

i didn’t think so.

you at least wore those socks. i nearly tripped over one of them this morning. the one with tiny strawberries embroidered around your ankle. the one you bought for us to match.

i don’t know where the other one is. did you take it with you?

ah… i started rambling.

i’m sorry.

i’ll keep my next letter short.

today is spring. i thought you’d like to know.

love, taesan.

letter 02.

dear y/n,

taesan junior came by last night.

it felt like he brought all the other stray cats in the neighborhood. the meowing outside the back door was so loud. i couldn’t stand it.

i never quite understood why you christened him with that name. i dont think we look similar at all. just because he’s a black cat and i have black hair doesn’t mean he’s my son. but i’ll humor your requests.

anyway. a part of me wanted to grab the water bowl and fill it up, but it’s dusty. it must be. and i don’t know where it is anymore. i know i said i’d repaint the little fishes on it for you, darling, but i lost it.

or maybe its in one of your boxes. either way, i don’t know where it is.

now that i think about it, maybe i could have dug it out.

but how could i tell them that the one who used to feed them isn’t here anymore?

love, taesan.

(the real one, not the cat.)

letter 03.

dear y/n,

i went to your favorite café today.

i know, i know. even i’m surprised. but jaehyun left so many missed calls, i thought my phone was broken at first. i kind of didn’t want to, but… i dont know why, to be honest.

i put on the cardigan you liked. at least, i think you liked it. you wouldn’t have asked me to wear it so often if you hadn’t, right?

our café has changed a little since i’ve last been here. they’ve put up a menu for their summer drinks now. but the barista didn’t even ask me for my order. she just waved me aside, so i followed her. imagine my surprise when i hear your name being called and your favorite drink sitting on the counter.

i wish you were here to take it.

i hated every second of it, you know? a part of me wants to hate jaehyun too. why did he have to make me go out and do that? he said it was “for your own good,” but i don’t believe him. “you’ve been cooped up in your apartment forever”? no, i haven’t. he’s lying just to get me to do this. it hasn’t been months, right? it hasn’t been months since you left me. he’s lying.

i wish you were here.

love, taesan.

letter 04.

dear y/n,

our home is so cold without you.

i miss you.

i wish you’d come back to me.

why did you have to go somewhere i can’t follow?

love, taesan.

letter 05.

dear y/n,

i cut my hair earlier today. it was around the same length as when we dyed it red. do you remember that? i do. you chose the color after seeing the leaves outside. we stayed up until 4 am that night, and we played music the entire time. we were so tired, but we did it anyway. we were laughing so much. you were so tired. i taught you how to tango. you almost slipped on the bathroom tiles, from the bit of water that spilled when you were wetting my hair. i reached out and took your hand to steady you, and i could feel you shaking.

i think i knew, even then.

i didn’t want to admit it to myself, maybe. it was so warm and cozy in our little sanctuary, but your hands shook ever so slightly, the entire night. when you were combing my hair and brushing dye over silver foil. was that the start of it all? i don’t know. i guess i’ll never know.

i could feel you shaking, and i think i told myself that i was just imagining things. i think i told myself that a lot, during those last few months. i’m just imagining, i’m just overthinking, it’s not that serious. it made sense. after all, you were fine, right? you were fine. you were happy and laughing and dancing to music in the middle of the night in our bathroom with me, and all i could think of in that moment was how i wanted to hear your laugh for the rest of my life. see your smile, see the brightness in your eyes even if it was just from the flickering fluorescent lights that the previous tenants left when they moved out. it looked like the stars, darling. you looked like you had the stars of the entire universe in your eyes, and i wanted to be a telescope peering up into the vast beauty of the sky.

the stars in the sky are in the past, after all.

maybe i still can.

love, taesan.

letter 06.

dear y/n,

tomorrow is the first day of spring.

taesan junior is sitting on the porch beside me.

he’s gotten so big now. you would have loved to see him. he’s all fluffy and chubby. i wonder who has been feeding him. surely it’s someone like you, full of life and love that never stopped giving to everyone around them.

sometimes i wonder if you gave so much that there wasn’t enough left for yourself.

you shouldn’t worry too much, though. i don’t think about things like that too much anymore. i’ve been spending more and more time with the boys. it was a bit awkward at first, i’ll be honest. but i think we’re getting closer and closer to how we used to be.

they all miss you very much.

i do too.

but i also look at the stars and passing stray kittens and blooming flowers and i can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, a small part of you will always stay with me no matter where you are. i think i like that idea. it’s a bit different from how i used to think, but it feels comforting.

i also found your letter yesterday. the one you left me. that was a very clever hiding place, darling. but i suppose it would have taken me this long even if it was right in front of my face.

anyway. i read it.

i just stared at this paper for five minutes. i don’t quite know what to say.

how about this: you don’t have to worry. i’ll be okay. it will take me a while, but i’ll be okay. and i know you’re okay, too.

that’s all for now. i’m running late to meet sungho and leehan, actually. i just wanted to tell you that i love you too, darling. i love you and i’ll watch the buds bloom for you.

love, taesan.

epilogue.

dear taesan,

hi, my love. ignore the shaky handwriting, please… writing this around an iv stuck in your arm is surprisingly more difficult than i thought it would be. but i have faith that you’ll be able to decipher these words. you’ve always been the one who understands me best.

can you understand that i have to leave too?

i worry about you so much. honestly, more than i worry for myself. you work so hard to take care of me, making sure i’m well rested and fed and happy, that i worry you forget to take care of yourself. when i’m not here, will you let everything crash and burn and fall?

please don’t, my love.

i’m writing because this is something i want to tell you in words, but i just don’t know how. when i’m gone, i’ll miss your hugs. i’ll miss your smile. i’ll miss the look in your eyes. i’ll miss breakfast and lunch and dinners with you and cooking and shopping and sleeping and waking up to see your messy hair and the way you kiss me when you’re sleepy and the way you kiss me when you’re mad and the way you kiss me when you want me to feel safe.

you’ve been doing that last one a lot lately.

i’m scared, i admit that. and i know i don’t have that much time left. but i hope that when i’m not here, you won’t be scared to face it alone. you have so much love and support around you. ask jaehyun to get a drink with you from our café. ask riwoo to come and do something artsy with you. ask woonhak to play games with you. or if you can’t ask, i’ll send them telepathic messages to do so. so when they do, accept, okay?

i hope you do. i hope you don’t just sit at home and watch the seasons go by.

speaking of seasons, i wish i could see the spring buds bloom again. we went last year, remember? i dragged you outside, i was so excited that i forgot to bring anything to keep me warm. you gave me your scarf, and then you made us hot chocolate.

i love you so much. i’ll miss you so much.

can you watch the flowers bloom for me?

love, y/n.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ want to check out the planetarium's other exhibits?

٠ ࣪⭑ © starriniqhts 2026, all rights reserved.

[miseulbae]

twin. hey twin. u didnt have to rip my heart out wtf twin.

grief is something that truly changes the course of someone’s lifetime. its hard to learn how to live without someone who very much should be there. but they aren’t.

aylin, this isn’t so much of an analysis as it is a thank you note.

i felt truly seen by this fic, something i believe is so hard to do when writing about topics like this. this piece is a testament to your writing, your ability to touch the hearts of your readers.

because like the length of these letters, grief is not a linear healing process. it comes in waves, some worse than others. and you’ve nailed that perfectly.

today is spring. i thought you’d like to know. but how could i tell them that the one who used to feed them isn’t here anymore? it hasn’t been months, right? it hasn’t been months since you left me. he’s lying. why did you have to go somewhere i can’t follow? but i also look at the stars and passing stray kittens and blooming flowers and i can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, a small part of you will always stay with me no matter where you are. i think i like that idea. it’s a bit different from how i used to think, but it feels comforting. i love you so much. i’ll miss you so much.

i am actually ugly crying so hard rn so i’m going to leave it at that. but thank you, aylin. i really needed something like this.

[kaikaikoi]

WHITE KEYS (& OTHER DEMOS) ; a martin edwards story 🎹 𓂃 💿 #MADE BY kaikai :p

ENTER BEATBYMARS. prodigy, gifted, aimless, misfit— he's heard it all. probably named a song after it or two. but nothing brought him back to earth faster than hearing your laugh months later, in the back of a phonecall with iroha; reds and oranges bleeding through the speakerphone. and it left him floating in the void, slowly pushing out singles in an empty space— that would stir and float, but never quite stick their landing.

﹫since808. he's just 8 minutes old please be kind to him 😓 he's a bit of a mess, responsible for keeping the group chat alive because he can't shut up and nobody has the heart to mute him when he's talking to himself 💀🙏 he sometimes stares at iroha at family events when she's not looking cuz maybe, JUST MAYBE, she'll talk to him after how badly it ended with you 🥹🙏 09's designated punching bag 💯💯💯 but they feel bad for him, so they always ask him to pull up 2 the studio (aka keonhos house) 🔥🔥🔥

﹫prodbym4rs. once he sampled the printer as it choked on crumpled paper. unfortunately he's the shit 😒😒😒 mf knows it too 😒😒😒 he once had his 7 seconds of fame when a YouTuber used a section of his song in a montage 😭😭 he often shows up in the 09's tracks, and every mf knows it's obviously him when he logs into their account to talk shit about one of them 🫩✌️ needs a job

he'd considered so many times actually getting you behind that goddamn mic in his room, wrote so many songs for you, even bookmarked one to send (yeah, on paper). but he didn't really have the medium to translate any of those feelings when it mattered; so they all fell flat when you sat next to him in his room, corner of your toe touching his knee as you focused on your own screen. and hesitation left him to eventually be the only one bouncing his leg, occasionally glancing at the dent on the couch where you were supposed to be sitting.

ENTER 09TWINZ. ﹫hye0nz and ﹫ak_fortyseven

they miss iroha 🫩✌️ bonded with her when they first met at martin's— accidentally 😴🤞 24/7 martin is to blame for how that ended & they never let him hear the end of it. sided with martin when the friend group split (bro-code u catch me) but the longer martin spiralled post-breakup, the more they thought, “did he really just fuck it up like that?” now they be defending your name in the gc like u guys r still 🤞

tag teaming with mars when it comes to dropping tracks. they've probably been the most consistent in terms of musical growth. having observed mars' approach for so long, they often create together in the same room— and they tease him endlessly with, “what if she hears this?” whenever he releases something 😹😹 always talking sense into martin when he genuinely needs to hear it tho 💯💯 (which is like everyday)

once they walked in on martin, clock ticking in the AMs. he was scribbling in the same spot til the paper started to rip, head in his hands, eyes bloodshot, his knees to his chest. they don't talk about it now, but they snatched the pencil and threw a tissue into martin's hands— all three falling asleep, snoring together til 3 PM.

[miseulbae]

ik i don’t usually write shit this early in a series but HELL FUCKING LLO. KAI WE ARE ONLY AT THE PROFILES OK WHY ARE U MAKING ME MICROANALYZE TS ALREADY 😭😭 (i love you mwah)

but nothing brought him back to earth faster than hearing your laugh months later, in the back of a phonecall with iroha; reds and oranges bleeding through the speakerphone.

ok this is not gonna be long PROMISE but guys i have not read a like. genuinely poetic fic for cortis yet and so this is making me very, very hopeful for coerblr 🫶🫶

“but nothing brought him back to earth” HIS PRODUCING MONIKER IS MARS. MARS AND YOU’RE USING SPACE METAPHORS.

“reds and oranges” KAI HIS NAME IS MARS. MARS IS RED AND ORANGE.

space. you’re talking about SPACE and PLANETS and ORBIT and there is already so much to be unpacked here i hate you.

and it left him floating in the void, slowly pushing out singles in an empty space— that would stir and float, but never quite stick their landing.

if reader is the dawn then she is the sun. without the sun, planets have nothing to tether them to anything and will slowly drift throughout the cold, dark vacuum of space.

so what you’re saying is without the reader martin feels lost and the reader is his tether and without her he feels like he has nothing. fuck you.

and rq can we go back to the reader’s profile?

ENTER DAWN. witnessing a sunrise in 6th grade with your late grandfather, you knew DAWN was going to be etched into your brain for the rest of your life. martin often joked how fitting it was that he orbited you, like how the planets orbited the sun. but ever since the breakup, you haven't worked on a track; and most your listeners are wondering if DAWN has already risen for the final time.

planets orbit the sun. martin is mars, reader is dawn, which means that she is the sun and therefore the center of his universe but she’s also the sunrise. not fully present but there just enough for him to feel her warmth, just enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel. but be careful, martin, because look at the wrong time, at the wrong angle, and the sunrise will blind you.

anyways kai i hate you

[kaikaikoi]

AGAIN? THEYRE SHIPPING US (PART FIVE)

READ PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR PART FIVE

ZHAO YUFAN × FEM!READER  ──── fluff, angst, humor ⏝ ﹫kaikaikoi²⁰¹⁶ 🌺‧₊˚. IDOL!JAMES &READER, exes2lovers (includes ocs!!!) <🩹 ⑅.⊹₊ w!!!> mentions of bras, reader wears bras (NOT NSFW) ◜ᴗ◝ ⁝﹕ 𐙚 after a messy breakup, the last thing you wanted was to see your fans shipping you and your (gorgeous) ex once again.

(💭) HAPPY 2016 TO EVERYONE 😛😛😛✌️✌️✌️✌️ finally get to experience 2016 as a teenager #runitback 💯💯 thank u everyone for loving this unplanned series, this is so far the final instalment I'll probably write unless I write bonuses or something small as a spinoff 🥹🙏 luv and appreciate all the love this received 💞 let me know your thoughts please please 🥹💞 I love all your comments and messages it's so so encouraging 💞 enjoyyyy kissy kissyyy

[miseulbae]

this marks the unofficial return of user miseulbae as a fic rec/review/analysis blog because holy moly moly moly MOLY this made me think. like. DEEP SHIT OK.

parts one, two, three : ok ts cutie patootie as fuck. i like.

not as many notes for these parts because i didn’t start crashing out abt this fic until part four but. losing your first love hurts like hell. trust me, i’m literally an expert in “the one that got away” and especially when you end on uneasy terms? lorddddddd it sucks so bad

i’ve been listening to a lot of yearning white girl music lately, but i wish i hated you (ariana grande) comes to mind when i reread these first two parts. the whole concept of “i wish i was the one who hurt you/i wish you were worse to me” is such a painful, horrible rabbit hole to go down. you’re not quite sure if either of you were really in the wrong but clearly something happened for the two of you to end up like this.

and if you never really got over them? LORD YOU’RE IN DEEP SHIT

anyways. yeah this is an smau but it’s really making me FEEL things yk

part four : holy fucking shit

guys. this part WRECKED ME ABSOLUTELY because the writing was actually one of the best i’ve read for an smau. and i’ve read a shit ton of smaus.

what does this author do so amazingly? a lot, actually, especially in this chapter.

──── THE HESITANT COMMUNICATION:

i absolutely love how the communication isn’t just sitting there. like of course for any relationship, good communication is key but the level of hesitance that’s between james and the reader feels not only so real but also so awkward. it’s actually so perfect because ykw hell yeah! catching feelings for someone who broke your heart again is so, so terrifying but when the two of you actually have a chance of getting back together?

man. if i was reader i’d be sobbing on the bathroom floor frfr.

but here you have both of them scared to reach out fully, to trust the other fully again and i just. dude. that’s so fucking beautiful and hats off to you, kai, for pulling this off in a freaking social media au.

──── IT’S NOBODY’S FAULT:

i feel like especially in the kpop fandom, exes to lovers is a hit or miss, because people are quick to write off the previous breakup as someone’s fault or something big that happened that caused them to break up. but here? james was just being a dick, sure, but the two of them were also genuinely drifting apart and communication was shitty from both sides.

and ykw? this is a totally valid reason for people to break up and i feel like it’s not normalized enough. people fall in and out of love all the time, and people also drift apart. they change. they make mistakes, and all of that is normal! it’s human, and sometimes people need breaks in between relationships in order to find their way back to each other.

idk. maybe i’m reading too much into this but i thought it was neat :)

──── DROP THE FORMALITY:

MY ABSOLUTE FAVORITE PART OF THE FIC. JAMES ASKING TO DROP THE FORMALITY WAS A STROKE OF GENIUS ‼️‼️🔥🔥

to paraphrase a recent tiktok of theirs. QUIT BEING NONCHALANT. admitting that you are down bad for people and just being honest about it is SO!! IMPORTANT!!

i have so many friends irl who have either regretted not saying anything or admitted that even though they were rejected, they felt so much better just confessing. are you putting the other person in a bit of an awkward position? maybe, but i wouldn’t be too quick to just give up your comfort for theirs. being honest with yourself ESPECIALLY about matters like these is just so incredibly important and ykw nobody gives a flying fuck if you’re nonchalant about your feelings.

also the entire bit after he said that was so sweet 🥹🥹 i shed a tear (no i didn’t but it’s the thought that counts)

part five : guys ME N WHO WHEN 😭🥀🥀🤧🤧

no seriously 진짜 진짜로 for real bro ME AND WHO WHEN 😭😭🙏🙏🙏 THIS FIC LITERALLY GOT ME YEARNING AND THERES NOBODY TO YEARN FOR BC MY SCHOOL IS FULL OF JS. NOT FINE PPL BOTH 외모 AND PERSONALITY WISE 😭😭😭😭

no but seriously. kai, this might just be a silly little smau for you but this is genuinely such a comfort fic for me and i’m so glad i stumbled upon your blog 🤍🤍 this is so incredibly written and you are such an amazing writer!

[martinflms]

AS LONG AS YOU'RE MINE — martin edwards.

SYNOPSIS with the school production this year being wicked, everybody knows martin edwards is going to land the role of fiyero. however, the last thing anyone expects is for you, the unknown new girl, to land the lead role of elphaba. slowly but surely, you and martin grow closer as opening night approaches, and you both suddenly realise that you actually want this showmance to be something real.

or alternatively, martin edwards wants nothing more than to be your fiyero tigelaar.

GENRE theatre kid! martin x theatre kid! fem! reader, high school au, she fell first he fell harder trope?, smau

TAGLIST closed!

WARNINGS swearing, ignore timestamps

STATUS ongoing, updates every other day

AUTHOR'S NOTE HELLO i'm excited to be back writing smaus again. i'm very wickedpilled and for good changed me (for good). thought of martin and fiyero and boom this came to fruition. send in an ask if you'd like to be added to the taglist! it's going to be a funnn ride <3

PROFILES — kiamo ko / winkie country

ONE — who is this nugu... TWO — winkie prince martin edwards THREE — the perfect elphaba FOUR — the concept of a showmance FIVE — holding space SIX — just two costars! SEVEN — a little too convincing EIGHT — #whatwasthat NINE — secure and happy TEN — poppies ELEVEN — muffin man TWELVE — lowkey dating THIRTEEN — the perfect? plan FOURTEEN — fallen under your spell FIFTEEN — i'm obsessulated SIXTEEN — oh shiz SEVENTEEN — oz's favourite couple EIGHTEEN — changed me for good NINETEEN — congratulotions

[ghoultin]

╋━ MARTIN BF HEADCANONS

i feel like he's the type to create a genuine bond with a person first before dating them

he's not the type to rush into love, he takes time to get to know someone, you know?

and with that i bring you the friends to lovers martin agenda 2025

so, bf martin:

he loves drawing on your arms

at first, it started out as really small doodles on the back of your hand

then he drew a personalized bracelet on your wrist while you two were on the bus and stuck in traffic, which became a tradition every time there's traffic

and then one day, while you're on your phone doing something, he just goes, "can i draw on your arm?" and you went, "of course :D"

he was kinda nervous at first because he really, really wants to impress you, but you noticed and calmed him down a bit

martin seems like the type to keep different colored pens on him so you have #variety

he lets you pick the color/s and asks if you want something specific to be drawn

when you said no and let him have the freedom to do whatever he wants, ohh, he was in the zoneee

sososo cute, he's so focused, his eyebrows were scrunched, and his lips are pursed

when he was done, you were borderline conked out so he was debating whether to wake you up or risk the chance of his hard work potentially scrubbing off onto your white bedsheets

but you woke up on your own when you felt that he stopped drawing on you, so

he was like 😁 it's done now, what do you thinkkkk?

you loved it sm you posted it on pinterest

it was practically a half sleeve with how big it was, and you almost cried when you had to take a shower the next day

he reassures you that it's fineeee he could just draw another one (he was cheesing internally, lol he's probably like, "wow, my drawing meant that much to her, omg omg, i love my gf.")

after that, he got soooo much more creative!! he started bringing skin-safe markers and stuff

on the other hand, he gets so giddy and red and giggly when you're the one drawing on him

he keeps saying things like, "wow, that's so good," "woah, that looks nice," "yo, that's sick"

he's tucking your hair behind your ear and brushing the stray hairs away from your face while you tell him about the drama going on around your school, and he's got this dopey ass smile like 😍

got soooo loud when you were done, he was hooting and hollering and jumping everywhere while flexing (literally and figuratively) his arms

took care of it so dearly he got heated when the boys were chasing him with literal baby wipes and alcohol as a joke

did a fit check picture with his arm out for everyone to see on the elevator mirror (iykyk), and it's one of the most famous pictures of him up to this day

remember the drawing he did on your arm that you posted on pinterest? yeah, someone posted it on twitter alongside the picture of him in the elevator beside it, and the caption goes like, "this is soooo martin coded"

and he trended because, duh

someone brought it up during a live, and he was smiling ear to ear like a dumbass

"martin, were you the one who drew on your arm?"

and he just responds with, "nooo haha, someone did," and does a chad face 🫩

anyways,

he's soooooo casual

hear me out, hold on now

literally the opposite of nonchalant, i know, but he's just so normal and chill about things and so bf

^ the way he puts his arm around the back of the couch when you sit beside him, the hand at the bottom of your spine when walking side by side while leaning down to your level so he could hear you more clearly

hoodies!!! he already owns sooo many of them, but they quadrupled and multiplied the moment the two of you got together

he doesn't even buy it for himself he just goes, "ohh, this is pretty comfy, she's going to love this"

knows all the godly hidden spots and hole in the wall food stalls

but! his favorite is this old tteokbokki stall at the literal end of a night market run by a sweet old lady

you guys went there on your first date, and he took the opportunity to get to know you better while walking the longggg path over there

yes, it was absolutely planned. at first, he was like, "naaah, it's too far. it might not even be worth it for her it's just tteokbokki you know"

but it was THE tteokbokki spot for him, and he thought about how romantic it would be to chat with you while walking

he was imagining k-drama scenes in his head,

"i'm going to go tease her, and then i'm going to run when she gets pissed, and she's going to run after me, and then i'll suddenly stop to catch her in my arms and—"

comes the actual date, and he's literally like "🧍‍♂️hey haha how r u," and you guys walked in silence for a hot minute before he asked you something about music

and then it transpired to whose playlist was better

you arrive at the stall and ordered tteokbokki, right? while you were waiting, you suggested listening to martin's playlist while he listens to yours

he was like, "prepare to lose," and the two of you plugged in your earphones

you were so focused on critiquing his playlist that you didn't notice him looking absolutely dumbstruck by you

but halmeoni did and was like, "ahhh, young love"

martin turned red, and when you're done, you asked him why he's, you know, red, and he just goes, "the tteokbokki's spicy, that's all"

and you teased him for having "low" spice tolerance, and he just lets you

he and halmeoni meet eye to eye when you were just leaving, and she goes and mouths, "take care of her, young man," while holding a big ass spatula

then you guys go to the same spot every monthsary, and the nice old lady started recognizing you both

she goes "aigoooooooo" every time she sees you and asks you if martin's been taking care of you well 🥹🥹

hehe, halmeoni gets happy whenever the two of you visit; she got to see both of you grow more comfortable with each other as time went by, aw

okay, so

photobooths aaaaaaaaa

loves loves loves photobooths

he thought of going to photoboooths with you the night you two started dating and couldn't stop smiling for 3 hours

will turn his head at you the moment he even hears someone walk by and utter the word "photobooth"

your pictures w him during the first few dates were cute and silly poses

now it's just him kissing you (calm down) in 368292 ways and you in his lap (calm down) even though the booth could probably handle three people at once

pictures of you everywhere in the back of his phone, in his phone as a wallpaper, in his wallet, his room, his travel bag, probably underneath his bed as an easter egg for you to find, idk

you guys had your first kiss with each other at a photobooth

you can see in the photo sequence when was the exact moment he asked if he could kiss you

the four-grid photo strip ended with a very cute kiss in the end <33

^^ this is the picture that's on the back of his phone

moving on, i need you to be calm and read the next two bullets with nothing but pure intentions okay

he likes kissing you literally everywhere but your lips (in public, at least)

kiss on the cheek as a greeting, or the occasional kiss on the forehead when he's talking to his friends with his arms around your shoulder, the kiss at the back of your head when he's behind you in a line, a kiss on your knuckles when the two of you are doing nothing

aside from the obvious fact that physical touch is his love language, i thinkkkk he also likes quality time

like you could invite him to lay on your bed and stare at the ceiling, and he'd be like, "this is so poetic, babe"

hugs

bear hugsssss so so warm and comfy

aww, when you're getting teary-eyed in public, he'd ask you if you want to hide that you're crying by hugging youuuuuu

his shirts are always so comfy and smell so nice

i don't know how to explain it, but he smells like,, a man,, okay

blackberry and mix it with a little bit of deodorant and a hint of musk

you always bury your nose in his neck when hugging or cuddling him, and it makes him giggle every time awwwhhh

calls you baby and pretty

called you babe in the first month of your relationship

you called him baby unconsciously once when you asked him to grab something for you

grabs it and gives it to you with a "here you go, baby"

you called him dork once as a joke, and he was like, "ohhh, you're so in love with me, aren't you????????"

now you always call him dork when you're not calling him babe

loves it when you call him tin, but he adores getting called by silly names (ex. dork)

his absolute favorite is borzoi 😭😭😭

it's so special to him because that's his contact name on your phone too

at first, he was like, "hello????" but he just laughed it off afterwards with you when you showed him photos of a borzoi

ooooh, pets

he'd either:

a. absolutely adore them

b. be utterly terrified

if you have a cute and normal pet like a cat or dog, he'd treat them as his firstborn

if you have pet reptiles,,

would be so intrigued with a bearded dragon

he'd kinda joke around with it until beardie started running towards him

and bearded dragons run fast okay

tried to jump into your arms, and you just laughed at him

"heh, you look kinda stupid— babe, BABE"

let's talk snakezzz

screamed when he first saw your ball python

you assure him that no, it's not a random snake that waltzed its way into your room, and that yes, she's completely docile and doesn't bite

"tin, she doesn't bite >:(," "YES IT DO"

^^^ in relation?? HELLO, he'd totallyyyyy be the type to say vine references

his go to is renata bliss, and he'd do the fuckass freestyle dance too 😭😭😭

has a collection of bracelets

including the thin black ones that you could layer, yes yup

he kinda transfers them to your own wrists when you're holding hands :((

i think he has a higher than average spice tolerance, not the highest spice tolerance, but the tolerance is there regardless

loved the takis + cream cheese on a jalapeño food hack

still does it to this day

fave fridge raid munch are pickles with mustard

likes pickles and loves olives

pineapple on pizza believer unfortunately, wbk

he was salivating when he saw the savory snack plate in his fyp and whined in your arms for fifteen minutes when he couldn't find half of the ingredients in nearby lolllllll

unrelated-ish, but he likes mixing ranch with ketchup

made the tiffany plate once, and you both looked at each other after taking a bite of RAW broccoli dipped in mustard and cottage cheese and decided that some trends just aren't meant to be done

had a protein recipe phase dykwim

lists off the ingredients before feeding you anything ever since he accidentally gave you a milkshake with a wholeass egg in it

protein pancakes are a big no. he used too much protein, and it literally turned into rubber

hmmm, i think can cook decently, not the best per se, but he's not completely helpless in the kitchen

needs a recipe if he's making something, that kinda thing

in relation with cooking

he bakes one hell of a brownie, man

genuinely surprised you because it looked store-bought from a bougie french café

and he's like, "haha nooo, i made them!" with a huge chunk of chocolate between his teeth

fudgyyyyy on the inside, and the crust ?????

oh, he would fuck up a seafood boil

peels you shrimps, but he makes them kiss beforehand ???

he’s the opposite of a picky eater so he’s down to eat whatever with you

you joked once that you want to eat those deep fried insects and he starts showing you his literal bucket list of exotic and weird foods he’d like to try

eepy time

loves it when you lay on his chest like

he lets out the biggest satisfied sigh ever then hugs you closer to him

his stomach does that stomach noise where it sounds like something is melting and growling, and the acids in his stomach are mixing together, idk

pretty sure that's normal — but what is not normal is that it only seems to happen a lot when he's with you

he listens to your stomach when he's laying down on your tummy, lol

"woah, babe, that's like the hot sauce and the fries we had earlier" what

knocks the fuck out the moment his head hits your mattress

you coming over to his room is okay, okay. you two do whatever, he recreates the single ladies music video, he makes you laugh, cuddle yadda yadda

him coming over to your room, on the other hand

he just becomes soooooo soft

like everything smells like you, and it's filled with everything you love

cuddling in his bed pales in comparison to laying beside you in your bed alone

it's the vibe, he says

he gets so sleepyyyy don't invite him to do homework in your room the two of you will not finish shit

oh god

imagine him with his head on your stomach, and you're laying down, and you're telling him some kind of story, right?

and he just replies with those "hmm" and and

you could feel it in your stomach, his voice vibrates through your body

and his arms are around you, and he's clutching onto you like you're something precious

(you are)

[shy9-29]

The Love Letter I Never Sent — z.yf

“my first with him, he already had his with her,” — to all the boys I loved before

✦ You didn’t mean for the letter to send, but it somehow did—and now, he slipped into all the little corners of your life where no one else ever stayed. Unfortunately, you can’t shake the feeling that “you can’t be mad at someone for breaking your heart — it means they loved you in the first place.” Every moment with him feels like something new, something real, something dangerously close to a first you’ll never get back. But falling for him means risking everything… including the parts of yourself you’re scared to show. || pairing: soccer!player James x reader ✉️ wc: 14.9k

‼️ warnings: emotional conflict, jealousy, slow-burn romance, miscommunication, teen angst, mild language, relationship tension, harsh language, making out, pet names

💌 a/n: requested! thank you so much for this idea. I actually didn’t watch the movie so I had to reinstall Netflix and binge watch the first two 🥲.

James has you pressed against the wall before you can breathe, his body hot and solid against yours like he’s been dying to get his hands on you.

He pulls his shirt off in one swift motion. Muscles flexing, stomach tightening and the second he catches the way your eyes linger, his mouth curls into a dirty, knowing smirk.

“Yeah?”

His voice drops, low and cocky.

“You like that don’t you?”

Your thighs clench without permission. You nod, helpless. He slides a hand down your waist, fingers dipping under your waistband, brushing heat, barely there, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he laughs softly, lips dragging along your jaw. “Look at you—so pretty.”

His thumb presses against your clothed pussy, firm enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You gasp, a quiet, desperate sound, and he eats it from your mouth as he kisses you hard, tongue pushing past your lips like he owns the right. Your back hits the wall again.

His hips grind into you, slow and deliberate, the thick shape of his cock rubbing exactly against the spot that makes your knees buckle.

“Thought you’d break for me this easy,” he mutters against your mouth. His fingers slip lower “Let me hear it.”

“J-James.. I-“

You jolt so hard the pen flies out of your hand.

You’re instantly pulled back from your fantasy—heat to ice water in a heartbeat.

“Y/n?” your dad calls, voice muffled through your bedroom door. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Your sister will set the table today.”

You slap your palm over the letter like you’re hiding a crime scene. “I—I’ll be down in a sec!”

Your voice cracks. Horribly. Clearing your throat, you try again. “Yeah! Just—uh—finishing something!”

Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Silence drops. Then the fright hits you. You stare down at the paper. At the graphic, thirsty disaster you apparently wrote while possessed by a sex demon.

“Oh my fucking god.” You grab the paper in both hands, crumpling it so fast it practically crunches like aluminum foil.

“What is wrong with you, Y/n?” You fling the balled-up letter toward the overflowing trash can. It bounces off the rim and lands on the floor like it’s mocking you. Of course it misses. Even your garbage has better aim than your life. A waste of paper and your time. You bury your face in your hands and groan into your palms.

“He doesn’t even know you exist,” you mutter, pacing once, twice, like that might shake the embarrassment off. “How stupid do you have to be writing porn about James!”

James, the school’s most popular student who also happens to be in the soccer team. James who probably doesn’t know you exist and has a girlfriend. Or situationship. Or whatever the hell Amy counts as.

You drop back into your desk chair, heart still racing from the stupid fantasy. A mixture between wetness and heat still clings to your skin in places you wish it didn’t.

“This is insane,” you whisper to the ceiling. “Actually insane.”

You grab another sheet of paper, intending to write something normal. Something sane. Something not involving walls and grinding and his stupid smirk.

The page stays blank. Your hand trembles slightly. You shove it away and stand up.

“Dinner,” you tell yourself. “Food. Air. Brain reset. No… horny… writing.”

You take one step toward the door. Then stop. Then glance at the trash pile, the paper mountain you swore you’d never let anyone see.

One of them shifts from the movement of your fan. A small, sinking feeling hits your stomach. You really need to get a better trash can. Or maybe a shredder—no! Therapy. But first: dinner.

You yank open your bedroom door before you can psych yourself out again. And somewhere in the back of your head—the part you hate the most—James’s voice from your imagination lingers like smoke: Yeah? You like that?

You swallow hard.

“Shut UP,” you whisper to absolutely no one. You go downstairs anyway.

You drift down the stairs the minute the kitchen smells like something worth living for again. Your sister Annie is figuring out how her new phone works that she got for her thirteenth birthday recently. Your dad has his elbows on the counter, the kind of casual that says he’s trying to be chill but actually means business.

“You okay?” he asks between ladles of sauce. He always asks when you look a little too quiet. 

You shrug and grab a roll. “Yeah. Fine. Hungry.”

He’s stirring the pot and watching you like someone trying to read the news in a window reflection. “You’re eighteen, Y/n. That means you should try opening up to people a little. Join a club, meet someone new. Don’t close yourself off to the same circle forever.”

You give him the eyebrow. “You mean Bella?”

“Bella’s great,” he says, tone is deliberately even. “But reliable isn’t everything. You have this… tendency to tuck yourself away. Try something that rattles you.”

“Bella is the most reliable person one could ever know,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of you. Suddenly, the words slide into the hollow place where your thoughts live and rattles something loose. Open up. Rattle. Shake. It’s stupid, obvious, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, it feels like the exact sentence you needed to hear.Before your dad can say anything else, you quickly get up from your seat.

“Honey- where’re you going?!” Your dad asks, your sister’s gaze following his. You don’t answer him. There’s no time for that. Sitting at your desk with your lamp low, you carefully grab another slip of paper.. You’ve always been the type to catalogue everything. Feelings, small humiliations, the way your chest tightens when you see James in the hallway, into the soft, safe pages of your diary. But you ran out of pages two days ago. You didn’t throw the journal away; you just taped the spine and pretended that was a solution. Now the spine is a Band-Aid and your life is still leaking.

So you do something slightly insane. You write a letter. A letter to James that you’re obviously not going to send. But you’re not going to send it—fuck no. You might be crazy but not to that extent. Instead, this letter will just fulfill your delusions, knowing you’re too much of a pussy to actually go talk to him. 

Plus, James as Amy. A girl that’s ten times prettier than you. Even if the letter was sent, it wouldn’t do anything but humiliate her. You sit down and you write like the instruction are pressed into your ribs. 

Dear James,

I don’t know what kind of courage is even required to put this into paper and not just into the soft pulp of my diary where it will sit forever and never hurt anyone but me. I’m out of pages. I like to pretend that’s why this is happening, but really it’s because your face keeps crowding the edges of the life I think I should lead and I am tired of pretending nothing has changed.

I’m writing this because my dad said something tonight about opening up, and for once his advice didn’t annoy me. It lit the part of my chest that likes to tell the truth. Usually, I tell myself the truth in tiny, private scribbles. I tuck things away in notebooks and call it safety. But safe is starting to feel smaller than the way my thoughts about you try to grow.

So here it is: I like you. Not the kind of like that’s polite and fits into a yearbook quote. The kind of like that rearranges the soundtrack in my head and makes dumb songs sound like they were written for mornings when you’re still asleep beside me. I like the way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the field. I like the way your that little pout you make when you miss your shot during your soccer practice. I like the scar on your thumb. I notice the ways you look at nothing and I wonder if you’re keeping a private joke with yourself.

I don’t expect anything. I’m not asking you to change your life, and I’m not asking you to break anything open to fit me inside. I’m just telling you the shape of my heart as honestly as I can. If you look back and you don’t feel anything close, that’s okay. I’ll make more pages. I’ll close my hands around the feeling and let it be pretty and lonely and mine.

If by some impossibility you feel even a fraction of this, if you ever want to talk in the quiet and not for show, I’d like that. If you want to laugh and make terrible jokes and steal fries off my plate, I’d like that too. If you want to touch me and find out how the rest of me holds together like how you do with Amy—well. I want that too, but more than anything I want you to be honest with me the way I’m trying to be honest with you now.

— Y/n

You read it back and feel twelve whole things at once — proud, mortified, relieved, as well as questioning your life decisions. You fold it carefully like it it’s an explosive and slide it into an envelope. You address it with your own hand: Zhao Yufan, his legal name. Under his name, you scribble the address you only learned after realizing he lives six houses down. You seal the flap, press it flat like a bandage, and set the envelope on your nightstand.

You think about putting it in the diary, or a secret drawer, or burning it in the tiny metal box you use to store old receipts, but something about the whole open up thing makes you stubborn. This one you want to feel like it could be sent. So you tuck it under a small stack of textbooks on the nightstand, slide a pen across it like you’re filing it into safety, and tell yourself you’ll shower, you’ll calm down, you’ll decide tomorrow whether you actually post it or not.

You strip and step into the shower, the hot water hitting your skin in a rhythm that slows the part of you that wants to panic. Steam climbs the glass and you lean your forehead against the wall and breathe. You imagine the envelope still on the nightstand where you left it, protected by the textbooks like a little fort.

You shampoo and rinse and think of nothing and everything and finally step out, towel-wrapped and lightheaded. You cross your room, expecting the envelope to be exactly where you left it. But you don’t see it.

You assume you put it somewhere else—under a different stack, in a drawer you forgot about, safe. That makes you breathe easier. You make a mental note to check after you put your hair up. Only thing is you don’t get the chance. As soon as you lay down on your bed, you’re fast asleep.

—

Morning punches you in the face the moment your alarm shrieks. You bolt upright with that weird post-shower fog still clinging to your brain, and then the memory hits you like a shovel: The letter.

“Shit—” You stumble out of bed, hair a disaster, sleep shirt twisted around your waist as you lunge toward the nightstand.

Textbooks: check. Pen you left on top: check. Envelope? Not check. You flip the books. Nothing. Just kill me.

You yank open the drawer. Receipts, scrunchies, a rogue stick of gum. Oh—there’s your favourite lip gloss you lost in eighth grade. No envelope.

You drop to your knees and check under the bed like the letter might be hiding out of spite. Nada. 

“Okay, no. No no no—” Your voice rises, scrapes, breaks. You tear through your desk. Under the lamp. Behind your laptop. In your laundry basket like you’re truly losing it.

It’s gone.

You freeze so hard your breath forgets what it’s supposed to be doing. For a full five seconds you just stand there, staring at the nightstand like it personally betrayed you.

“Y/N! You’re gonna make Annie late!” your dad yells from downstairs.

Jesus Christ. Of course the universe picks today to make you a missing-letter fugitive.

You slap on makeup with the precision of a maniac, yank on loose jeans, absolutely forget deodorant, and sprint out the door with Annie trailing behind you.

She’s eating a Pop-Tart like nothing is wrong in the world. “Can you walk faster?” you hiss.

“You woke me up late,” she mumbles around strawberry filling. “This is your fault.”

She’s not wrong, and it only makes you want to scream into a pillow. “Actually, you could have set an alarm on your phone,” you say defend yourself. “What’s the point of having a phone if you can’t put it to use?” Annie rolls her eyes. The whole walk to her school, your brain is doing a full Olympic-level panic routine.

You drop Annie off—barely hearing her bye—and then you’re speed-walking toward your school like your life depends on it. Which, honestly? It kind of does.

Inside the hallway, it’s the usual teenage circus. Lockers slamming. People laughing too loud. Someone aggressively spraying Axe body spray like they’re trying to fumigate the building.

And then, you see him. James. He’s leaning against his locker, talking to Jihoon and some really tall guy, hair falling over his forehead in that stupidly soft way that makes your chest squeeze. He wipes his bangs aside with his knuckles and you swear your soul leaves your body like you’re some Victorian child witnessing the beauty of art for the first time. 

Your feet keep walking but your eyes stay glued to him as you’re now walking backwards somehow—hey, is it just you or did he bleach his hair blondish orange?

“Ouch! Watch where you’re going.”

Your shoulder ricochets off a wall of person, and a sharp, irritated gasp snaps you back to reality. “Hi Amy.”

Believe it or not, you and Amy were best of friends back in middle school until popularity took over her. Her brown wavy hair is perfectly glossy. Her skin is so flawless it looks like someone airbrushed her in real time. She’s applying a swipe of lip gloss with one hand and glaring at you like you just stepped on her dog with the other.

“Oh, it’s just you,” she snaps, pursing her lips as she caps the gloss. “Some of us actually care about how we look in the morning.”

Heat floods your cheeks, crawling up your neck. You mutter, “Sorry,” but it comes out thin and squeaky—humiliating.

Her eyes flick over you, slow and critical, before she glances past your shoulder toward James—her whole expression softening instantly, like flipping a switch.

You try your hardest not to look. It would be very embarrassing to do so. But you do.

James is watching. Not glaring. Not smirking. Just watching with that unreadable, calm expression he always gets when he’s trying to figure something out. His friends are waving their hands in front of his face to catch his attention. 

Your stomach drops to your toes. Because for one terrible, dizzy moment, you wonder if that letter got somewhere it shouldn’t. You swallow tightly.

This day is already hell. And it’s only 8:07 AM. 

You don’t even get three steps down the hall before Bella materializes beside you like she teleported straight out of loyalty. Her ponytail bounces while her iced latte sloshes, eyebrows already raised. “I saw that, by the way,” she says.

You groan into your hands. “Please. Please, Bella. Don’t.” Bella wiggles her brows. “You full-on stared at him like he was Michelangelo’s David, and then you—what was that? Moonwalked into Amy?”

“Let’s. Not. Talk about it.” You want to crawl inside your hoodie and never come out. Bella laughs so hard she snorts. “Okay, fine. But holy crap, you’re lucky she didn’t claw your face off.”

You don’t tell her about the letter. God, no. Bella is your ride-or-die, but even she doesn’t deserve to carry that radioactive emotional grenade.

The day crawls by at the pace of a wounded snail. Class, class, pretend to take notes, class. After school, you follow your usual routine: cut through the side field, slip past the bleachers, and make your quiet little trail toward the soccer field.

It’s stupid. SO stupid. But watching the practices has always been… calming? Or maybe masochistic. Hard to tell. They’re already running drills. Cleats thudding. Shouts carrying. 

And there he is, James, wearing the neon-pinnied version of perfection. He’s quick. Controlled. Focused. The way his legs move is ridiculous. He spins the ball like it’s attached to him by secret magnets.

Usually Amy’s on the bleachers, cheering him on with her friends. But today there were no signs of her being no where near this field. Strange. You wonder where she is. That should make you feel relieved. It doesn’t.

For once, James isn’t playing like you’re invisible. Because suddenly, he sees you. Actually sees you. His brows knit. His chest rises, pauses. And before you can process what’s happening, he jogs off the field. Then he’s running. Running toward you.

Panic detonates in your ribcage.

No. No no no no—

He stops way too close. Close enough that you smell him—clean, sharp, expensive. Something like cedar and citrus and everything you absolutely should not like.

“Hey,” he says, breath still catching from the run. “Y/n? Is that your name?” You freeze. He rubs the back of his neck. Looks down for a second. Then back at you.

“I see you watching the games sometimes and I, uh… got your note.”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. If a doctor checked you right now, you’d be declared clinically dead. “I just—” he swallows hard. He’s awkward. He’s never awkward. “I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring it.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward the field like he wishes someone would rescue him.

“Listen… I just got out of a breakup. Like. Recently.” He laughs once, dry and not very funny. “And… I don’t even know you. So I can’t—it wouldn’t be fair. Or right. You know?”

“Then get to know me.” That’s what you want to say. Instead you nod slowly. Or maybe you physically malfunction. Hard to tell. He gives you this tiny, apologetic half-smile that somehow hurts worse than being stabbed.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. And then he jogs back onto the field like he didn’t just smash your chest open with his bare hands. You stand there frozen long enough that a stray soccer ball rolls by your foot and you don’t even flinch.

James looks even better up close. And yeah he smells like something expensive. Something that makes your stomach twist. You were never supposed to know that. You swallow, throat tight. It’s the start of the new school year and this day was- well... You’re not sure there’s even a word for it.

The next few days are awkward as hell.

You avoid his locker like it’s a landmine. You walk a little faster in the halls. How the hell did he get his hands on your letter in the first place? If your brain had a mute switch, you would’ve used it. Bella notices and gives you the exact look that says tell me everythingwithout actually making you talk.

You don’t tell her anything. Not about the letter, and about how your stomach clenches when he passes.

One afternoon you cut across the field and freeze halfway, because there they are, the once infamous couple arguing in that tense whisper that looks loud from a distance. Amy’s hands are animated, her face flushed in that way people get when they think they’re right and are also angry. James is calm but tight; his jaw works like he’s chewing on something heavy. You don’t hear words. You only see the body language: Amy stepping closer, James stepping back. The rest of the team keeps practicing around them like it’s normal to be emotionally shredded in the middle of drills. Maybe this happens a lot? Expect this time, they’re arguing as exes, not as a couple.

Three days later, you’re sitting with Bella like every other lunch school-day—salad in front of you, two conversations happening at once. “Hey,” Bella starts, “you think that I could fit three French fries up one nostril?”

You barely get two fries into your mouth before a shadow falls over your lunch table. Bella freezes mid-sip of her iced latte. Her eyes go huge. “Um… incoming.” You turn slowly, like your neck is rusted, praying it isn’t who you think it is. 

James. Hands in pockets. Hair slightly damp from gym. Looking like a walking problem. You could recognize his cologne from miles away.

“Y/n,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk?” Bella nearly breaks her own neck nodding. You shoot her a warning look, but she just winks. Or tries to. It looks more like a seizure. You follow James out to the side courtyard, heart punching your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Did he see you eves dropping on him and Amy’s argument? Or even worse—he somehow got a hold of that piece of paper you wrote a whole entire smut scene of you and him on. No. There’s no way that’s possible. But the letter- shut up y/n.

Finally, he stops by a bench and shifts his body awkwardly. You brace yourself for whatever’s coming.

“Okay, so… about what I said a few days ago.” Deep breath. “I changed my mind,.”

You blink. Not once. Not twice. About twelve times. “I’m sorry—what?” He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “Amy found out I talked to you the other day.” His eyes flicker to you. “And she’s… not handling it well.” You say nothing. Your brain is buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “So,” he continues, “she’s convinced I’m into you. And she’s trying to make me jealous by flirting with every guy in our grade. Which is…” He grimaces. “Annoying.”You’re staring at him, blank-faced, because what else are you supposed to do? “So if she thinks you and I are together,” he finally says, “she’ll calm down. And maybe she’ll want to get back together. It’s just… easier this way.”

Ah. There it is.

It’s not because he suddenly sees you. It’s not because your face lives rent-free in his mind the way his does in yours. It’s because you’re convenient and somehow read the stupid love letter you were going to keep to yourself and through away after a few days. 

You swallow, throat scraping. “So you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend… so your get back together?” He nods, relieved you understand. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You take your time thinking—way longer than necessary, honestly. But you’re not stupid. Fake dating James? James, whose face makes your brain glitch? James, who already thinks you confessed some weird crush? Why the hell wouldn’t you?

“Fine,” you say eventually. “I’ll do it.” His whole body loosens like he’s been holding tension since August. “Thank you. Seriously. Okay, uh… we should follow each other on Instagram.”

Shit. 

He pulls his phone out. You do the same—hesitantly. “It’s @y_notn?” He repeats, typing the username into Instagram, then clicking onto your page. You see his lips form a smirk. “You’re already following me I see.” You cheeks match the color of his shoes.

He types fast. “I’ll tag you in my bio. You can tag me in yours too.” Your pulse jumps but you nod in agreement anyways.

He pockets his phone again. “Meet me after practice today. Same field as always.” He gives you a small smile that’s entirely too soft to be legal. “I assume you know what time that is.” Like you haven’t literally watched every practice he’s had since school started.

You nod, trying not to implode. “Yeah. I know.”

“Cool.” He steps back, gives you a once-over that feels like a warm hand on your spine. “See you then, Y/n.” When he walks away, you realize you’re not breathing. You’re not sure you’ll ever breathe normally again.

Bella ambushes you before you even sit down. She’s practically vibrating with questions, textbooks forgotten in her hand.

“So spill. What did you two even talk about? Why is he talking to you when he has a—what is she—Amy? What the freak is going on?” Her eyes are all sharp curiosity and that ridiculous, fierce-protective thing only best friends get. You do the only mature thing you can think of: play it cool. “It’s nothing,” you say, which is still a lie and also technically not. You haven’t explained anything to anyone, not even to yourself.

Bella doesn’t buy it for one second. “Nothing? Y/n. You’ve been crushing on that guy ever since I’ve known you. Do you know how dramatic that was? Spill.”

You fold your fork over your lips. “He said some stuff. Nothing huge.” You focus on making your voice flat, unimpressed, as though your heart didn’t vault into your throat and refuse to come down two hours ago. She leans in until her face invades your space. “Did he… break up with Amy?”

You stare at her. The question feels like a live wire. “Yeah,” you say before you can stop it. “They—he said they broke up.”

Bella’s jaw drops so hard you’d think she swallowed a stone. “And you didn’t tell me? Am I not your best friend anymore or what?” She half-pleads, half-accuses. You laugh because panic tastes weird and small. “I didn’t know until this week, B. Chill. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be the person who screams and jumps on him or whatever you do when you’re extremely dramatic.”

She pouts, not actually mad. “Wait—so was he talking to you because he likes you or something and wants to move from Amy?”

It takes you a moment to respond. “It’s… complicated,” you say, and she deflates into a theatrical sigh. “I’ll keep you updated for sure.”

Later, after classes pretend to move slower than molasses. You go to the side courtyard like you promised. He’s there early, hands in pockets, looking like he walked out of a billboard and then stole your ability to breathe. He waves you over like he’s practiced casualness in a mirror.

“So,” he says, hands folded like he’s bracing for feedback as you two settle down on a nearby bench. “About us.”

You swallow. “About us.” Something you thought you’d never hear come out of his mouth, This is ridiculous. Then you remind yourself why you’re here in the first place.

He exhales. “I should make—uh—parameters. Boundaries. Whatever you want to call them..” He looks earnest. Which is both disarming and scalding.

“Okay,” you say. “No kissing. No… anything farther.” You say it like you’re filing a restraining order against your hormones. Your cheeks heat up right after you say it, like you’ve exposed your soul in public.

He gives you a genuinely confused look. “What’s so wrong with kissing?” You look at him and feel stupid and stubborn and painfully sincere. “I want my first kiss to mean something. I don’t want my first kiss to be a prop in someone’s plan. I want it to be because of… feelings. Real ones.”

He studies your face. For a second you think he’s scoffing. Instead he looks surprised, like he expected something else out of you entirely. “So you’re saying you’ve never kissed anyone? You don’t seem like a first-kiss kind of person,” he says, like it’s an observation, not an accusation.

You don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment. “I’m not,” you say. “I just… want one that matters.”

He nods slowly, and shockingly, he takes it in. “Okay. No kissing,” he repeats. “No making out. No—anything. Got it. I was looking forward to that part though.” That last sentence makes you look up immediately. He lets out a “oh look at you, you feel for it,” laugh. Of course he didn’t mean it.

“And pet names? Like, are we team ‘babe’ or are we staying sane?”

You sigh. “Pet names are allowed but No PDA that crosses boundaries. Hand-holding okay. Quick pecks on the cheek—fine, but only if it’s not humiliatingly dramatic in front of Amy.”

He snorts at that, and for a moment the tension loosens. “Dates?” he asks. James going on a date with you? You want to poke yourself to make sure this isn’t all just a dream.

“Sure.”

You actually grin, and it feels like a defect in your usual composure. This is insane. You’re literally negotiating love like it’s a group project. He hesitates, then asks, “Can I—uh—pick you up to school? Like, to drive you? Make things look… convincing.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I walk my younger sister to school,” you say. “So no.” He brightens, thinking on his feet. “I can drive her too. Drop them both off. Make it seem legit.”

You gape. “You’d drive my twelve-year-old sister to school?” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Less awkward than you explaining a fake boyfriend every morning.”

“Wow,” you say, simultaneously mortified and oddly touched. “That’s… actually kind. Okay, maybe.”

“And—if you want—I can drive you home now,” he adds. “Make it easier. Practical.” You almost laugh because this feels exactly like a dream for someone else and not like your actual life. But then you see his eyes dart—just for half a beat—toward the tree line at the edge of the parking lot. Amy. 

He looks back at you and, without missing a beat, pulls you closer. His hand rests on the small of your back, which feels equal parts possessive and protective. His other hand ghosts over your arm, fingers light, claiming. “Smile,” he whispers into your ear, breath hot and soft and ridiculous.

His hands wander like they’re memorizing the geography of you—over your shoulder, along your ribs—nothing obscene, just bordering on intimate enough to make your teeth ache.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.” He makes sure to emphasize on the baby part so it’s loud enough for Amy to hear. The pet name lands heavy in your chest.

He slides his fingers into yours and leads you toward the parking lot. Your sneakers scuff the concrete. Maybe the letter getting sent out wasn’t as bad after all. But then you remember this is all an act. James doesn’t actually like you. And once he’s back with Amy? You don’t even want to think about it.

You find the car before you recognize it. Low, polished, the kind of car that hums quietly like it was born rich. Leather seats. Chrome that catches sunlight like it’s showing off. You knew he was from money, but you’d never actually seen it up close like this.

He opens the passenger door for you with a theatrical little bow that somehow feels oddly considerate. “Hop in,” he says, and for a second the world narrows to leather and the faint plastic smell of air freshener and the rapid, stupid beating of your heart.

You climb in, and as the engine starts, you wonder which part of your life is a fever dream and which part, if any, is real.

James pulls up in front of your house like he’s done this a hundred times, like this is just routine for him now. The car quiets, he taps the steering wheel once, and turns toward you.

“Thanks for driving me,” you say, suddenly shy for no reason except he’s looking at you like that. You try to keep your smile contained, but it still slips out, tiny and embarrassing.

He catches it immediately. “Cute,” he says under his breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He clears his throat, hoping you didn’t hear him slip. 

“So this is where y/n lives? Didn’t know you lived a couple houses down from me.” You smile and reach for the door handle, trying to act like a normal functioning human being, when he stops you with a soft, “Y/n—wait.”

You blink at him. “Yes?” He holds up his phone. “Can I take a picture of us holding hands? For my Insta so Amy can see.” You swear you felt something real between you two until he snapped you back to reality. “Like… right now?”

“Yeah.” He extends his hand, palm up, waiting. “C’mon.”

You place your hand in his because what else are you supposed to do? Say no? Die? Teleport? His fingers lace through yours, warm and soft, and your whole bloodstream turns into electricity. You feel your body heat up. This is your first ever physical contact with him.

He lifts his phone with the other hand and pulls your joined hands closer to the console where the lighting is better. Of course he knows his angles; he’s literally James.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. You do. He snaps the picture the moment you meet his eyes, like he wants you in the frame even if you’re only visible in the reflection of the screen. 

After the photo is taken, he stares at it for a quick second. Call yourself delusional but you swear you saw him holding back his smile. After tagging you, he uploads it instantly. Your heart legitimately forgets how to beat.

“Great,” he says, dropping your hand slowly, almost reluctantly. “Text me when you’re inside.”

“S-sure,” you mutter, stumbling over your own voice like a clown. You climb out of the car. He waits until you’re at the porch before he pulls away, tires rolling smooth and silent like he didn’t just flip your entire life upside down.

You walk in, still clutching the warmth of his hand like an idiot who’s never known happiness before. Your dad glances up from the kitchen, eyes narrowing with that suspicious dad-squint. “Someone’s smiling.” You almost choke. “I’m not—I’m literally—I wasn’t—”

He laughs. “Alright, alright. I’m not interrogating you. How’d you get home so fast?”

Panic rushes through your veins. “Uh. Bella’s brother drove us. We were going the same way.”

Lie. Instant lie. Horrible lie. Bella doesn’t even have a brother. You want to fistfight yourself.

“Huh,” your dad says, not looking convinced but not digging either. “Alright, well—oh! Before I forget.” He stands, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and smiles like he’s about to tell you something wholesome. Instead he says the single worst sentence you’ve heard in your entire life. “I forgot to tell you this but I saw that letter on your desk last week and helped mail it for you, honey.” Your stomach hits the floor. You swear your vision goes white around the edges.

“What—what letter?” You hear your own voice crack like a broken flute.

“The envelope under those textbooks on your desk thst was addressed to one of our neighbours? I figured it’d save you and I less time because I was stopping by the post office anyways,” He beams, proud of himself.

You cannot breathe. So that’s how James got your note. The letter that was literally your unhinged, handwritten, half-fantasy confession about James. The one you should have burned. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice tiny and hoarse. 

You bolt up the stairs the second you’re free, close your bedroom door with the gentlest click ever because of course tonight is the night you suddenly care about door volume, and just… collapse. Face-first into your bed. You don’t even bother turning the lights on.

Your body is still buzzing, like James’s handprint is burned into your skin. Your heart keeps replaying the whole car scene at 8K resolution, IMAX, Dolby Atmos, every upgrade possible.

James and Amy? Over. James talking to you? Actually real. James fake dating you? Also real. You? Completely malfunctioning.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Because the thing is, it’s fake. He asked for to take the picture for Amy, not because he wanted it for himself. He’s James. He dates girls who look like they stepped out of a perfume commercial. You literally tripped over air in homeroom last week.

Still… your chest squeezes around this tiny, dangerous wish. You wish it wasn’t fake, how he meant the way he looked at you in the car, and the warmth in his hand wasn’t just acting. But whatever. That’s not your life. Guys like him don’t like girls like you. You know that. You’ve always known that.

Next morning starts off painfully normal, which is honestly rude given the way last night cracked your brain open. You drag yourself out of bed, brush your teeth while half-asleep, pull on a hoodie that still smells vaguely like laundry detergent and despair, and braid Annie’s hair while she wiggles like a caffeinated squirrel.

“Hold still,” you mutter, trying to tame the last strand. “I am holding still,” she says, not holding still. You finally get her ready, grab your bag, and step out of the building with her hand in yours. It’s quiet outside, cool enough to wake you up a little. The walk to her school is familiar, easy, predictable.

Your brain needs predictable right now. You’re three blocks down before a car honk breaks the morning calm—one sharp, deliberate beep.

You and Annie both turn at the same time.

James’s car is parked at the curb. Leaning slightly toward the window, one hand on the wheel, raising his eyebrows in a “Really? You forgot?” kind of way.

“Oh shit,” you whisper. Annie gasps dramatically and sprints toward the car like she’s starring in her own movie. “Did you just say a bad word?” she calls out over her shoulder. “Also who’s that?”

“My… uh…” You have nothing. No explanation. Just panic. “Just—wait—Annie!” But she’s already yanking open the passenger door. “Did you forget about stranger danger?!”

“Hiiiiii!” she beams at him. James grins back, all sunshine and dimples. “Good morning.” He looks cute when he smiles.  You stumble up behind her, cheeks burning. “Sorry—she just—uh—”

“It’s fine,” he says. “She’s cute.”

Annie giggles like he handed her a scholarship. “My sister thinks cute! Her face literally turned red when she—” You quickly slap your palm on top of her mouth, nearly choke on your own tongue. “Annie! You can’t just—say things—!”

James laughs. “I can see that.” Fuck you. He nods toward the backseat. “You riding or walking?” Right. The whole fake dating thing. You climb in, mumbling, “I totally forgot you were picking us up.”

He shoots you a look in the rearview. Teasing. “Kind of figured.” Annie, meanwhile, is already telling him her entire life story. “So my sister woke me up late again, and Y/N didn’t let me have candy in the morning, so can you convince her t—“

“Annie,” you hiss, “personal space!” James glances at you, amused. “Your sister’s very bubbly.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Runs in the family.” He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Haven’t noticed much of that in you.” You look out the window so he can’t see your face fall and combust at the same time. “Well… it takes me a while to open up.”

There’s a beat of silence—soft, not awkward. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t mind that. Your breath trips.  Annie thankfully interrupts you before your brain melts. “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?” You and James say entirely different things at the exact same time.

You: “NO—no no no—he’s not—don’t—” James: “Something like that.”

You whip your head toward him so fast your neck protests. “What?!” He smirks. “Relax. Just keeping the story consistent.” “That’s not consistent, that’s— that’s—”

“Convincing,” he finishes, winking. You swear your pulse jumps like it’s trying to break out of your body. By the time he pulls into the school parking lot, your nerves are shredded.

“Wait.” His voice stops you again. You freeze halfway out. He gets out too. Walks around the car. And then extends his hand. Palm up, a silver ring on his index finger. 

“Come on,” he says. “They’re already staring.” Your stomach drops to your knees. You place your hand in his, because apparently you’ve lost all brain function. His fingers lace through yours. Firm. Warm. Familiar already in a terrifying way. You wonder what if he uses hand cream—and if so, what kind?

You walk side by side, hands joined, through the courtyard. Every. Single. Person. Looks. Someone literally whispers, “Are you kidding me?” as you pass. Another girl stares like you committed a war crime. You try to keep your face blank, but your heart is doing parkour. Even his friends look at him weird. James leans toward you just slightly. “You good?”

“I’m—fine,” you lie. He squeezes your hand. A tiny squeeze. You nearly short-circuit. Then you turn down the hall. And there she is. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. Leaning against her locker with her friends, scrolling through her phone—Amy.

Until she sees you and James. Her entire expression freezes—then sharpens. Expression goes from neutral to knives-out in half a second.

It hits you so hard your stomach does a full gymnastics routine. You instantly look away, like you’re gonna be burned alive if you make eye contact for more than a microsecond. James actually glances. Quick, sharp, assessing—like he’s checking if she saw. And apparently she did, because he gives the smallest nod to himself and keeps walking.

Your palm is sweating in his, which is honestly humiliating, but he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t squeeze or slow down or look at you twice. He’s just walking. Playing the part. Cool. Unbothered. Like this is all just logistics. People are still staring, whispering, straight-up gawking as you pass.  You keep your face forward. Try not to shrink… or die. All three are failing.

When you reach his locker, he drops your hand casually like he’s turning off a light switch. He spins his combo, grabs a book, and says, completely normal, “I saw her staring.”

Your heart is still in your throat. “It’s progress, I guess.” He nods once, satisfied. “Think it’s working.”

James doesn’t look at you again—just shuts his locker with a quick clack and tosses his bag over his shoulder like he didn’t just nuke your nervous system in the hallway.

“See you later,” he says, already turning away. And you’re left standing there, trying not to look like you’re about to dissolve into mist.

The rest of the week doesn’t calm down — it just mutates into this weird fever dream where James keeps doing things that make your brain short-circuit.

Like Wednesday morning, when you’re trying to open your locker and the stupid thing jams for the eighth day in a row. You mutter under your breath, “I hate this place,” and kick the bottom corner. Out of nowhere, James appears behind you, lean and warm and annoyingly tall.

“Move,” he says, voice low like he’s about to break into a safe.

“I’ve tried that,” you snap, not even looking up. “It doesn’t—” He slams his palm against the top left edge with one clean, confident hit. The locker pops open like it’s scared of him. Hot. “Are you—what? How—?!”

He shrugs, smirking. “You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes way too dramatically, but you’re pretty sure your soul floats out the back of your head when he taps the top of your hair and says, “I’ll be here if you need help with anything else.”

You stare after him like a malfunctioning Roomba as he walks off.

Then there’s Thursday, when you’re walking through the courtyard with James and trip over absolutely nothing. Like, genuinely nothing. A single leaf. A shadow. Air. You go stumbling forward like a newborn deer. Before you can fall, James catches the back of your hoodie and pulls you upright by the hood like you’re a cat being relocated.

“I swear to God,” you wheeze, face on absolute fire, “the ground attacked me.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, “the ground looked really hostile.”

You shove his shoulder because you can’t come up with a good comeback and also because you’re mortified. He lets out a quiet chuckle and it unlocks something sweet and dangerous in your chest.

Next it’s Friday morning. You and Annie are waiting for him outside, and your sister is bouncing around talking about how she wants to get a hamster named Bean. James comes out of the car, leans over the passenger seat, and gives Annie an exaggerated thumbs-up.

“Bean’s a great name,” he says, like he’s taking her dead seriously. “Very strong. Very intimidating.”

Annie giggles like she’s met a celebrity. You can tell that your sister likes him a lot. Too bad it might all end soon. You’re standing there blinking because why is he being sweet when no one is watching? There’s no audience at 7:53 AM on a suburban sidewalk. No reason to impress anybody. He looks at you for a beat too long. “What?” you say, defensive because your nervous system is fried.

“Nothing,” he says, that tiny smile tugging at one corner. 

Later that same day, you’re at his soccer practice again, this time on mandatory fake-girlfriend attendance, apparently, but this time you don’t sit on the bleachers. You’re late, so you stand awkwardly by the fence, hugging your bag. 

James sees you. Mid-scrimmage. He’s literally making it past two guys and still looks over like you’re a lens flare he enjoys catching. Amy’s on the far side of the field glaring daggers, and that’s probably why he does it, why he pushes a bit harder. For some reason, she started showing up again. 

But then he smirks. And it’s not aimed at Amy. He jogs up after scoring, out of breath, flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. The kind of sweaty that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.

Before you know it, his practice ends, the sun’s low, and the field looks like it’s glowing. You’re standing by the fence scrolling your phone, pretending you’re not waiting for him even though obviously you are.

They scrimmage one more play. James gets the ball. The field actually erupts. He slips past two defenders, cuts left, shoots—Goal. The boys yell and explode like he just cured cancer. And then he does something so stupidly cinematic you almost faint: He runs straight toward you. Like you’re his checkpoint.

He stops right by the fence, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, jersey sticking to him — black and green, drenched in sweat, clinging to every muscle that should not legally exist on an 20-year-old.

“Did you see that?” he breathes out, grinning like he’s half-drunk on adrenaline.

“I—I mean—yeah,” you say, but it comes out more like a squeak because you are absolutely staring. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his neck glistening, jaw sharp enough to slice your willpower in half. He smirks when he notices.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he teases, voice low. You immediately snap your eyes away. “I wasn’t—looking. I was—blinking.”

“I didn’t know blinking took that long,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to the fence. You nearly dissolve into the grass.

By the time he drops you off, your brain is a puddle. He taps the steering wheel, looks at you with that same unreadable-soft expression you’re starting to recognize. “Same time tomorrow?” 

Before you could answer, your dad comes out on the porch at the worst possible moment, holding a mug and squinting into the driveway. “Is that the handsome guy Annie keeps talking about?”

Why oh why. “Wha—dad—I—no—?” James, traitor that he is, just smiles and waves like this is a barbecue and not the crumbling of your sanity. “Yes I am!”

Your dad lights up. “Well! Why don’t you stay for dinner?” You see James glance at you like he’s asking for permission—like you’re the deciding vote before he says, “Sure. If that’s okay.” Okay?? You’re already having an out-of-body experience. Inside, Annie is THRIVING. She pats the couch between her and James like she’s the host of a reality show. You sit, fully preparing to be normal. You fail immediately.

Halfway through the movie, James shifts closer—casual, smooth, evil—and drapes an arm behind you on the couch, feeling himself at your home. Not even touching you yet, just… there. Warm. Heavy. Loud in your peripheral vision. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage with a crowbar.

Then, out of nowhere, he reaches over and slides the scrunchie out of your ponytail. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s unwrapping a present. Your hair falls down your shoulders and you swear the air temperature spikes 40 degrees.

“Looks better like this,” he murmurs, barely audible over the TV.

You’re going to combust. Annie is too invested in the movie to notice you dying.

He loops it around his wrist, then pulling out his phone to check something. You assume he’s going to post something on his Instagram for Amy to see, but he checks the time instead. Strange

Your dad comes in once to ask if you all want snacks. James answers politely. You stare at the wall like you’re seeing God. He grabs a piece and feeds it to you. Even morestrange.

Eventually it gets late, and he stands, gives Annie a little salute, thanks your dad for the evening, and looks at you with this unreadable softness that makes your stomach flip.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

—

The night air is cold enough to bite, but he doesn’t feel it. His whole skin is still warm from your house, your couch, your hair brushing his shoulder. 

As he hopped into the car, shouldn’t be thinking about that. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Getting out, he walks up his front steps, keys halfway out of his pocket, when he freezes.

Amy is sitting on his porch. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Wearing that perfume he likes.

“James,” she says, chin tilted, voice honeyed she knows works on most people.

He exhales, slow. “Amy. What are you doing here?”

She stands up, taking a step closer. “I wanted to talk. We haven’t really—y’know—processed everything. And I…” She lets the sentence trail off, fingers brushing his arm like muscle memory. “I miss you. We were good together.”

He should want this. He knows that. This was the whole point, wasn’t it? Proving he could move on, making her jealous, getting her to come back.

“We were,” he says quietly. It comes out flat. Even he hears it.

Amy leans in, confidence flickering back. “I mean… moving on to someone like her?” She smirks. “Convincing. I’ll give you that.”

He doesn’t say anything. She slides her hand down his arm like she’s done it a thousand times — because she has. Her voice drops. “You could’ve just talked to me, James. You didn’t have to pretend.”

Her eyes glint. She steps closer again, enough that her breath hits his collarbone. “What do you say? Are you up for a redo?” Amy reaches for his wrist, then stops at a certain spot.

“Oh.” Her voice shifts — sweet turning sour. “What’s this?” Her fingers brush the scrunchie. Your scrunchie. Still warm from your hair. She looks up at him, eyebrows lifted like she’s caught him with a crime weapon.

“Is that Y/n’s?” she asks, sickly sweet. His voice is small, quieter than he expects. “It is.”

Amy lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Wow. You’re really committing to the bit.” He doesn’t correct her.

She slips it off his wrist and ties her hair with it, steps back, arms folding. “Well,” she says, lips curling, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, James.”

She walks away without waiting for an answer. Her perfume lingers. But his wrist feels heavier than everything she tried to imply. He stands there a long time after she’s gone. And the scrunchie stays exactly where it is.

—

James picks you up like nothing happened, acting like he didn’t stand on his porch last night looking existential with your scrunchie on his wrist while his ex tried to crawl back into his life.

“Morning,” he says, voice warm, as you hop into the car. 

“Good Morning.”

He glances over, tapping the steering wheel. “Tired?” You scratch your neck, letting out a soft groan. “Not at all.”

He actually laughs under his breath. “Liar.” Ugh. Of course he knows.

He drives for a bit, a comfortable quiet settling between you — or, well… almost comfortable. Then he says it. Soft. Almost shy. “I really like spending time with you.”

You freeze. Brain: 404 error. “Why?” you say before your filter can save you. He looks over. “Why not?”

“No, like—” you wave a hand, “you don’t have to do the whole… nice boyfriend act right now. No one’s looking.” 

His brows pull together, confused, just a tiny bit hurt. “I know.” It’s nothing. It’s everything. You don’t know what to do with it, so you shove it into the mental junk drawer and slam it shut.

—

After your second class, Bella picks you up and you two walk to your lockers, minding your own business, when Amy appears like a horror movie jump scare, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes on you like target practice.

“You know James doesn’t actually like you?” She says sweetly.

It’s not like you didn’t know that. The thing going on between James and you is all for show. Bella stiffens beside you. You close your locker and keep walking. 

Amy clicks her tongue. “Y/n—you forgot something.”

You turn just in time to see her toss your scrunchie. It hits the floor at your feet like a punchline. Bella’s eyes go HUGE. “Um. What—?”

“I’ll explain later,” you mutter, scooping it up with fingers that are absolutely trembling.

You don’t go to his practice after that. Screw that. Screw all of it. You go home, burrow under your blanket, and try to convince yourself you don’t care even though you obviously care so much it feels like a bruise.

Around six, there’s a knock downstairs. Please don’t tell me it’s who I think it is.

You hear your dad open the door.

“Oh! Hi James!”

“Is Y/n home?” he asks, and his voice is nervous. Nervous? Since when does James get nervous? “Yes, she’s upstairs in her room, doing whatever you teenagers do.”

“Can I— uh— can I talk to her?”

“…Sure, come in.”

You want to sink into the floorboards. Your dad calls up the stairs, “Y/n! James is here!”

Yeah, you heard.

A moment later, there’s a soft knock on your door. “Can I come in?” You don’t answer, and quickly pull the cover over you. He opens just enough to peek inside. “Hey.” You sit up, knees tucked to your chest. “Hi”

He steps inside, closes the door behind him, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hit CTRL+ALT+DEL on his own life. “Why didn’t you show up to my game? You always show up.” 

You look at him for a long second, then ask the question that’s been chewing through your ribs all day.

“Did you… meet up with Amy last night? And then give her my favourite scrunchie?” 

His head snaps up fast. “No.”

“No?”

“I mean—yes and no. It’s not what you think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then what happened?”

He sighs, shoulders dropping. “She just spawned in front of my house as I was driving home. I never asked her to come” Your chest tightens, but you keep your voice steady. “Right. And when she took my scrunchie… you just let her take it?” He flinches a little — just barely, but you see it.

“Yeah, that’s my bad,” he says quietly. “But hey, at least you got it back.”

You stay quiet, jaw set as you look down at the scrunchie on your wrist.

“And it’s not a big deal,” he adds quickly. “It’s just a scrunchie y/n.” He stops himself. “Well — not just a scrunchie. Yours.” Your lungs betray you with a small inhale. He moves a little closer, hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Really. And… I wanna make it up to you.”

You tilt your head “How?” And because he’s him — chaotic, dramatic, inexplicably confident — he smiles.

“You heard of ‘Ski Slopes Nation?” The ski trip party my friend hosts every year. It’s, uh, kinda big. And really fun. I want you to come with me.”

You look down at yojr hands, unsure what to say. Strange, wouldn’t he have asked Amy? “James, I don’t even know anyone there.”

“Okay,” he says, shrugging, taking one small step closer. “So what? You’ll know me.”

“That’s not enough. You’ll be distracted by you know who.”

He sighs, walking towards your bed as he puts his finger under your chin, turning your head to face him. He tilts his head, smirk creeping back. “You’re the only distraction I need.”

Your stomach flips so hard you have to look away again. How can he say this when he doesn’t even like you?

“Think about it,” he murmurs. He reaches for the doorknob, pauses, glances back at you with that soft half-smile. “And for the record, I’ll buy you snacks for the whole time we’re there.”

Then he leaves you alone with your heartbeat trying to set a new world record.

“Wait… it was fake?!” Bella’s voice is a cartoon of betrayal—half screech, half wounded martyr. You’re sitting across from her at your usual greasy-spoon table, regretting your life decisions, and she’s dramatically clutching her phone like you’ve personally stolen her childhood.

“I thought he actually liked you,” she adds, scandalized. “I mean, everything! His stories, the way he looked at you—God, I practically had a panic attack of joy.”

You shrug, because what else do you do when your life is embarrassing and baffling at the same time. “It was the plan. To make Amy jealous. To get her to get back with James.”

Bella pokes your forehead with the end of a fry. “So you were a pawn? That is actually a geniu—horrible!”

You let out a sigh and then tell her about the ski thing—James’s invitation that felt suspiciously like a peace offering. Bella immediately goes into PR mode.

“Why aren’t you going?” she asks, all business now. “This could be huge. Honestly, go. I’ll totally come with you if that’ll change your mind.”

You almost say no. You almost say yes. You do say, finally, “Okay, but you cannot leave my side for once.”

She claps and picks up your phone from the table. “Text him now.” She demands while handing you her phone. Slowly, you unlock your phone and type in: “Ok, Ski Slopes Nation it is.” Sent.

Weekend flies. Saturday morning, you stand by the curb, heels tapping like a metronome, expecting Bella’s overzealous face any second. Typical you overpacked for a three night trip. James pulls up right on time, engine purring luxury. You get in. You do a full inventory of your nerves.

Ten minutes later you notice Bella’s text: one-line replies. 

Bella: Sorry guys, mom lowkey got mad because I fumbled my test 🙁. Maybe next time?

You stare at the message like it physically hurt. She didn’t tell you before. This was her plan all along for you to go to the Ski Slopes Event alone with James. She was never going to come.

You turn to James, ready to explode with “where is she?” but the words scramble and bail right out of you. Your hand goes for the door handle. You’re doing the awkward petty-exit thing when he reaches over, still driving, and grabs your wrist gently.

“Wait,” he says. His voice is small, not demanding, just…earnest. “Please. Don’t go.”

You stare at his hand on yours. Your knee-jerk plan is to get out and walk, to reclaim dignity off the side of the highway, but the highway is suddenly very far away and his palm is somehow steadying.

“Why?” you ask, because why not make him explain himself.

He pulls into the next parking spot, kills the engine, and turns fully to you like it’s the thing he’s meant to do all day. The car becomes its own little island of breath.

“I wanted you to come,” he says, simple and flat, like it’s obvious and he’s been dying to say it. “Not because of Amy. Not to make her jealous. I… I actually like doing this with you. I like spending time with you.”

Your brain files that under “unreliable information” and simultaneously under “this actually matters.” You blink. “But—wasn’t this whole thing supposed to get Amy back?”

He hesitates, then answers honestly, the way people answer when the truth is awkward but necessary. “Yes that was the plan. At first. But I don’t know if I want to go back to that. I don’t know if I ever did. And the more time I spend with you—not pretending—it’s not the same. You’ve made me felt something no one else has ever made me feel. But what I know is that I like you. A lot.”

You roll your eyes because dramatic vulnerability is embarrassing even when it’s kind of endearing. And your body heats up. Your cheeks are probably tomato colored, but you try staying nonchalant. “So what, you just switched teams mid-game?”

He gives you one of those looks that’s half apology, half dare. “Sort of. Do you… do you wanna keep doing this? Not for Amy. For us. Keep this—whatever this is—going?”

You inhale, exhale, try to be sensible. “You know how this looks,” you say. “Welp, the love letter sure worked out—just now how I expected.”

He smiles, small and stubborn. “It sure did.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes—part incredulous, part hopeful. You tuck your hand back into yours under the dash. “Fine,” you say, because why be brave when you can be cautiously stupid instead. “But I’m watching you. One misstep and I will glare you into ashes.”

“Deal,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips that’s half triumphant, half relieved. “Also, I’m getting your scrunchie back. Properly next time.”

You look out at the highway ahead, and despite the chaos, despite the lying and the staging and the way your life currently reads like a badly edited montage, there’s a tiny part of you that answers before your brain can veto it.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s keep doing this—carefully.”

He squeezes your hand. The car pulls back onto the road, and the rest of the world sounds like muffled static for a second, just you and the hum of the engine and the very complicated possibility of something messy and real.

“Are you sure you have snow tires on?” You double check as more snow comes down while you guys drive up the mountain. The atmosphere in the car was not quiet, but soft. Not awkward anymore, not tense, just this gentle humming between you two—like the car has its own heartbeat now and it somehow synced to yours. James lets out a low chuckle, reaching for your hand, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“I’m sure y/n.” The way he spoke your name was so attractive yet reassuring. Snow lines the trees like powdered sugar and the sky is a blue so obnoxiously pretty it looks edited. James keeps flicking quick glances at you like he’s checking if you’re still real. You’re still trying to get over the fact that you’re seated in Jame’s car that actually has feelings for you.

When he parks outside the lodge, you hop out and the cold instantly punches your lungs. He grabs the bags before you can even protest because he’s a show-off with biceps, apparently. Inside, the place is gorgeous—warm lights, crackling fireplaces, couples everywhere wearing matching sweaters like they’re in a Pinterest board.

James leads you down a hallway lined with wooden doors and stops at one. Unlocks it, then opens the door. You follow him in. And freeze.

There are multiple reasons why you freeze. First and most obvious reason, the scenery. You knew James and his friends were filthy rich, but this is on a next level. The place was small, but it felt so cozy and expensive at the same time. Second reason, the bed. Notice how it’s bed and not beds plural? 

“…Hold on,” you say, voice thin. “Where’s—uh—the other bed?” There is one bed. One. Big, yes. Fluffy, absolutely. But still ONE BED.

James glances at it like it’s the weather. “Oh. Yeah. They ran out of doubles.” He looks at you over his shoulder. “Is that okay? It is pretty spacious so we can sleep on either ends.” 

Is that OK??

Your soul: NOPE. SOUND THE ALARMS. EVACUATE THE PREMISES.

Your mouth: “Yeah it’s fine.”

Typical y/n. Always lying out of your ass crack.

He tosses his duffel on the floor and starts unpacking, casual as ever, while your brain is mapping out emergency escape routes and calculating the surface area of the bed to figure out how far you can sleep from him without dying.

“We’ve got, like, four hours until the big event,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “It’s basically a party with drinks and games. Then we go skiing. People kinda go all out.”

Skiing? You? “Is it bad that I don’t know how to Ski?”

He snorts—soft, fond. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you if you’re down. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage.

He finishes unpacking and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “You can talk, y’know,” he says, teasing. “You’re doing that quiet-stressing face again.”

“I’m not”—

“You are.”

“Stop reading my mind.”

“Stop being readable.”

You grab your water bottle just to have something to do. He watches you, amused. The silence stretches—not awkward, but charged. Like static in the air before lightning strikes. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, rambling about something—how cold it is, how Bella tricked you, how the hallway smells weirdly like cinnamon. You don’t stop talking because if you stop, you’ll think, and if you think, you’ll panic.

Halfway through your rant about overpriced ski equipment, you notice he’s not responding. He’s just… staring. Not in a bored way. Or in a polite-listening way.

In a hungry way. In a memorizing-your-mouth-movements way. In a way no fake boyfriend should ever stare. No one has ever looked at you like that.

You clear your throat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

James’s voice is low, a little rough. “I don’t know.”

You short-circuit. “I—what—you—you don’t know—?”

“Yeah.” He shifts closer—just enough for your knees to touch. 

You swallow. Loudly. “Cute.”

“Mm.” His eyes drop to your lips like gravity dragged them there. “And distracting.”

Your heart is doing backflips. Your hands start sweating. You are ninety percent sure you’re about to ascend straight off the bed.

“James…” you whisper, though you’re not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation. He moves closer, slow enough to give you time to pull back. You don’t. You couldn’t even if you tried. His forehead almost touches yours, breath warming your skin. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You lean in. Never once in life were you expecting James to be your first kiss. Obviously in those little fantasies of yours, but never in real life.

His lips brush yours—barely, like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud—and your breath catches so hard your ribs ache. He tilts his head, closes the space, kisses you properly this time, soft but hungry, like he’s been holding this in for weeks.

He pulls back, breathless, eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name. Then suddenly he’s dragging you into his lap, steady hands guiding you, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear before pulling you in for another kiss. This one is hungrier—messy, frantic, almost starving.

A small moan slips out of you the second his tongue pushes into your mouth. He’s good—too good. And you were the complete opposite. Heat blooms low in your stomach, and you can feel him hardening beneath you, the realization sending a shiver through your whole body.

He chuckles against your lips, the vibration buzzing straight through you as his tongue keeps exploring your mouth.

“You like that?” he murmurs, fingers trailing up your thigh. You nod instantly, needy, like your body answered before your brain could catch up.

He leans in, breath brushing your ear. “Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs. You part your lips, but nothing comes out—you’re too wound up, too turned on from everything he’s already done.

“Tell me, baby.” The pet name makes your pussy clench around nothing.

“I—I don’t know,” you finally manage to whisper.

“You don’t know?” he repeats, eyebrow lifting in a teasing way. Embarrassment floods your cheeks as you shake your head and bring your hands up to hide your face.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling your hands away. Your eyes meet, and he him unintentionally bitting his lower lips, his eyes now roaming all over your body.

Before you can even react, he’s kissing you again—deep, consuming, pulling you straight back into the heat of him.

“Do you know how to grind on me?” he asks when he pulls away again. You shake your head no.

“Here, let me guide you.”

His hands settle on your ass, gentle but sure, guiding your hips back and forth over his clothed cock as he pulls you back into the kiss. You both let out soft moans, the sound tangled between your mouths. It’s overwhelming, your fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to pull another sound out of him.

“God, baby… you look so hot on top of me,” he whispers, his hands roaming over your ass again.

Before you know it, James’s hands slide down to the zipper of your jeans. He wants more—you can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his fingers hesitate there like he’s waiting for permission. You stop him, catching his hands before he can go any further.

He looks up at you immediately, eyes searching your face.

“Something wrong?” he asks softly, tilting his head just a little.

“I—I don’t want to go further than that,” you say, your voice small but steady. “Not right now.”

James searches your face like he’s trying to read every micro-expression you’ve ever had in your whole life.

“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” he asks quietly. You shake your head fast. “No, it’s not that. I just… don’t wanna do that right now.”

His shoulders loosen immediately. “Oh. Okay.” And the way he says it—soft, not offended, not disappointed—makes something warm twist in your chest.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead before sliding you gently off his lap. “I’m gonna go shower,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “then we’ll get ready for the party.”

When he disappears into the bathroom and the door clicks shut, the room feels too big. Too quiet. Too… loud inside your head. You flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again, because apparently that’s your hobby now. And, of course, your brain immediately starts being a menace.

Yeah, he used to do this with Amy. Plus, breakup wasn’t even that long ago. Maybe you’re just some transitional little detour while he untangles whatever is still left inside him.

You groan into a pillow. “Get it together,” you mumble at yourself. Your overthinking is doing parkour.

Then the bathroom door swings open—and your soul exits your body.

James steps out with a towel sitting dangerously low on his hips, droplets rolling down his chest like they were directed by a film crew. His torso? Toned. Defined. Absolutely from-the-cover-of-a-ski-lodge-soccer-player-romance-novel level sculpted.

His dyed dirty blonde hair is wet, dripping onto his shoulders, making him look unfairly good. You snap your gaze to the window like it personally offended you.

He grabs his bag and looks over at you. “You gonna get ready?” he asks casually, like he isn’t currently the hottest man alive standing half-naked five feet away.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, I was just… thinking.” (About your sanity evaporating.)

You peel yourself off the bed and rummage through your bag, already annoyed at yourself because you did not pack for a fancy winter party. You pull out something normal, plain, safe—because of course you brought nothing special. James glances over with a soft smile. “Going casual?” You shrug. “I didn’t really bring, like… party clothes.”

His eyes drag over your outfit, then your face.

“You’ll look amazing,” he says simply.

The Ski Slopes Nation’s “big event” is already at full volume by the time you and James walk in. It’s loud. Like… loud-loud. Bass thumping through the floorboards, laughter coming from every corner, people yelling over each other like they’re competing for the Olympic gold medal in being obnoxious. James doesn’t even flinch. He’s been to a million of these. You on the other hand—feel like you just walked into a live-action TikTok POV.

James keeps a warm hand at the small of your back as he leads you through the crowd. “C’mon,” he says, leaning down so you can hear him, breath brushing your ear. “Gotta introduce you.”

His friends spot him immediately.

“AYYYY ZHAO YUFAN BOY!” A giant wasian guy—Martin—throws his arms up like James just scored a goal. He’s tall. Like… tree-level tall. The kind of tall that makes you physically tilt your head back to make eye contact. Next to him is Keonho—smaller, ridiculously handsome, annoyingly charming. Both of them stare at you for a beat, confused as hell.

James just grins. “Guys, this is Y/N.” Martin nods like he’s analyzing an alien species. “Ohhh… she’s the one.” Keonho elbows him. “Bro, don’t be weird.”

You want to evaporate. James squeezes your hand like he can tell. People around the room keep glancing. Whispering. Doing double-takes. James showing up with another girl this soon after Amy? Yeah. You can practically feel the gossip starting to ferment.

You clear your throat. “I’m, uh, gonna grab something to drink.” James nods, gentle. “I’ll be right here.” The second you leave, Martin leans in with that tall-guy nosiness. “Dude. She’s so different from Amy.”

James rolls his eyes. “Okay?”

“No, like… in a good way,” Martin says. “She’s calm. Doesn’t have that whole… I’m-influencing-the-room energy.”

Keonho smirks. “And you like her. It’s obvious.” James gives them a look but doesn’t deny it. Across the room, Amy is staring—hard. Snow-white expensive looking sweater that somehow makes her look like a judgmental snow angel. She watches James talk to his friends, then looks you up and down like you’re the clearance rack version of her.

You return with a drink—your first real drink ever—and try to pretend the room isn’t spinning from nerves. You take a sip. And another. And another. Warmth blooms in your chest, buzzing under your skin. James finds you instantly. “Hey.”

His brows pinch. “You good? You seem… off.”

You look at him. And your brain decides now is the perfect time to unhinge.

“You… used to have sex with Amy a lot, right?”

James chokes. Like, full cough-wheeze combo. “That’s what’s been bothering you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “It—doesn’t really matter. I mean… I know you’re with me right now, so that’s all that counts.”

James steps closer, hand cupping your jaw gently. “Y/N. She’s my past. You’re the one I’m choosing now. And every second with you feels… different. Better.”

Your chest squeezes so tight you forget how to swallow.

You look down at your shoes. “It’s just… I guess my first time with you would be your… I don’t know… however-many-th time with her.”

A breath leaves him—soft, understanding. “Hey. Look at me.”

“I’m not comparing you to her. I’m not thinking about her when I’m with you. I’m here, with you. And I like us. A lot.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.” And just like that, the tension melts a little.

The night blurs in the best way—laughter, games, James’s friends warming up to you, your drink going down way too easily. You’re not drunk, but definitely… pleasantly wobbly. James stays close the whole time, his arm brushing yours, hand grazing your lower back, fingers brushing your knuckles. Subtle, tiny things that keep your brain fried the entire night. 

At one point Martin challenges James to some stupid game that involves taking shots and hitting a mini soccer ball into a trash can, and you swear the cabin shakes when everyone screams after he makes it. You’re laughing. Actually laughing. And your cheeks hurt in the happiest way.

Eventually, when you’re both a little tipsy and the cold outside feels way too sharp, James wraps an arm around your waist and walks you back to the room.

Inside, you both stand awkwardly over the giant bed again.

“Uh… I’ll sleep on that side,” you say, pointing to the edge like it’s a danger zone.

James nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

You settle under the covers, facing away, trying to breathe normally. James climbs in on the opposite end, careful, respectful, leaving a canyon of space between you. As you close your eyes, the coldness of your body was stopping you from falling asleep. After laying there for a few minutes, you finally resort to your last option.

“James?”

He replies immediately. “Yeah?”

“I’m cold.”

There’s a beat. A quiet little inhale. You could practically hear him breathing from the other side of the bed. Then the mattress dips as he moves closer, sliding an arm around your waist and gently pulling you back into him. Warm. Solid. Safe. You exhale without meaning to, your body relaxing instantly into his.

His breath brushes your neck. “Better?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

And just like that, wrapped in him, heartbeat syncing with his, you fall asleep.

The next night creeps in faster than you expect. The final night of the trip—the big skiing day. The sky’s already going dark-blue, that weird shade where you can’t tell if it’s late afternoon or 11 p.m., and the cold is sharp enough to pinch your nose.

James helps you zip up your jacket, his fingers brushing your neck, sending chills that have nothing to do with the weather.

“You ready?” he asks, all smug confidence.

“No,” you answer instantly.

He laughs. “You’ll be fine. I’ll teach you.”

Outside, the slopes glow under tall floodlights, making the snow sparkle like someone dumped glitter everywhere. Kids and pros and show-offs are zooming down the hill like Olympic qualifiers. You’re already planning your funeral.

James clips your boots in for you because he doesn’t trust you with anything involving gravity.

“Okay,” he says, stepping behind you, hands gripping your arms gently. “Lean forward a tiny bit. Just enough to not fall backwards.”

“Okay,” you say, immediately leaning like a malfunctioning tower.

He steadies you. “Not that much—unless you wanna eat snow.”

“I’m gonna eat snow regardless.”

“That’s fair.”

He teaches you slowly, patiently—how to stop, how to turn, how not to accidentally kill yourself. And you… kinda get the hang of it? Ish? You manage to go five whole meters without face-planting.

Every time you wobble, he’s right there catching you by the waist. Every time you mess up, he laughs—not mean, but soft, fond, like he likes seeing you try. Eventually, you’re actually skiing—well, sliding down at the speed of an elderly turtle, but still.

James skis backwards in front of you, because of course he can. His eyes are warm, cheeks flushed red from the cold.

“You’re doing good!” he calls out.

“You’re lying to be nice!”

“I am,” he admits.

You finally stop at the bottom and nearly fall, but he lunges forward, catching you. Your helmet bumps into his chest.

“Hey,” he breathes, smiling down at you. “See? You didn’t die.”

“Yet,” you mutter.

After a while, you both sit in the snow, helmets off, catching your breath. Snow somehow gets down the back of your jacket and into your gloves and probably your soul.

You shriek. “OH MY GOD IT’S IN MY SHIRT—” James bursts out laughing. “You good?”

You do the most logical thing: grab a handful of snow and yeet it at his face.

He freezes. Then smirks. “Oh, it’s on.”

Next thing you know, you’re in a full snowball war—screaming, laughing, slipping everywhere, James chasing you around trees with perfect aim while you miss every single throw like you’re allergic to accuracy.

By the time you both stumble back toward the lodge, you’re breathless and soaked and ridiculously happy. Right outside the hallway to your room, James bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey, uh… go ahead to the room. I need to tell Martin something real quick.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He kisses your cheek—quick, warm—before turning away.

You head inside. You shower, change, check your phone, sit on the bed, go through photos, scroll TikTok, stare at the ceiling, contemplate the meaning of life…

Forty-five minutes pass.

The door finally opens. James steps in, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s tired. “Sorry. Martin was being annoying.”

You smile. “It’s okay. I had fun these two days. Thank you for convincing me to come.”

His eyes soften. “I’m glad you did.”

—

The next morning is chaotic—bags everywhere, people rushing, doors slamming, winter air biting at your face. James looks exhausted, barely awake, stuffing clothes into his duffel like a zombie.

His other friend is waiting for him outside, yelling for him to hurry.

You zip your jacket and head into the hallway. Martin’s there, tying his boots.

“Hey, Martin?”

He looks up. “Hm?”

“What did you and James talk about last night?”

He blinks. “Last night? …We didn’t talk.”

Your stomach drops. “He didn’t see you?”

“No? I didn’t see him at all.”

Oh. Oh great. Fanfuckingtastic. A cold wave rolls through your chest harder than the mountain wind.

When you climb into the passenger seat of James’s car, he’s quiet—clearly tired. He yawns as he turns the engine on. The drive is silent for a long time. Like… too long.

Finally, he speaks. “Are you going to the match today?”

“No.”

He glances at you, confused. “Why not?”

You keep your eyes on the window. “Because I know you didn’t go see Martin.”

The air tightens.

“So who was it?” you ask. James doesn’t answer. Your heart beats loud enough to hurt. The coach starts calling him the second you guys pull into the parking lot.

“James! Let’s go! You’re 14 minutes late. Warm-ups!”

He’s still staring at the steering wheel.

“Tell me,” you whisper. “Did you go see Amy?”

“Look—” he starts, voice low, strained, “I can explain.”

The coach yells again. “FIVE MINUTES, JAMES!”

Your throat burns. “Am I just your second best?”

He winces—like the words physically hit him.

The coach yells again, sharper this time: “Last warning!”

James steps out of the car, but turns back, gripping the door.

“Please,” he says, eyes desperate. “Just come to the game. I promise I’ll explain everything after. Please.”

And then he’s gone, jogging off toward the field, leaving you sitting in the quiet car, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out.

—

The school library is quiet in that specific after-school way — soft humming lights, the vague smell of old pages, one kid coughing somewhere like he’s auditioning for a Victorian death scene. You’re still not sure about meeting up with James after his games. It has been a hell of a week,

You’ve been curled up in a corner armchair for about an hour or two with some random book you grabbed just to distract your brain from… everything. It’s working, sorta. 

Until you flip the page and land on a quote that hits you like a truck:

“If someone chooses silence when they owe you honesty, let them go.

But if your heart aches louder than your pride…

you’ll find your way back anyway.”

You stare at it like it personally slapped you across the face. Why does everywhere you go have to remind you of James. And then you glance at the clock.

You are one hour late to the end James’s game. 

Like — not fifteen minutes, not “oops my bad,”

but a FULL sixty minutes late.

“Shit.”

You jump up so fast the librarian gives you a death glare that could shatter glass.

You shove the book back on the shelf sideways (crime) and practically sprint out. It’s pouring outside — full dramatic movie thunderstorm pouring. The kind that soaks your socks instantly.

You take out your sad little umbrella and start the walk home, hugging your jacket to your chest like that’ll protect you from your own thoughts. But when you reach the edge of the outdoor courts—the ones the team cuts across after games—you pause,

Because there’s someone standing there. Alone. Soaked. Head down. Kicking at the gravel like he’s fighting ghosts. James.

He’s drenched top to bottom, rainwater mixed with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging to him. And he’s… waiting. Still. Just standing there like he refuses to leave until something changes. Your chest does something stupid and painful, a mixture of guilt and anger.

You walk up quietly, stepping behind him, lifting the umbrella up on your toes so it covers the both of you. One tiny circle of dryness in a whole world of rain.

He tenses first—then turns slowly. The moment he sees you, his expression crumples in this soft, relieved way that knocks the breath right out of you.

“…You came,” he says, voice low, almost disbelieving.

You swallow. “Yeah. I— I was late. And then it started raining, so I was just walking home but…”

Your eyes flick to him.

“But you’re still here.”

You lower the umbrella slightly so you can see his face better. Drops of rain slide down his cheek, and he looks exhausted — not physically, but in that “I’ve been stressing about losing you for hours” kind of way.

“What made you come?” he asks quietly. You shrug, breath fogging the air. “I… read something. And it made me realize I wasn’t done. With us.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks away for a second like he’s overwhelmed.

You take a small step closer. “Who were you with, James?”

He lets out a breath that’s practically a sigh of defeat. “Amy.”

Your stomach sinks — until he lifts his head, eyes sharp, honest.

“But not for what you think.”

You don’t say anything. You just hold the umbrella and wait.

“I went to tell her to stop,” he says. “To stop showing up everywhere. To stop spreading shit about you. About us. To stop acting like I owe her something.”

His voice strengthens, anger threading through it.

“I told her if she messed with you one more time, I’d—” He stops, shaking his head. “—I’d actually lose it. I didn’t want things to blow up in front of you, so I waited until later. That’s it. That’s all it was.”

Your eyes sting. And your voice comes out smaller than you want.

“…Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He steps closer, rain dripping off his jaw. “Because when you asked, you already looked like I’d punched a hole in your chest. And then the coach was yelling at me, and I panicked.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”

The rain softens around you, or maybe you just stop noticing it.

You whisper, “I thought you were… choosing her again.”

His face twists — hurt, like the idea physically wounds him.

“Y/N.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist gently, like he’s asking permission.

“You were never my second best.” Your throat closes up.

“And I waited,” he adds. “For an hour. In the rain. Just in case there was even a 1% chance you’d show up.” You let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “That’s really dumb of you.”

He smiles, soft and crooked. “Yeah. But I’m yours, so… it tracks.”

You look at him—really look—soaked, shivering, but eyes warm like he never doubted you’d return.

You step forward and tuck yourself against him, arms looping around his waist. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole day and pulls you in, umbrella tilting awkwardly over both your heads.

His chest is warm even though his clothes are freezing. His chin rests on your hair. His heartbeat is steady and loud.

“Hey,” he murmurs into your ear.

“What?”

“Thanks for coming back.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Don’t make me chase you through a storm again,” you mumble.

He chuckles, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then don’t leave me behind.”

You shrug playfully. “No promises.”

He leans down, forehead touching yours, breaths mixing in the cold air.

Warm and close and full of everything you’ve been too scared to say.

“Let me walk you home,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go home.”

He takes the umbrella from you, threads his fingers through yours, and the two of you walk out of the storm together — matching steps, matching heartbeats — leaving every misunderstanding behind on the wet pavement.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

You don’t feel like you’re someone’s temporary choice. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. With him.

request || masterlist

[gchirpy]

Now this ROGHT here was everything 💔

[hollyoongs]

⤷ HE WAS A PUNK, SHE DID BALLET

시놉시스 ┆ garage boyband leader!𝒎ar𝘁͟in, ─────⠀preppy f! reader 𓂅 𝑤.𝑐: +15k (17.450 and I'm not even sorry, I ate this one up!) ꒰ ⌗ coming of age, slice of life, attempts of rom-com, fluff, and one-sided enemies to lovers ꒱ ↷⠀ ℰditoral ! 𓂂

─────⠀slow burn rivals to lovers, mutual pining (hidden under sarcasm), high school setting (South Korea in the big 2004, and i think i kinda pulled off the correct amount of good cringe), band boy x class president dynamic, emotional tension, academic pressure, family conflict (parental slap + divorces), music as love language, heartfelt confessions, teasing + banter, teenage rebellion, emotional vulnerability, light touching (no explicit sexual content), implied attraction, healing through love.

EXTRAS !: PLAY THAT BEAT (Martin's songs for you) ───── FROM MY HEART (Your songs for Martin's)

“Prez! Over here!” 

Your nickname cut through the hallway, followed by the hand wave he was doing alongside a smile. Some students who were there glanced, waving less energetically than Yujin—everyone knew you as the 2 time class president. You pulled your bag higher on your shoulder, waving through clusters of lovely outfits, mostly ignoring the flyers taped on every wall: cram school promotions, mock exam countdown, “join the club” posters already, and one for a half-torn band audition, the ink smudged like whoever put it there didn’t even care.

Due to being the last first day of school, you spoke to the school headmaster to have permission to drop the uniforms and wear an outfit, which allowed you to be the only student to give a motivational speech in the gymnasium, but seeing how everyone was comfortable showing their identity through clothes, despite the already packed senior schedule that we will face ahead.

Senior year wasn’t going to be kind; the past students let you all know that.

“That’s a cute outfit.” You playfully did a princess bow, the outfit that you pulled the night before consisted of a white collared button-up shirt under your fitted, long-sleeve blue sweater, covering perfectly your exposed abdomen that your denim mini skirt showed. It was cinched in with a chunky black belt and some white socks with black shoes with a little bit of heel. 

“Thank you, Yujin. You don’t look bad, either.” He spun dramatically in place, making his backpack bounce.

“Please. My mom picked this outfit. I had to wear it, otherwise she wouldn’t let me go to our karaoke tradition.” He opened his backpack, pulling out strawberry milk.

“You’re the absolute best,” you said, stabbing the straw through the foil and taking a sip without hesitation.

“So, how was your vacation?” 

“It was good. I went to the beach for a week before going to visit colleges with my mom.” he gave a dramatic sigh.

“She is more obsessed with your future than you.” You raised your shoulders, way too used to his words. 

“Well, sadly, I have to go along with—”

“Yah, Han Yujin!” The wall made that scream bounce, creating an echo where the two of you froze. As a matter of fact, everybody there did; you saw the unforgettable figure of your friend Leeseo running to you two, and you looked to your right to see the face of pure fear on Yujin’s face. 

“What have you done?” you whispered, before he could speak. Leeseo was already trying to hit him. His hands went to your shoulder, and he started using you as a shield.

“Leeseo, stop!” you gasped, trying to wriggle out of Yujin’s grip.

“Oh, hi there, Y/N. Can you please move? I want to kick his ass.” It was comical how everything was going down, cameras shutting off as they captured the first banter of the duo. You decided to enter the class, and a spot near the desk and next to the window was your favorite.

“Leeseo—ouch! Wait!” Both of them entered as she finally left him alone after she gave a pretty hard smack on his back. Leeseo sat next to you, and Yujin took the spot behind you two.

“You idiot, why didn't you tell me that Martin is back?!” Her whisper made your ear raise at the name.

“I didn’t spend time here; I went to the countryside to visit my grandma. How do you know?”

“Because he was getting scolded by the teacher at the entrance.”

“Nothing new, then,” you spoke before you could think. You placed your pencil case and notebook on your desk. Leeseo’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide as if what you just said was the dumbest thing ever.

“Nothing new? Y/N, he was supposed to go to Canada for his senior year; he even spoke about it.”

“Now that you said that,” Yujin put his strawberry milk on his table, leaning between you two. “Yesterday, when I was leaving out to do the groceries for mom, Martin and his dad were discussing it; it looked pretty heated.” 

“Oh great, the menace is back.” You keep your eyes focused on what you were writing in your notebook, which consisted mostly of a to-do list of the day.

“Why do you act like this news is a normal Tuesday’s cafeteria menu?”

“Because that’s exactly what it is. Martin gets in trouble like he has been doing for the past couple of years, the teacher yells, and the earth spins. What else is new?”

Yujin chuckled, “Careful tho. Keep talking like that, and he might think you missed him.”

You whipped around, smacking the back of his head with enough power to bother him. “Don’t even joke.”

People kept entering the classroom, some were going straight to their friend group, others to get ready, and a few simply lay on the desk to sleep for a few minutes before the usual first day announcement. 

You grabbed your small makeup pouch so you could go to the restroom, standing in the middle sink and smiling at your polished reflection. Pulling the gloss, you painted your lips with a thin layer of gloss, the mascara was next to give volume to your eyelashes, and finally, some blush on your cheeks. 

When you were satisfied, you left the bathroom, fixing your pouch, crashing with someone, and dropping everything inside them, you could bet your blush was broken into pieces. 

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," you said, bowing as you rushed to at least some of the remains. 

"I can't believe the school role model is wearing makeup, breaking the rules already?" you sighed, still picking up your stuff, your mood completely dropping. 

"I take that back, I'm not sorry." You finally got up and looked at what was supposed to be Martin's height last year, your neck hurting slightly as you looked a little more up. Leeseo was right, he got unbelievably tall.

He was wearing a band tee with ripped jeans that looked twice his size, hanging on his hips like they were holding on for dear life. Scuffed Vans dragged slightly as he shifted his weight, the hoodie unzipped and frayed at the sleeves. His hair looked like he’d rolled out of bed on purpose, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips only made it worse.

The outfit made you know that he would be the reason for your headaches for another year.

“Martin Edwards,” you said flatly, clutching your pouch like it was armor.

“Still bowing to people in hallways. How cute,” he drawled back, his smirk spreading slowly with his hand shoved into his hoodie pocket.

“Still getting yelled at by teachers on the first day. How predictable.” You stepped sideways, but he shifted too, blocking your path with a lazy lean against the wall, watching you close your eyes, irritated.

“You know that I can’t help it if they’ve missed me.” He tilted his head. “Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

Your laugh came out louder than intended, calming down quickly. “Please. The place was finally quiet without you.”

“Quiet’s overrated.” You could see how his eyes flicked down, lingering on the glossy shine of your lips, making you look down briefly. “Besides, you look better with noise around.”

He leaned in slightly so you were the only one hearing. “Come on, Prez. Admit it. You missed me.”

“I miss the news of you moving to Canada.” You scoffed, you looked at his eyes, and you could see how that challenging look disappeared for a second.

“Damn.” He pressed a hand over his chest like you’d shot him. “Still ruthless with the comebacks. What happened to the sweet, polite, and lovely person?”

“She’s still here, she just doesn’t like you,” you shot back, already making your way out. He appeared next to you, the height difference even more noticeable. You stopped on your tracks, him copying you after. 

It was your turn to step forward, your chin high, although it didn’t make you look intimidating. “You’re going to make this year miserable, aren’t you?”

“Depends on how much attention you give me, pretty,” he said easily, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it was nothing, turning the tip of your ears slightly warm.

Before you could say something, the bell overhead rang, echoing through the hallway. The students started invading the hallways, brushing past the two of you with curious eyes.

You exhaled, finally brushing past him to go to your class to hide the pouch, coming back to see him waiting outside the class. “I’m making one thing clear. Give me some free time for our teachers scolding me because of you, I don’t want that on my record.”

You marched your way with your class, heels softly clicking. 

“Can’t promise that, Prez!” His voice followed you down the hall.

It was official, this was going to be a long senior year.

Four months passed like a blur, and just like you predicted, everything stacked up to you. Not even a week in, and the classes and teachers nominated you to be the president of the school council. You were about to give up that opportunity for the sake of a slightly peaceful year, but when your mom heard about it, she forced you to keep it, not turning back even when your dad tried to talk her through it. 

The school was quick to give you a list of activities you and the committee had to plan, and because of your last events as class president, students were quick to say the same sentence.

“We are having a prom AND a school trip? Y/N, you’re the best!”

Normally, the country itself wasn’t exactly used to having a prom the way other countries did, renting movies to watch on a Friday night was enough to plant the idea in every senior’s head, even yours, not believing that you were the one supposed to make it happen. Thankfully, the first big event on the calendar wasn’t prom—but the spring school trip.

With the help of Yujin’s mom, we secured a short trip of two nights in Gyeongju for the last week of October. 

It was 7 pm, and you were walking back home with the rented DVD of 10 Things I Hate About You, ready to drown in ramen and your blankets. The reason? You were tired of council meetings, study schedules, and Martin already racking up three warnings from teachers.

“Why are you in pajamas?” Leeseo surprised you by being in front of your house. 

“Because I’m staying at home…?” Your sentence sounded more like a question than you wanted it to, especially because Leeseo was standing at your gate with her backpack.

“Wrong answer,” she said, shoving past you. “Your mom thinks you’re staying at my house for a study-slash-sleepover. I’m telling you, she almost hugged me when I told her we are even reviewing college math problems.”

“What? Leeseo, I’m in pajamas. I bought snacks! I’m committed to my bed tonight.”

“You can change, and the snacks can wait.” She plopped the backpack on your bedroom floor before going straight to your closet, pulling out outfits that seemed fitting to fool your mom even more. “I’m not letting you waste your Friday night watching Heath Ledger for the 100th time.”

“Shut up.”

She threw your pink cardigan in your face. “Come on, your mom needs to see you leave like we are going to church."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Call me if anything happens, okay?” You nodded at your mom before she lightly hugged you. “Thank you for doing this, darling. I know you will match my baby’s commitment to college.”

Leeseo bowed down while you tried to hide your face, your head by lowering it. “Anything to get that 100, I will bring her tomorrow!”

You two started walking out, feeling the gaze of your mom behind you. “When we turn around here, Yujin and his brother are waiting for us.”

And just like she said, Hanbin and Yujin were there, opening the car right when they saw you two. “Were you two creating a summer season collection?”

“Quiet, Yujin. Hi Hanbin,” you said. Hanbin simply smiled at you.

“Where now, to our house?” Hanbin spoke, this time looking at Leeseo.

“Yes, we need to change her clothes,” you said, looking at her, confused.

“But why? I think it’s cute.” You looked down, a pink polo shirt layered under a pastel cable-knit sweater, khaki skirt, and pearl studs.

“Don’t get me wrong, it is cute, but it looks like you will hold a mass on the dance floor.” Now you laughed, already feeling at ease when the wind touched your face. “And then to Martin’s”

Once again, the mood turned down. “Wait—Martin? As in Martin Edwards?”

“Yes. Keonho texted me, and he said his mom’s gone, and his band has their amps set up in the garage. Apparently, half of the school’s going.” Yujin said, and that’s when you looked at Leeseo, who was actively trying to avoid your face.

“Oh my god! I love this song, turn it up, Hanbin!” she screamed.

The car ride to Hanbin’s house wasn’t long. Yujin’s house was empty when you arrived. Leeseo didn’t waste a second—the soft outfit was already in her backpack, so you can wear the black cropped baby tee with a rhinestone butterfly, a pleated low-rise denim skirt, and a chunky studded belt. Your makeup is slightly altered with the use of eyeliner, but since it was a style you have secretly wanted to try for a while, you enjoyed it. 

Leeseo opened the door of Yujin’s room. The second you stepped out, both brothers gasped. You rolled your eyes with your face burning at the attention. 

“Now that outfit is the one that will take your mom to a coma,” Yujin said. Hanbin punched him softly, and you simply laughed.  

It took a few steps to arrive there since they were neighbors, and the bass from the garage was already rattling the pavement. Cars were parked crooked along the curb, kids were sitting on the front lawn with red cups, and some of them, who you recognized as graduates, were drunk.

“This looks safe,” you muttered. Leeseo slipped her arm through yours.

“Relax, it’s just a party. Besides, Martin’s band is playing. It will be good.”

You rolled your eyes. “Martin’s band will probably sound like three lawnmowers in a blender.”

“That’s kind of the point.” 

The smell of cheap soju mixed with hairspray lingered in the air; there were some Christmas lights strung along the ceiling, casting the whole space in a warm glow. You moved between people to grab something to drink from the table. 

“Noona?” 

You turned around, half-expecting another stranger with either a can of soda or a red cup. Instead, it was Keonho—well, another version that was surely not the one you used to watch on council meetings.

It was almost comical the way your eyes widened at the same time, like you were looking at two entirely different people from the ones you’d last seen in pressed uniforms.

“...Keonho?” you blinked, scanning him from head to toe. “What are you wearing?”

Baggy jeans sagging low on his hips, showing a part of his boxers, a chain clinking against his belt loop, oversized sneaker, and a graphic tee layered under a half-zipped hoodie. His gel-free hair was messy, kinda like he came out of an MTV music video. He looked good, you had to admit.

Keonho gawked back at you with the same disbelief. “Me? Noona, look at your outfit.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, suddenly becoming hyperaware of your fit.

You crossed your arms defensively. “At least I don’t look like I lost a fight with my closet… but you look good, I guess.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair. But still… wow. Didn’t think you could look like that. It suits you.”

Before you could thank him, the garage speakers squealed as the music turned down. Keonho’s grin widened instantly. “Anyways, you have to come listen. Cortis is next.”

You arched a brow. “Cortis?”

“The band I joined!” he said, a happy smile showing his pride. “James is on drums, Juhoon’s rhythm, Seonghyeon on keys, I’m bass.”

“Oh, all of you sing?” you asked, following his steps to the garage.

“Sometimes, but the main singer—”

“What’s up, School of Performing Arts of Seoul!” Martin's voice resonated all over the place, the crowd screaming in response. 

“Keonho.”

“I know you don’t like him at all, but listen to us for a moment, we practiced a lot.” he did a small pout, you had to nod to see him smiling, and run to his bass. 

You scanned the group, eyes stopping on Martin, his guitar strap slung low and standing front and center.

“Thanks for being here. We’re Cortis, and we will do something old since classics never die.”

They surprised you by opening with a familiar riff of one of your favorite bands, blink-182. “All the small things” made the whole garage shake with the force of it, and you had to admit it—it didn’t sound half bad. They were all completely lost in their performance and interacting with people in the crowd who were busy nodding their heads and screaming their names.

The song ended, and the five boys were sweat-slicked and breathless, quickly grabbing a can of soda to quench their thirst. Martin left for a moment, arriving soon after to connect an acoustic guitar to the amps.

You audibly gasped when the familiar melody hit your eardrums. “Wonderwall”. 

You moved through the crowd to get a clearer view, spotting Leeseo and Yujin by the first rows, both singing along dramatically the wrong lyrics—you didn’t mean to reveal your love for rock music there, but after securing your spot next to your friends, your body moved first, soon the lyrics easily feel off your lips like you’d been waiting for that exact song all night, far away from your mother.

For the first time, you let yourself loose. They weren’t perfect; the performance itself was pretty raw to the point that the energy could be felt all over the place. Martin looked up mid-chorus, eyes landing on you. You could see how his eyes opened at the view of you enjoying the chaos he was creating. It felt like the noise dimmed, even just for a second, before he went back to singing his heart out.

The night stretched on with more covers, every single one better than the one before. Eventually, the closeness got too much, making you slip through the crowd and push the back door open, stepping outside after grabbing a can of soda. The cool night air hit your face like a relief, although the sound of crickets filling the silence that the muffled music left behind wasn’t exactly your cup of tea.

You exhaled, leaning against the side of the house, closing your eyes for a moment, finally feeling a little sense of peace after what was probably the longest year so far.

“You hiding, Prez?”

You startled, spinning around to see Martin also leaning against the railing, hair damp with sweat, a crooked smile painted across his face. Even outside, he carried the same reckless kind of confidence that made people look twice. 

“Not hiding,” you said flatly. “Just avoiding the noise pollution.”

“Funny that you say that, knowing how much you enjoyed back there.” His smile grew at the sight of you trying to play it cool.

You scoffed lightly, crossing your arms. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just… surprised you didn’t completely butcher the songs.”

“Ouch.” He chuckled, pushing off the railing to stand a little closer. “You’re tough to impress.”

“That’s not new information.” 

For a brief moment, he didn’t say anything — just looked at you. “Didn’t think I’d see you at one of my shows,” he said, quieter this time.

“Me neither. I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you said, the words coming out before you could even stop yourself. “Wasn’t Canada calling your name?”

You stood there waiting for a silly comment like he always does, just to see your irritating face. But there was nothing but silence, and you were smart enough to know you messed up.

He let out a soft laugh, a bitter one. “Yeah, it was.”

Your silence was a cue for him to continue, which even made you question why you suddenly wanted to hear the rest.

“My dad wanted me there, to finish high school there, the same high school he graduated from,” he said. “Said it’s ‘set me for the future.’, but while he was setting me up, he was setting someone else up too. In another country.”

You froze, for the first time, not having an answer to talk back.

“My mom knew,” he added. “She knew the whole time and just… kept living like nothing happened. So I decided to stay with the person I’m less angry at—while making him angry enough that I like music.”

"He wanted you to be something else when you graduated?"

"Electric engineer. Just like him, so I can help with his company." 

You suddenly remember the article that the principal showed one time — Edward Industries’ CEO invests in youth innovation — and the photo of Martin’s father shaking hands with people, smiling like his world was perfect.

“That’s… a lot to live up to and process,” you said quietly.

“Well, you know I’m not great at following instructions.” His lips twitched, but his usual smirk didn’t quite form this time.

You took a sip of the last part of the soda, swallowing it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know you hate me enough to not care.”

Your breath caught at the way he said it, like it wasn't a joke, but that stung a part of you. You look at him and, for the first time in your eyes, he doesn’t look untouchable or smug. He looked tired.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” you said softly.

“Don’t be. I’d rather be here playing and producing music with the boys and annoying you.”

You let out a small laugh. “You’re doing a great job at both.”

“Y/N! Are you here?!” 

You both turned toward the sound of Yujin’s scream echoing faintly from the other side of the yard. Flashlights from someone’s phone swung through the dark as your friends searched for you.

“Your friends are calling you,” Martin said, stating the obvious. You ran a hand through your hair and twisted it into a messy low bun. He watched the motion quietly, cheeks warming before he could stop himself.

You met his gaze again. “Good night, Martin.”

“Night, Prez.” He added, finally smiling a little bit. 

You started to walk away, then paused mid-step to look back over your shoulder.

“I don’t hate you,” you said. “I just hate that the only thing that damages my school profile is your warnings.”

He let out a chuckle, for real this time, his mouth now doing his familiar grin. “Then I guess I’m doing you a favor. Give your résumé some personality.” 

You blinked, completely caught off guard, before a laugh escaped you, making his grin widen.

“Hey! Don’t laugh!” he said, though the lack of bite in the tone betrayed him, too focused on the happiness that you radiated outside the school.

From a distance, Yujin called your name again, his voice half-drowned by the music. You turned to glance at the noise, still smiling as you stepped back.

Martin stayed where he was, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you go, putting his hand on his chest to calm it down a bit at the sudden racing of it.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Sitting again at your desk felt like hell. The summer break had been a blur, and what you wished to do the most—relaxing, catching up on your TV shows, and simply not thinking too much about high school—was replaced by college prep books and an endless to-do list dictated by your mother. You manage to sneak out with Leeseo and Yujin only once.

Long story short, you were practically glued to your desk. So the return to school felt more like a choker pressing even tighter around your neck.

“You guys won’t believe what I just saw!” Yujin entered the room, slamming the door closed before running to your spot.

“Yujin, tone it down! Drink some.” You gave him your water, practically chugging it down to ease his thirst.

“Thank you, I came here running as fast as I could.” 

“Couldn’t tell." The sarcasm in Leeseo’s voice made him narrow his eyes at her. “Say what you saw.” 

Before he could, the door slid open again, and a collective gasp rippled through the classroom.

Martin.

But it was Martin wearing the school uniform properly. Key word: properly. White shirt tucked in, tie actually knotted, blazer neat. The only nods to his usual style were a thick, silver ring on his index finger and the slight, purposeful messiness of his hair that framed his face.

He dropped his backpack onto his usual seat in the back, then strolled casually toward the front to grab a new syllabus. On the way back, he caught Yujin’s eye.

“Morning, Han, Leeseo, Prez.” he nodded coolly, taking a seat on the empty spot.

“That’s what I saw,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

Far from being discreet, Leeseo was already studying Martin, who was playing dumb and doing random poses. “I hate this. Bring back your ‘I hate the system’ attitude right now. That’s my only entertainment in this school.”

Martin looked up, grinning. “Can’t. I’m going for the rebrand. Gotta keep the audience guessing.”

You kept your eyes fixed on your notebook, pretending to write down something important, and you were hyper-aware of the space he occupied beside you.

Then came the knock on the wood right next to your pencil case. “Do I look good, Prez?”

When you finally risked a glance at him, it was enough to have the class eyes on both of you, especially his bold yet teasing stare. 

“You look like a normal student. Congratulations.”

The bell rang, and everyone began shuffling to their seats. Martin kneeled in front of you and leaned near enough to whisper, “Thank you, princess.” 

Yujin choked with the water again, and Leeseo was just there, wide-eyed and jaw on the floor. You froze, brain stuttering to find something coherent to say after that. It was well known that you hated nicknames like that, but why are you feeling your cheeks warming up so fast? The class started whispering. 

Days passed, but something about him had shifted.

He still sat in the back (mostly because of his height), still wore that lazy smirk when teachers called his name, but between the sarcasm and the half-lidded stares out the window, you caught him writing. Even more, he divided the notebook into two, where he had both school material and lyrics alongside some guitar chords. Once, you even saw the corner of a paper titled “CORTIS - Set Ideas!!” when you were delivering lesson papers.

He wasn’t slacking off anymore. He was trying.

And since he was trying, the warnings of your bad leadership were almost nonexistent. And it was weird, mostly because you didn’t know how to feel about it.

By the second week, the girls' bathroom was starting to fill with rumors.

“Cortis is joining the Battle of the Bands next month! I’m going to support Juhoon.” “Keonho and Seonghyeon are the youngest people to be there.” “If they go and win, they will break Hamlin's streak of three years.”

You overheard it all, pretending not to listen, but it was inevitable, the emotions for everyone there, since it’s their big “gig”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

At home, though, things stop being simple. Your mother had entered one of her “planning phases,” consisting of color-coded schedules of times to study for the college entrance exam, college catalogs spread across your desk.

“Mother, I’m home,” you screamed. You heard the footsteps of your mother coming from the kitchen. She even has more college catalogs in her hands.

“Y/N, I made a decision. You're going to apply for early admission.” You stopped, looking at her in confusion.

“I thought we agreed that I would not do that.”

“You need to focus. You have the grades; now you need the commitment. No distractions,” she reminded you for the fourth time that week. 

"Mother, I have all my study schedules already, and I'm on track for the mock exams. I'm literally planning the school's social calendar while keeping my GPA up. What more commitment do you need that you found the need to make that decision without consulting me?” you said, trying to keep your tone even.

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” she snapped, the papers in her hands hitting the table with a dull thud. “I know what’s best for your future. You don’t. You think organizing dances and trips for your classmates is going to help you get into Seoul National?”

You clenched your fists. “It’s not about that! It’s about the fact that you don’t trust me to handle my own life!”

“You’re seventeen, Y/N. You don’t even know what you’ll want in five years!”

“Because you’ve never given me the chance to figure it out!” you shot back before you could stop yourself, your voice breaking slightly. 

“I’m going to college and not mess it up like you!” Your mother’s palm slapped sharply on your cheek. 

“What’s going on here?!” Your father’s voice came from the hallway. You hadn’t even realized he’d arrived. But you didn’t care.

You pushed past him, tears already blurring your vision as you ran out the door. You could hear him calling your name, but his voice faded behind you, swallowed by the night air.

You didn’t care about your mom.

You didn’t care about the neighbors staring as you rushed down the street, barefoot in house slippers.

You didn’t care about the way your chest tightened with every breath you took.

You just ran.

And when your legs finally gave out, you found yourself in a quiet park. The street lights flickered faintly, the world spinning around you.

Your knees hit the ground first. Then came the sobs. You pressed your palms to the dirt as your body trembled, the sound of your breathing broken and uneven. For once, you couldn’t hold it in.

The pressure, the expectations, the endless need to be perfect, it all cracked open at once. You barely noticed the screams of a familiar tune until a shadow moved a few meters away.

“Y/N! Are you here?!” Martin’s voice didn’t even make you look up at him. The footsteps grew closer until you felt his presence. “God, what’s wrong—”

Your arms wrapped around him, crying even harder. The bag he’d been holding slipped from his hand, hitting the grass with a muffled thud. A few things rolled out, forgotten. 

He froze for half a second before his arms carefully wrapped around you as well.

“Hey… hey,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re okay.”

You shook your head against his chest, your sobs muffled by his hoodie. “No. I’m not. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just held you there as you cried, his hand moving slowly up and down your back. The only sounds were your uneven breaths and the faint rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

When you finally started to calm, he shifted slightly. Your eyes analyzed his face, the worry etched across his face—the kind you didn’t expect from him.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed hard, voice breaking slightly, “My mother.”

His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly to the faint redness on your cheek. You saw the flash of anger there. “There’s a bench there, go sit there.”

You did what he said, and when he came to sit next to you after picking up the stuff. He pulled a strawberry milk and gave it to you, thanking him.

“I saw you running,” he said. “I was leaving the supermarket, and I just followed. It looked like you were about to disappear.”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t.” His voice softened immediately. “You don’t have to apologize for crashing out.”

You drank up the milk, sighing after.

“I’m just so tired, Martin.”

“I know.” He glanced up at the night sky for a moment. “You don’t have to keep proving you can handle everything. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

You gave a small laugh. “That’s not really on my schedule.”

“Then it’s time to break it,” he said simply, his tone somewhere between teasing and kind. 

That actually pulled a real laugh from you and a faint smile from Martin. His hand brushed the dirt off his uniform pants before doing the same with your knees. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit here.”

You nodded, eyes still wet but calmer. “Thanks for following me, I guess.”

“Anytime,” he said. “Though next time, please don’t make me drop all my groceries.”

You two stayed there for a while; neither of you said anything. You just sat there sharing peace, a feeling none of you felt in a long time, and for different situations.

The night air had cooled a little by the time you both stood up from the bench.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the road. “I’ll walk you home before your dad sends a search party.”

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. The street was almost empty as you walked side by side, your steps slow and the sound of cicadas blending with the quiet, distant buzz of traffic.

“Again, I’m really sorry,” you said after a couple of steps. “I must have been a burden to you today.”

Martin glanced at you, his expression unreadable in the streetlight glow. “You needed someone to find you. That’s all.”

After a few more quiet steps, you sighed, kicking at a pebble on the pavement. “It’s just not my mother. Everything’s been… too much. The prom planning, the trip, the mock exams—it’s like I can’t breathe without having something due.”

Martin chuckled softly. “Leave it to you to get stressed about fun things.”

“They’re only fun when people actually help,” you said, exasperated. “Even if the committee is completely involved in those two things, the principal is bothering me. I’ve been running back and forth with the school board about budget approvals, and I swear, if one more teacher calls me responsible like it’s a compliment, I’m going to scream.”

“Then scream. I’ll join you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You? You’d probably turn it into a song.”

“Maybe I already did.”

You looked up at him, but he just shrugged. “We’re working on something for the Battle of the Bands,” he said. “Prize money isn't bad. Thinking of donating it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Donating? Since when are you that noble?”

“Since I found out how expensive renting a DJ, using massive decorations, and the food is,” he said, giving you a sideways glance. “Keonho is stressed with that too, and we figured if we win, we’ll put some of the money toward your prom fund.”

You blinked, taken aback. “You’d do that?”

“For the school,” he confirmed, but the grin that followed made it impossible to believe him. “Well… mostly for you.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head in disbelief. “And what exactly do you get out of that deal?”

He took a moment before answering, kicking at the pavement as if he were debating whether to say it. “A date.”

You stopped walking. “A what?”

“A date,” he repeated, meeting your eyes. “With you. Just one.”

You stared at him, heart skipping in that annoying wait it always did around him lately. “You’re joking.”

“Not this time.” His voice had softened, “I’ve kinda liked you for a while, Y/N. Like, since sophomore year, a while”

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The words and the mere sight of how he rubbed the back of his neck with the faintest flush creeping into his cheeks were enough to really blow you away.

“You probably thought I was just being annoying all the time… That was me trying to get your attention without, you know, getting expelled for it.”

You blinked at him. “Two years?”

He nodded, starting to walk again. “Two very long and humbling years.”

You looked away at the back of his figure, hiding the small smile that tugged at your lips. Once you reached him, you focused on looking straight.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied. “Just… let me win first. Then decide.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m a ridiculous guy with a plan,” he said, lightly swinging his hips to move your body. 

You reached your gate a few minutes later. The house lights were still on, the silhouette of your dad faintly visible through the curtains.

When you stopped, so he did, taking a look at your place for the first time. “You gonna be okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

He smiled. “Good. Don’t disappear like that again, okay? I can’t keep rescuing the class president from emotional breakdowns.”

You smirked faintly. “And here I thought you liked being the hero.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Maybe I just like you.”

You froze at the words. You saw how he shoved his hands into his pockets. 

“See you tomorrow, Prez.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

He started walking away. You stood there for a moment, heart beating way too fast for someone who’d just survived a meltdown. Your feet started walking fast to where he was.

“Martin!” He stopped instantly, turning on his heel. The look on his face was equal parts concern and confusion, the grocery bag still dangling from one hand. 

You walked up to him, stopping close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Your hand reached for his tie, pulling him down gently. 

On your tiptoes, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m really thankful,” you murmured.

Neither of you moved. His eyes widened slightly before that boyish grin spread across his face, causing you to smile back. You stepped back quickly, cheeks burning, and darted toward the gate before he could say anything else.

Once inside, you shut it softly behind you, leaning against the cool metal to steady your racing heartbeat and touching your lips. Curiosity got the better of you, and you peeked through the small hole in the wall that your dad refused to fix.

Martin was still there, frozen in place, and soon enough, he pulled his fist to the sky while walking away, or more like dancing away, down the sidewalk. “Let’s go!” you heard the scream, and you bit your lip, stifling a laugh of your own.

October came fast, mostly because your parents decided on an uncontested divorce and your dad got the apartment downtown. Yujin jumped when he found out it’s five minutes away from his house. The place felt quieter; your mother had thrown herself into work, and you into whatever kept you from thinking too much: school, council duties, and, against all odds, CORTIS.

Somehow, Martin had managed to stop getting detention every other week. He still mouthed off at the teachers sometimes, wore his ring and the smirk, but he wasn’t the same boy who used to skip class just to nap on the rooftop.

It was truly impressive, you saw how he actually took notes during math, how he waited for everyone after band practice instead of just storming off, how he asked the teacher questions about topics, and even delivered small notes on your desk, ones that make you happy, as if it was a normal thing to do.

Leeseo had caught all that and more, dedicating his free time to watching you watching him, whispering, “You’re so done for,” grinning and doing a couple of mimics with Yujin.

But of course, you denied it every time. 

Because no one needs to know that you were actually falling for him.

Still, when the last high school exam ended, everyone started spilling out of the classrooms, screaming “freedom!” the second the bell rang for the end of the day. Everyone stood up joyfully, and from the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Martin coming your way, a bag lazily hanging on his shoulder.

“Everybody listen up!” Yujin shouted, standing on top of a chair and waving his arms dramatically. “Today, it’s the Band of Battles. Let’s all go and support our beautiful high school and CORTIS as a last act of love to this place!” 

The whole class erupted in cheers, the rest of the students clapping at his words like he said something revolutionary.

Yujin’s friend, Gunwook, jumped onto a chair too, holding up his hand to point at Martin. “Martin, as the leader, pick a color so we can dress up.” 

Martin posed theatrically, pretending to think it through before his eyes looked at you. His grin softened as soon as his fingers brushed the small red bow pinned in your hair.

“I like red today.” The whole class went wild, but his eyes simply scanned the redness that the tip of your ears caught. You tried to act unfazed, but the way he smirked at you made your stomach twist. 

His mouth went near your ear, “You can wear whatever you like, you look good in anything.”

By the time the noise died down, so did your heartbeat when he left the classroom, mouthing, “I’ll see you there”. Everyone had plans and was starting to spread the word before heading home to change and go to the event.

You, on the other hand, had to stay behind, for quite a while, actually. 

While your classmates flooded out of the building, already buzzing about the performance, you found yourself sitting across from the principal for more than an hour, finalizing the last details for the senior trip next week. Each little break, you looked up at the clock hanging on top of the wall, sighing in relief when he thanked you for your dedication, which was a nice way to say “you work too much” and finally let you go. You were already late, and you at least wanted to arrive one act before the boys.

The hallways were nearly empty now, sunlight slanting through the windows in soft orange streaks. You smiled faintly when you passed a whiteboard where someone had scrawled “CORTIS = Victory!” alongside other words of encouragement.

Your chest felt a little lighter reading it, even making you pull out your camera to snap a picture so you can show it to the band through Keonho later.

You were halfway down the front steps when you saw a woman standing outside the school gates, elegantly dressed in a cream coat and hair pinned neatly back. Without losing the beat of your quick steps, you continued until you felt a presence near you and soon, a hand on your shoulder that made you jump.

“Excuse me,” she called gently, laughing awkwardly at your reaction. “Are you Y/N?”

You hesitated before nodding, “Yes… Do I know you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Martin’s mom.”

You blinked before bowing down; you didn’t expect his mother to look that elegant yet have such an expression that felt oddly familiar.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I’m the one I should say that, darling. I’ve heard about you,” she said. “Martin speaks of you more than he probably realizes.”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your face. “Thank you so much.”

“He’s changed lately,” she said. “He comes home earlier, studies, and seems steadier. And I know you might have something to do with that positive change.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. “Well, he’s been working hard in high school and for the band. You probably already know how much it means to him.”

Her smile faltered, just a tiny bit, before speaking again. “Yes, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About the band?” you frowned, already thinking of what she was about to say.

“Music has always been a phase for him. His father has great plans, engineering, university abroad, to be specific. I was hoping you could talk to him, convince him to take his future seriously again.”

That’s the moment you went speechless. Your mind works ten times faster to choose your words carefully. “With all respect, Mrs. Park. I don't think it's a phase, and I won’t do that. At all.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, confusion flickering on her face.

“I’ve seen him when he’s performing,” you said. “When he’s practicing with the band, when he’s writing lyrics on the back of his notebook, he’s not pretending; he looks alive doing that. It's not just a distraction for him; it’s who he actually is.”

You could see how the first crack in her composure showed, lips parted. “You sound just like him.”

“Maybe that’s because you both underestimate how much he cares about what he does,” you vented. “I get that engineering might have been his father’s and your dream. But music as a whole makes him happy. Whether it’s producing or singing, that’s how he wants to live his life.”

There was a silence for a moment, so you took that moment to inhale briefly and continue.

"Martin listens to music when he’s feeling stressed. He’s not into literature, but he writes such good lyrics that you might even think he’s becoming some kind of poet. And the way he looks when he’s playing? That’s him in his element.”

The woman lowered her head, sighing. “I just don’t want him to throw his future away. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“Maybe this is his future, it just doesn’t look like the one you two pictured.”

 “You’re a very smart girl, Y/N,” she finally said.

“I’m just honest,” you replied, offering a small smile.

“That’s even rarer,” she murmured. “I can see why he—” she stopped herself, simply smiling again, “Thank you for being good to him.”

An idea came to you, the backpack that was on your shoulder ended in the middle of you two, taking away the pamphlet Seonghyeon and James had given to promote, and extended to her. “He’s a good person, Mrs. Park. And just like how you believe in him to achieve the engineering future, believe and trust him with his.”

You bowed slightly when she took the paper, walking away to catch the bus that would take you home. Thankfully, you arrived safely.

You kicked off your shoes at the entrance, calling out, “Dad, I’m home!” before leaning down to kiss his forehead as he read through a newspaper on the couch with his work clothes still on.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said with a smile. “You look busy.”

“Always!” you shouted, darting into your room.

They were still scattered with open notebooks and the faint scent of highlighter ink, stuff you’d temporarily promised yourself to forget tonight.

After the divorce, your dad had insisted on helping you “reclaim the place.” He’d driven you to buy new clothes, helped you hang posters, and even tolerated the sparkly beaded curtain you’d begged to put on your door. For the first time in months, the room looked like yours, not your mother’s version of perfection. 

You took the quickest shower and got dressed in record time, the white camisole layered under a cropped denim jacket, a mini skirt with a rhinestone belt, and your sports shoes. A knock on your door made you look away from the mirror.

“Come in!” you called, picking some blush on your brush to put it onto your cheeks.

Your dad peeked in, smiling softly as he stepped inside. “Are you still getting ready?”

“Almost done, thanks for driving me there,” you replied, setting down the brush.

He chuckled and sat on the edge of your bed, looking around and whistling. “Wow, you’re really made this place your own.”

You smiled at his reflection in the mirror proudly. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“You also seem different lately. Happier.”

“Maybe because exams are over, both of us are in a good place, and I’m finally hanging out with my friends. Which, by the way, I’m grateful for.”

“Well, you deserve them since you’ve always worked hard,” he smiled. You felt that shift when he was done, suddenly suffocating.

He watched you for a moment, a teasing glint in his eyes. “So… what do you want to ask?” you said, already suspicious.

“Now, why do you think that?” he asked, laughing when you raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him leaning forward with a grin on his face. “What’s his name?”

The mascara wand ended halfway to your lashes. “What's whose name?”

“The boy,” he said simply. “And don’t tell me there isn’t one. I’m not blind. You’ve been smiling more, playing music in your room, and I’m pretty sure he’s the same boy who brought you home that night.”

You covered your face, groaning, feeling your cheeks getting warmer with each second. “Dad, please.”

“So I’m right,” he said, amused that his dad instincts didn’t betray him. “What’s his name?”

The small silence was broken when you sighed softly. “Martin.”

Your dad nodded slowly. “Is that the boy who’s in that band you mentioned, right?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying your best to sound casual. “He’s their leader, and he has been studying with me since middle school. Kind of stubborn. Really annoying sometimes.”

“Huh—” you could tell by how he was clearly unconvinced. “And what makes him so annoying?”

You opened your mouth—ready to list something—but nothing came. Instead, what slipped out was, “He doesn’t quit. Even when everyone expects him to.”

Your dad hummed softly. 

“And when he talks about music,” you went on, your mind planting words in a second, “he gets this look… like the rest of the world just disappears, he’s in his own happy place.”

You paused, but somehow the words kept coming. “He’s also funny,” you admitted, taking your hairclips to fix your hair with a smile tugging at your lips. “Not the kind that tries hard, it’s like, half of the time he says something and you can’t even tell if it’s a joke or he’s being serious. It makes you laugh anyway.”

You stood up to pick some rings to match the outfit, continuing to speak. “He’s kind, pretends he doesn’t care, but he remembers things. He smiles with his whole face, and when there’s something  he likes, he won’t stop until he gets it.”

“I thought you were saying something about him being annoying, right?”

Heat crept up your neck immediately. “I—That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Darling. It’s okay, I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Oh my God, please stop talking.” You took your essentials quickly and ran to the front door, waiting in the car immediately. 

The drive was calm, the windows cracked open, making the October air carry faint echoes of music from blocks away. The sunset was painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold.

He glanced at you as they stopped at a red light. “Sounds like you really care about him. And so does he.”

“I guess I do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

“I would love to meet him properly sometime,” you were about to protest, but he shushed you quickly. “No ‘buts’”

“Fine.” You both arrived at the youth center quite fast. The road was already lined with parked cars, students who didn’t receive a ticket and decided to enjoy from outside, a handful of paparazzi, and a lot of security.

You heard your dad’s whistle under his breath. “Looks like the whole district showed up.”

“It really does.” You clutched your bag a little tighter.

He slowed the car near the entrance, smiling as he glanced at you. “Are you nervous?”

You shook your head quickly. “Maybe a little.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“I’m not performing,” you laughed a little, confused.

He grinned, a hand on top of your shoulder. “Didn’t say you were. But I have a feeling something might happen.”

You rolled your eyes, unbuckled your seatbelt, and checked one last time that you didn’t forget the vip ticket Martin left on your locker.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, kissing his cheek.

“Anytime, sweetheart. Tell me if you’re going somewhere else, and tell Martin I said good luck!”

“Dad!” You heard his laugh as you walked away, turning around to wave him off before stepping into the noise of the crowd after safely passing security, although you almost fell after a few of them tried to fight security.

The venue wasn’t really one, more like a repurposed parking lot with a stage at one end and strings of lights hanging overhead. Students from different schools packed the space, every single one was excited, waving balloons from side to side or a flashlight.

“Y/N!” Leeseo appeared right in front of you, hugging you, and Yujin arrived a little later. “You just missed like two acts, Hanlim was even better than last year!”

“How did your meeting go?” Yujin asked, and a smile was more than enough for them.

“The trip is completely done, there are no problems.”

“Finally!” Yujin grinned. “We deserve that trip; this year has been trash.”

“Not for Y/N, she finally has a crush,” she sang, Yujin and Leeseo start poking your sides. “You know Martin’s going to show off.”

You rolled your eyes. “He always does.”

But your pulse quickened anyway when the stage lights flickered to red and you saw the MC going to the center of the stage, gaining a scream from the crowd.

“What a performance from Hanlim!” she said. A roar of cheers from a group of students startled you. “Let’s keep this energy up for the next group, from SOPA… give it up for CORTIS!”

The boys walked to the stage, the excitement and screams from the place feeding them. James settled behind the drums, spinning a stick in one hand. Juhoon adjusted his guitar strap, Seonghyeon’s fingers danced over the keys to test it, and Keonho flashed his familiar grin from behind his bass.

Then Martin walked out.

Graphic tee with layered chains, jeans slouching low, sneakers unlaced. Stage lights caught on his chain as he leaned into the mic. “What’s up, Seoul!” 

Cheers erupted again, a few girls screaming his name and the other guys. “Tonight, it’s a special night because we’re performing our self-produced song for the world to hear!”

Leeseo elbowed when you immediately started clapping and cheering.

“Enjoy yourself, love. You deserve this!” Martin started playing some guitar chords.

“Crash, smash, rock, mash up Ooh, take what you want 돈, 멋, 명예, love, and what? Ooh, take what you want.”

You remember hearing them practice bits of it during free periods when you walked by to give them some snacks and reminding Keonho about little details to fix for the trip.

Hearing it live was very different from it; all of the instruments crashed together in perfect sync, and you finally listened to all five singing together, which was uncommon for bands. Everyone was shouting along, even if they didn’t know the words. In a moment, Martin’s eyes found you. For that split second, you could feel your heart trying to escape from your ribs. 

“Some people want this, some people want that Same here, all seventeen years of my life.”

Martin started walking around to interact with people, standing in front of you three.

“Chased after love, chased after fame. So now I want the whole world to know my name.”

He winked at you, feeling it like a spark as heat rushed to your cheeks. Yujin started laughing at your face, and Keonho smiled teasingly at you.

A couple of minutes later, the song ended with a burst of applause, Martin running a hand through his hair before grabbing the mic again.

“Alright,” he said, breathless but grinning. “We’ve got one more for you.” 

He paused the moment his gaze found you immediately. 

You smiled faintly, catching the flicker of nerves in his eyes, and mouthed, “Breathe.”

He huffed out a laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting before turning his head to the band. Juhoon leaned into his mic.

“Go for it, dude.” The five boys laughed, Martin turning back to his mic.

“This,” he started, “is one of the many songs I wrote for this girl.” His eyes never left yours. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I’d have written any of them. 

You looked at Leeseo and Yujin on your side; they were smiling already. They knew this would happen.

He stepped back slightly, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder, and nodded toward the rest of the band. “It’s called ‘Iris.’”

"And I'd give up forever to touch you 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow You're the closest to Heaven that I'll ever be And I don't wanna go home right now."

The lyrics drifted through the air, and though he was looking out toward the audience, every few lines his gaze found its way back to you, long enough that it was impossible to look away.

He wasn’t performing anymore. He was confessing to you for a second time.

You felt your throat tighten, fingers twisting around the hem of your jacket, your heart beating full speed, and making you clear of one thing. You were completely in love with that person whom you thought you hated.

"And I don't want the world to see me 'Cause I don't think that they'd understand When everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am."

The crowd swayed with the melody, arms raised, voices echoing when they learn a little piece of the song. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he smiled at you mid-line. The final chorus exploded, lights flashing, the crowd roaring. Martin’s voice cracked slightly on the last note—and somehow, it made it perfect. You screamed at the very end, chanting with your friends, “CORTIS!”.

The five joined Martin, bowing down in gratitude with big smiles on their faces. Juhoon was teary-eyed, and you could tell that it moved the rest of the members as they walked out. The MC came back, impressed.

“Wow! Cortis really wants the money. We will have a five-minute break so the judges can decide.”  

Leeseo grabbed your arm, eyes wide. “Y/N… I think you just got serenaded.”

“Go see him.” Yujin pointed at the small hallway you could go to. You looked at him, panicking.

“Like now?”

“Yes!” Both of them pushed you there, moving for a couple of minutes before you reach it. You waited for the security to get distracted to enter there, closing it as fast as you opened it.

At a distance, you saw Martin laughing while watching James and Keonho jumping in happiness, James even half-yelling something about “not missing the last chord for once.”

You slipped past the curtain, unsure whether to find him or run before someone teased you for looking like you belonged there.

“Noona!”

Too late. You turned just in time to see Seonghyeon spot you instantly. 

His shout was loud enough to catch the attention of all five.

“Prez!” Keonho was the first to move, practically launching himself into your arms before you could even react. “What do you think, Prez?”

You laughed, stumbling back half a step under his weight. “I think you’re all still dangerously hyper.”

“We totally killed it, what do you mean?” Juhoon cut in proudly, slinging an arm over Keonho’s shoulders. James raised his drumsticks triumphantly in agreement, and Seonghyeon grinned from behind the keyboard setup, already pretending to wipe sweat off his brow dramatically.

You shook your head fondly, brushing hair from your face. “You guys were amazing. Really.”

He was standing a few feet away, hair damp with sweat, guitar strap still hanging loose at his side. The grin he wore was boyish, tired, and radiant all at once.

“Occupational hazard,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “So? How’d we do?”

“You’re asking the school council president for a review?” you teased.

“I trust your judgment,” he said simply. 

“More like his crush judgment,” Seonghyeon spoke, hissing later after Juhoon pinched him.

“Can you leave us alone for a sec?” Martin looked at James.

“You all heard him! Step back, ladies,” you laughed at the funny view of them trying to listen.

The grin softened before becoming quiet again. “So?”

You exhaled, letting yourself smile despite yourself. “You were amazing, Martin. Really.”

He froze for a heartbeat, eyes lighting up. “You mean that?”

You nodded. “Every word.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pretending to play it cool, but the faint flush at the tips of his ears betrayed him. “Guess that means I can cash in on my deal.”

You frowned. “Deal?”

“The one where if we win, you owe me a date.”

You scoffed, trying not to grin. “You haven’t even won yet.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “We both know we’re not walking out of here without that trophy and cash.”

You were about to fire back something smart when the loudspeaker crackled to life outside.

“All bands, please gather near the stage! Results will be announced!”

He looked at you and smirked. “Come on, front row like before, Prez.”

The crowd was electric again when you came back, students pressing closer to the makeshift stage, voices rising in chaotic chants. Hanlim High’s band stood on one side, exhausted but smiling; CORTIS stood on the other. You could sense the adrenaline pulsing through their little group.

You stood with Leeseo and Yujin near the barricade, your heart weirdly hammering even though you weren’t the one competing. You three held hands.

“And the winners of this year’s Battle of the Bands…” the announcer said, drawing it out. The entire lot went silent for a breath.

“…CORTIS!”

The explosion of sound was immediate.

Students screamed, threw confetti, jumped, and cheered so loud you could barely hear the band’s name being repeated over the speakers. Keonho dropped to his knees, James banged a drum in celebration, and Juhoon lifted his guitar triumphantly in the air.

Martin just stood there for a second, blinking in disbelief as he grabbed the big cardboard check before looking toward you through the chaos.

You clapped your hands over your mouth, laughing, and he broke into the brightest smile you’d ever seen. Then, like it was instinct, he pointed right at you before turning to grab the mic.

“This one’s for SOPA High, and for the people who never stopped believing in us!” he shouted. “Especially one of them.”

Leeseo smirked beside you. “If you don’t date him soon, I will.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply because Martin had already jumped off the stage into the crowd, swallowed by a sea of cheering hands and students trying to high-five him. You decided not to bother the moment by moving near a corner to breathe properly with Leeseo next to you, who was almost suffocating.

Later, when the crowd started thinning, people made plans to celebrate at a nearby karaoke place. Banners were torn down, the lights dimmed, and laughter filled the streets as everyone drifted away in groups.

You were helping Yujin pick up some discarded signs when you noticed Martin slipping away from the commotion, walking towards you with a smile. Before he could reach you, he paused, looking right behind you.

Following his gaze, you saw her.

His mom.

Standing near both of you, clutching her bag, and if your vision wasn’t playing, you could see her eyes wet from what she’d just watched.

Martin froze when he saw her. For a second, he looked like a little boy again, before taking a slow step forward to be next to you.

“Mom,” he said quietly.

She smiled faintly, her voice soft. “You were incredible.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You… came?”

“I had some help,” she said, glancing to your side, and your heart skipped when you realized she meant you.

Martin turned slightly. You gave a small bow before stepping back.

“I will give you two some space,” you bowed again before walking to where Leeseo and Juhoon were standing. 

When he looked back at his mom, her eyes were already glistening.

“I see what she meant,” she said.

He frowned slightly. “What did who mean?”

“Y/N,” she said. “She told me that music isn’t your rebellion, it’s more like your peace.” Her voice trembled slightly, but her smile didn’t waver. “She was right. You looked… happy. Really happy.”

Martin swallowed hard. “Mom…”

“I’ve been thinking about something for months,” she continued, clutching her purse tighter. “And after tonight, I think I've finally made up my mind.” She paused, steadying her breath. “I’m going to file for divorce.”

His eyes widened in surprise, a sudden feeling of relief occupying his whole body. “You’re serious?”

She nodded. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine. And I think you, your father, and I both deserve honesty, even if it hurts.”

Martin’s throat tightened. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”

Her smile wavered, tears finally spilling over. “No, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t hesitate, just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. This was the first time in a while he gave and felt a hug that was that tight and overdue. 

After a while, she pulled back and brushed his hair from his forehead, her voice quiet. “You’ve grown up so much. And that girl… she’s good for you.”

Martin blinked, glancing instinctively toward where you stood, half-hidden behind the fence. You were talking to Leeseo, occasionally looking at him with your smile.

“She’s a great girl,” his mom added softly. “Don’t let her slip away.”

He smiled, that same shy, crooked smile that only ever showed up when it came to you. “I won’t.”

“Cortis and friends!” she screamed, not even willing to bat their eyelids. “Grab your stuff and get in the car, food is on me.”

As his mom turned to leave for the car, he looked back toward you again. You were laughing now as you watched James running at the word food, the streetlights glinting off your red bow as you tucked your hair behind your ear.

And for the first time in a long while, Martin didn’t feel like the boy running away from everything. He felt like someone finally heading toward something worth staying for.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The school courtyard was anything but calm. Countless rolling suitcases, half-zipped duffel bags, and sleepy students chugging canned coffee like their lives depended on it to keep awake for at least of the way there.

After a weekend of endless messages about CORTIS’ victory on Cyworld and your classmates posting grainy flip-phone photos of Martin grinning with the trophy, it felt surreal that it was finally trip day. The band made sure they cashed the prize and gave you a big amount for the prom if they got to perform again, which you obviously agreed to.

You adjusted your backpack and sighed as Leeseo ran up to you, waving a folded permission slip.

“Can you believe they’re trusting us with three whole nights away from supervision?” she grinned.

“Please,” you said, smiling faintly. “You know half the teachers are going to patrol the halls like spies.”

Yujin jogged up behind her, yawning. “I’m only here for the free breakfast buffet.”

“You’re here because you begged to be in my room,” Leeseo shot back.

“Prez!”

You turned instinctively, only for Keonho to appear out of nowhere, blocking your view with a grin too wide to be innocent. Last time he gave you that type of smile, you were in the director's office.

“Morning!” he said brightly, holding a carton of banana milk. “You want one?”

You frowned, eyeing him. “You hate banana milk.”

“Do I?” He glanced down, pretending to think. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

Before you could answer, Juhoon popped up behind him. “Y/N! Quick question: if a band wins something again, should the prize money go into savings or celebration snacks?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Snacks,” James said immediately, dragging his suitcase past.

“Definitely savings,” Seonghyeon countered.

“Hold on, I didn’t even—”

“Exactly!” Keonho interrupted, looping an arm through yours. “We are the only ones who can settle it. Come on, let’s walk and talk, far away from the buses.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you guys up to?”

“Nothing,” they chorused, which was, of course, the most suspicious answer possible.

By the time you reached the front of the boarding area, the CORTIS boys had somehow managed to keep you talking about everything from “the ethics of snack budgeting” to “who snores the loudest during overnight trips” (it was apparently James).

Every time you tried to glance toward the loading buses, one of them moved strategically into your line of sight.

“Okay,” you said finally, crossing your arms. “What’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ again.”

Before you could press further, the teachers started calling everyone to board.

“Saved by the bell,” Seonghyeon muttered, pushing his suitcase forward.

You squinted suspiciously at all four of them. “You’re all terrible liars.”

Keonho only winked. “We learned from the best.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling as you followed them onto the bus.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The trip flew by in a blur of beach air, sightseeing, and several promposals that only happened when a hundred high school seniors were given freedom for three days straight and allowed their use of free will. You even helped out with Yujin’s promposal to Leeseo, to which she accepted happily.

You found yourself laughing more than you had in months, mostly because the CORTIS boys had taken it upon themselves to make every activity as dramatic as possible.

At lunch, James accidentally tripped and dropped an entire tray of kimbap, dramatically claiming it was “artistic sacrifice.” Juhoon tried to serenade a teacher with a guitar for bonus points on attendance. And the best for last was probably Keonho and Seonghyeon attempting to sneak extra dessert for everyone, only to get caught by the cafeteria lady, who then gave them more because she found them “charming.”

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somehow, their energy became the highlight of the trip.

Every so often, though, you caught Martin watching you from across the group, who you were impressed by how distracted he looked all this trip, exchanging some words with you now and then.

On the last night, during the “recreation period,” the teachers announced everyone could stay in the courtyard area to watch the sunset and enjoy the small outdoor stage. 

You and Leeseo were sitting near the front, sharing a pack of chips on a break after a small duet given by Wonbin and Liz.

“Yujin, what are you moving your head like a meerkat? You’re stressing me out.” Leeseo’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Okay, don’t freak out, but I think something is happening.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, already getting stressed out. You might have changed a little bit, but you were still a little perfectionist.

Music started playing from the speakers, and your mind instantly recognized the familiar brass riff it had.

“You’re just too good to be true…”

Your jaw dropped at the voice of Martin. “Leeseo, is this real?.”

“Oh, yes,” Leeseo whispered, eyes sparkling. You didn’t notice how she was holding a recording camera, pointing it at you.

Martin opened the curtain that worked as a background on the stage, his gaze fully on you. Martin jumped off the stage, mic in hand, grinning as he began to sing the classic with over-the-top theatrics.

“Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

He pointed at you on the last word, and everyone screamed.

You covered your face, but it was useless. Martin was committed. He climbed onto one of the benches, sang to the teachers (who pretended not to laugh), and even slid down on one knee in front of a startled Yujin, who dramatically clutched his heart.

The entire class was upside down as the music built. He ran up the small aisle and stopped right in front of you.

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Martin—”

He was interrupted by singing directly to you, his grin wider than ever.

“I love you, baby, and if it’s quite alright…”

You buried your face in your hands, but he gently pulled them away, still singing. The crowd clapped along to the beat, the boys behind him quickly moving. Martin spun around, giving a cue to Juhoon to give him a flower bouquet to go again in front of you, kneeling on one knee.

When the song finally ended, Martin was breathless, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, but his eyes never left yours.

Behind him, James and Seonghyeon were holding a banner, the phrase: “I may not be Shakespeare, but I promise prom with me will be a sonnet.”

The entire courtyard went silent. 

He held the mic higher, the faint tremor in his hand betraying the adrenaline rushing through him. Despite the wide grin on his face, you could see his chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“So…” he said, catching his breath. “I think it’s pretty obvious what my feelings about you are.” 

“You drive me insane, make me want to be better, even when I swear I don’t care about anything.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “But I do. I care too much, especially when it comes to you.”

A few students in the front row let out small gasps, someone whispering, “Oh my god, he’s serious.”

Martin looked down for a second, the mic brushing against his lip as if he needed that pause to steady himself. When he lifted his head again, there was no smirk this time.e

“Maybe you don’t see it yet despite me saying I had this crush on you that night,” he said, voice softer now, “but when I look at you, it’s like the noise stops. And that’s saying something, coming from me.” The crowd laughed gently, and even you couldn’t help the small smile that broke through your shock.

Then he tilted his head, eyes glinting. “So yeah,” he said, tone dipping back into that familiar warmth, “I had to do this your way because words weren’t cutting it anymore.”

The crowd burst into cheers again, clapping and whistling, chanting your name and his. You were still processing the words, your heart thudding painfully fast, when he looked straight at you again, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“So, Y/N,” he said, almost shyly this time, pointing at the banner behind him that was shaken by the boys, “will you go to prom with me?”

The crowd collectively held its breath.

You blinked, stunned, then let out a shaky laugh. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

He grinned, his breath still uneven, voice hoarse from the singing and the nerves.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You looked at him, the boy who’d spent half a year driving you crazy and the other half trying to make you smile. Your hand brushed against his as you took the bouquet. “Martin,” you said softly, eyes meeting his, “yes. Of course I’ll go with you.”

The courtyard erupted—cheers, applause, a few whistles from the back. Juhoon and James started playing the outro riff again, and Keonho let out a triumphant, “She said yes!” into the backup mic.

Martin blinked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Wait—really?”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest. “Really.”

For a moment, he just stared, then he exhaled, his smile breaking into something so bright it made your stomach twist. “I’m—uh—wow. Okay.”

The boys were already pushing him forward, shouting for him to say something cool, but he just chuckled helplessly, scratching the back of his head. 

“Hug each other, idiots!” Yujin screamed, and before you could react, Martin’s arms wrapped around you, lifting you clean off the ground.

Your surprised laugh got lost in the roar of the crowd. He spun you once, just enough for your shoes to leave the pavement, and when he set you down, your heart was racing far faster than it should’ve

As the music picked up again, his hand reached out instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. He looked like he wanted to say more—so much more—but instead, he whispered, “See you at night, Y/N.”

Your frowned. “Wait, what?”

Before you could demand an explanation, Leeseo grabbed your wrist. “No time for questions—let’s go.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, stumbling after her.

She only grinned. “Operation ‘Date Night,’ obviously.”

“Excuse me, what?”

Yujin was waiting near the dorms, arms crossed like an overexcited manager. “Martin’s orders. You’re not allowed to show up in a school jacket in a romantic setting. Leeseo, you know what to do.”

“On it,” she said, pulling you inside.

Ten minutes later, your room looked like a battlefield of denim, perfume, and lip gloss.

Leeseo had raided your bag, holding up two outfits with the seriousness of a stylist dressing an idol.

“Okay, option one: the floral skirt and cardigan combo. It’s cute, safe, and very student council president. Option two…” She tossed a bundle at you. “Something that’ll make him forget his own lyrics.”

You gave her a look. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re welcome.”

Leeseo was taking her sweet time; everything she was doing was slow and steady, keeping you busy with prom details and suggesting matching colors and opinions for her and Yujin for the event. Which also made you think if Martin is into matching colors.

When you finally looked in the mirror, the second Leeseo screamed in joy, you barely recognized yourself. The simple denim skirt paired with a white tank layered under a cropped cardigan, your hair loose and soft around your shoulders. A thin silver necklace rested at your collarbone.

“Thank you, Leeseo.” You hugged her tightly.

“Anything to see you leaving this school with your first boyfriend and have your first kiss.” You laughed at her tease, face turning red. You left the dorm to start walking to the place, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, and you were sure that it was leaving behind streaks of rose and violet across the water.

When you reached the beach, fairy lights were strung between two wooden poles, flickering softly. A small speaker played a slow guitar riff, so it was clear he was there.

And there, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket with a basket on his side, was Martin.

He wasn’t dressed like the usual; he decided to wear a plain white tee layered under an open gray button-up, dark jeans cuffed at the ankles, and a simple silver chain that glinted every time he moved. His sneakers were scuffed, but clean, and his hair still messy from earlier, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it because he knew you’d recognize him anyway.

He looked up as soon as he heard your footsteps, that same lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” you said, trying not to sound as breathless as you suddenly felt. “So this was your mysterious ‘see you tonight’ plan?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Yeah. The guys helped. Keonho almost set the lights on fire, but we made it work.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you sat beside him. “This is… nice.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying not to look too eager.

“Yeah,” you said softly, your gaze drifting toward the waves. “Really nice.”

He exhaled, shoulders dropping. “Good. I was worried it’d feel too much.”

“Not at all, Tin,” he laughed at the nickname.

For a while, you talked about everything and nothing while eating. The songs they were writing, the stress of exams finally being over, minus the one for college, and how Leeseo had forced you to change outfits under threat of “fashion failure.”

Martin was quieter than usual. His usual sarcasm softened into warmth, his eyes flickering between you and the sea from time to time.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” you said at one point, voice gentle.

He shook his head. “I wanted to. I just… wanted you to have a night that wasn’t about expectations or responsibilities. Just… you.”

That made you look up, startled, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

The wind tugged at your hair, and he reached forward instinctively like before, brushing it back behind your ear. His hand lingered, thumb grazing your jaw as his breath caught.

“Martin…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t move away either. His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if he were fighting himself.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, half to himself. “Not unless you—”

Your heart stuttered. “Unless I what?”

He smiled faintly. “Unless you’d actually let me.”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, a loud crash echoed from behind the dunes.

“REALLY YUJIN?!”  Keonho’s voice.

You both jumped apart, laughing in disbelief.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, covering your face. “They were spying?”

Martin ran a hand through his hair, chuckling. “I told them to stay in their rooms.”

Another yell followed. “Did they kiss yet?”

You looked at each other, bursting out laughing, really laughing, until your stomach hurt and the tension melted. Martin leaned back on his hands, still smiling. “Guess they saved us from doing something we’d probably overthink later.”

You nudged his shoulder. “Probably.”

He turned to you again, that same soft look from the concert flickering across his face. “Still,” he said quietly, “you make overthinking kind of worth it.”

Your breath caught, but you just smiled. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teased.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes. “Here I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Martin and you got closer than ever, and even though it wasn’t official yet, not even your father could deny the chemistry between you two. You spent afternoons studying together, stealing glances over textbooks, and laughing about how far you’d come. The bond grew quietly, in the little things: late-night calls, going out with all of them, and the way he always walked you home after those little evenings, even when it meant taking the long route.

By the time November came around, the entrance exam was long over. The pressure had finally lifted, replaced by a sense of pride and relief. To your fortune, you’d gotten the scholarship for the career you’d always dreamed of, and everyone couldn’t be prouder. 

Graduation day was full of bittersweet smiles. You got your physical pictures, one of you and Martin, standing close with your caps tilted while he carried you, another with your best friends, not leaving behind Keonho and Seonghyeon, who came to see you all six of you graduate. All of you are holding onto that perfect moment before life pulls you in different directions. 

“Can you please stop looking at the picture with your boyfriend and help me with my hair like you promised?” You turned your head to see Leeseo struggling to remove the hair rollers. 

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yet,” she moved her eyebrows up and down, happily seeing the look on your face.

Leeseo had barged into your room hours earlier, armed with curling irons, body glitter, and enough lip gloss to coat a car. Your bedroom floor was a battlefield of shoe boxes, safety pins, and half-zipped purses.

“Thank you, now turn so I can help you,” she ordered, tugging at the straps of your satin dress. It was simple but elegant. Soft champagne color, an a-line skirt, and a ribbon that tied at the back. Your silver necklace gleamed faintly at your collarbone, the same one you’d worn at the beach.

“Leeseo, I think my ribs can’t breathe,” you muttered.

“That’s how you know it fits,” she said, completely unfazed. “Now smile. You’re about to make a boy combust.”

“Stop,” you groaned, cheeks already heating.

By the time you finished curling your hair, the doorbell rang, making you both freeze in place.

“They’re here,” she whispered dramatically.

Leeseo grabbed her clutch, smoothing her pastel blue dress. “You ready?”

You exhaled slowly, heart fluttering. “As I’ll ever be.”

When you opened your bedroom door, your father was already downstairs, peeking through the hallway mirror before unlocking it.

The door swung open to reveal Yujin and Martin. Yujin wore a pale gray suit that was clearly too tight around his shoulders, and Martin… Martin was in a black suit jacket over a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, and his signature silver chain glinting faintly at his collarbone. His hair was swept back loosely, enough to look polished without losing that “Martin” edge.

You heard your dad talking. “Ah, so these are the young men I’ve been hearing about.”

“Sir,” Yujin said quickly, bowing with his usual charm. “We promise to bring your daughter back before midnight.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. “You'd better. I know where the school is.”

Martin laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I will tell my mom that, sir.”

Then you appeared at the top of the stairs, and for a second—just a second—Martin forgot how to breathe.

He’d seen you in a thousand different ways: annoyed, serious, focused, laughing. But this was new, and it surely made his pulse stutter.

You hesitated halfway down the stairs. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said quietly, eyes following you until you reached the last step.

Leeseo descended right behind you, looking stunning in her powder-blue dress, immediately elbowing you when she caught Martin staring.

“Alright, everyone,” your dad said, breaking the silence with a teasing smile, “before you leave, I need a photo. This is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, you don’t see this in Seoul.”

“Dad—” you began, but he was already grabbing the camera from the counter.

“Line up,” he ordered.

Yujin and Leeseo posed first, grinning widely. Then he waved at you and Martin. “Your turn.”

You exchanged a helpless look with Martin before stepping closer. His hand brushed yours until your dad adjusted the frame.

“Closer,” he said. “You two look like you’re taking an ID photo.”

Martin chuckled softly, sliding an arm around your waist. His hand rested lightly against your back, and you swore your heartbeat could be heard across the room.

Your dad smiled behind the camera. “There we go. Perfect.” Click.

The flash went off, and you both blinked, still standing close, when he lowered the camera.

“Beautiful,” your father said warmly. “Now go, before you make me cry.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “We’ll see you later, Dad.”

“Have fun, sweetheart,” he said, then glanced at Martin with mock seriousness. “Be safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said, smiling.

“You clean up well,” you said, forcing a casual smile.

“You too. Didn’t know the Prez had a gown in her closet.”

“Didn’t know you owned a shirt with buttons.”

“Touché.”

Yujin cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, that’s enough flirting for the driveway. Mrs. Park’s waiting!”

You turned to see Martin’s mom, sitting in the front seat of her car, waving with a proud smile. “Come on, kids!”

She looked radiant, freer than she had the last time you’d seen her. When you climbed in beside Leeseo, she glanced back at you through the mirror. “You both look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you said, touched.

The car rolled up to the school gym, saying goodbye to his mom before going inside with your arm wrapped around Martin’s. The windows were glowing gold from the string lights inside that were giving out the theme “Golden Memories.” You could already hear the song mix the DJ was creating on the spot.

“I can believe the committee pulled this off,” You smiled proudly, thankful for the art club's offering to help out with the decorations art club did. 

“Not bad for a bunch of overworked seniors.”

“You guys are late!”

James started to have his arms, Keonho, Seonghyeon, and Juhoon at his sides, waving calmly near the entrance. You find it funny how James’s tie was crooked, Juhoon was trying to help him fix it, and the other two were holding a notebook that you recognized as Martin’s. 

“Nice of you to dress up, boys,” Martin called, grinning.

“Dress up?” Seonghyeon huffed, “It’s not even my graduation, and I look better than the three of you.”

“You girls look great.” Keonho smiled, walking up to hug you first before going to Martin’s.

“Our leader is all grown up. Wearing a tie, bringing a date… next thing you know, he’ll start paying taxes.”

“Don’t curse me like that,” Martin laughed it off.

You looked at Yujin and Leeseo. Despite laughing it off and teasing like usual, it was no news that it was their last big night as CORTIS before graduation. And although they were really committed to the band and set a goal to go a long way, it was their last performance in high school before life pulled them in different directions.

Seonghyeon must’ve felt it too, because when he clapped Martin’s shoulder, his voice wavered slightly. “Let’s have fun today.”

“Oh, we will have fun.” A song started playing, and Leeseo dropped Yujin’s arm.

“Come on, we’re not wasting a good song!” She immediately dragged you to the dance floor, feeling Martin’s gaze behind you.

Leeseo’s infectious energy made you join after a moment of hesitation; even the boys joined in after a few songs. Everyone lost count of how many songs they danced and went inside the circle, and by the time the slow songs rolled in, everyone started to pull their partners.

You were about to sit down, but you caught Martin’s eye once. He smiled at you while excusing himself to cross the floor toward you. The lights dimmed, and your teacher took the stage with a mic in hand.

“Okay, everyone. We are going to do this quickly. Let’s announce your prom king and queen. I need the president of the student council to come to hand the crowns.”

You left Martin to pick up the cushion that had both crowns and stay at the end of the stage.

“To remind all of you, the voting was done by taking paper and writing the name of the person you thought was suitable for the title. Let’s start by naming the king.” 

He flipped the card, sighing at the result. He paused for effect. “Martin Edwards.”

Your jaw dropped, watching your friends go wild, shoving him forward as he was in disbelief. He walked to the stage, standing in front of you. You took the crown to neatly put it on top of his head.

“Congratulations, Tin,” he smiled, walking away to stand behind the teacher.

“Now, to our prom queen…” he repeated the pause from before. “It’s my honor to say this. Y/N!”

You blinked, the spotlight turning toward you and your shocked face. Martin went to you quickly, taking your crown and putting it on top of your head. He threw the cushion away to take your hand, interwining your fingers.

“Was this planned?” you said, laughing, slightly red from embarrassment.

“I don’t know. But I guess that makes you my queen tonight, huh?” he teased.

“Don’t push your luck,” you smiled.

“Now, the king and the queen will slow dance. Students, the floor is yours.” The crowd began to sway, and Martin offered his hand, his usual cockiness melting.

“May I have this dance, Your Majesty?”

You tried not to laugh as you placed your hand in his. “Fine. But don’t step on my dress.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said, grinning.

As you both stood in the middle, his hands sat at your waist politely. Thanks to the heels, you could reach enough to wrap your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the back of his hair.

“Can’t believe I came with the queen of prom.”

“Say the king himself, I think we are both lucky,” he smiled. Neither of you spoke for a moment; the song made you replay some memories you had with your friends, and soon enough, with Martin.

“You know,” he murmured finally. “I never really liked dances, even more the ones where my mom used to force me to go for her work.”

You looked up, amused. “Why’s that?”

“Because I never had anyone worth dancing with.” Since you didn’t know what to say, you let yourself sway with him. Your head rested lightly against his chest.

You didn’t even realize that your friends and more couples joined in. You noticed when the music started to fade away. Martin cursed under his breath, looking at you.

“Is it time for your performance?”  

“Yeah, I’ll be back. I promise,” he took your hands from his neck, kissing the top of them before going to the stage. You looked to your left, seeing Yujin and Leeseo smiling at you.

“What are you thinking?” you sighed, lovestruck.

“On how I will confess to him after this.” Both of them stopped their moves, the tap of the mic being tested rebounding on the gymnasium. 

“We still have a little more than half an hour to end this night. And before we wrap up, let’s welcome CORTIS to the stage.”

The applause was quick to come, them moving on the stage, exchanging nods between them. Martin stepped forward while everyone got their instruments ready.

“Hey, everyone,” he said. “We didn’t plan to play tonight, but this is our last time together before we graduate. So… this is for all of you. For the friend who stuck around, the teacher who, although I knew I wasn’t particularly his favorite student,” the place laughed softly. “They still listened and advised us with warm hearts.”

He paused for a minute, looking at the boys whose eyes were probably as glossy as his. “This is not the end, but a little break before we go all in. Keonho. Seonghyeon, hope we can play at your graduation, and thank you for trusting the band.”

They started with two of their own songs, dancing along with everyone and screaming the songs at the top of their lungs. Energy was never missed when it came to them, even more since they played like it was the last thing they’d ever do, and maybe in a way, it was.

When the applause finally died down, Martin took a sip of water with his members, stepping back to the mic afterward.

“Thank—”

“Wait!” James stopped Martin, who was as confused as the rest of the place, minus the four boys. “There’s one more song.”

Martin walked to him with the rest behind them, covering his mic with his palm. Quickly returning after some clarification.

“This is a surprise,” he stated. “I wasn’t supposed to release this song this soon. I want to thank you guys for creating the instrumental and letting me perform this, and I want to thank my muse for inspiring me to write this song. This is called ‘Everlong’”

The keyboards started, his voice filled the room, and after a couple of verses, Seonghyeon joined.

"And I wonder When I sing along with you If everything could ever be this real forever If anything could ever be this good again The only thing I'll ever ask of you You've got to promise not to stop when I say when She sang."

You simply stood there, digesting the lyrics while people danced to the beat. You didn’t cry until the last note faded, applauding with a smile on your face. Yujin and Leeseo stood to your sides and then watched the boys on stage, officially tearing up.

You feel bad to realize how loved you were by your friends, and how much you had taken Martin’s silent warmth for granted.  He was loud and proud about his feelings for you, even if the tactic at first wasn’t that clear; he later never let you forget you mattered. In moments like this, you finally saw the depth beneath his jokes. 

You went to the refreshment table after the set, drinking some soda to calm yourself down.

“There you are,” you heard his voice. He was still a little breathless, and his jacket was on his arms, his shirt sleeves rolled higher. 

You smiled, suddenly a wave of nerves rushing through your body at his presence. It was now or never, “I want you to come with me.”

“Where—”

“I have to tell you something.” You grabbed his hand, he instinctively looked at it, and softly bit the smile that was threatening to show.

“Show me the way.” You led him to your table, grabbing your clutch and leaving your crown. You passed the chatter through the back doors that opened onto the empty football field. The night air was crisp, and the stars were faint, but somehow still visible and giving a nice glow to the night.

You stopped standing on one of the bleachers in the field so you could be slightly higher, letting go of his hand to turn toward him.

He smiled, a little confused. “Y/N, if this is about the song—”

“It’s not,” you said, heart hammering. “Okay, maybe it is.”

“Oh my God, do you feel embarrassed? I didn’t mean to—”

“I know what you meant,” you interrupted softly. “And you’re right.”

He frowned slightly. “Right about what?”

You exhale. “That everything feels real when it’s with you.”

You decided to step down the bleachers on time. “I didn’t even realize it at first because I truly believed you were just annoying me, to throw me off and my record. But then you started showing up—not just for me—to everyone. And every time you did, I found myself noticing more.”

“Like…?”

“The way you smile when something finally works for you, how you live your life with no regrets, and how your heart is so pure that you don’t even care if the other person hates you. You are there.”

You took a shaky breath, your hand clutching your purse more. “And somewhere between wanting to hate you and trying not to fall for you. I did.”

Martin’s lips parted slightly, “You mean—”

“Yes,” a small laugh broke through at his pure face of disbelief. “I fell for you, Martin Edwards.”

You could see his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his voice a little rough when he finally spoke. 

“Say it again,” he said softly.

“What?”

“My name. Like that.” His lips curved upward, shy and boyish at the same time. “It sounds so pretty when you say it.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled, getting closer to the bleachers, looking up at you. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that—well, not that exactly, but close.”

“I can imagine it after you told me that night.”

“Which, by the way, were those two years of you calling me a nuisance, giving me detention, pretending you didn't look for me at every assembly?”

You laughed, “I had to check if I was going to get called out because of you.”

“I noticed at a distance since you were the only person who actually saw me, even when you swore you couldn’t stand me.”

The wind picked up, making the bleachers creak and your hair sweep across your face. Your hands went to your arms, blaming yourself for being so forgetful and not picking up your sweater from the table. He stood on the deck of the bleacher, and his jacket was quickly placed over your shoulders.

And just what you thought, he reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear again, with he difference that his hand stayed on your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin.

“I didn’t mean to fall for you either,” he admitted, looking down.  “But I did. And I don’t regret a second of it.”

You smiled before reaching into your clutch, hand trembling, and pulled out an envelope.

“I was supposed to wait until tomorrow when we go to Yujin’s house,” you said, “but I can’t.”

He took it, puzzled, and watched what it contained. His eyes widened the second he saw the tickets, audibly gasping.

“There’s no way—”

“Two tickets to see Linkin Park in Seoul,” you smiled nervously. “Consider it a date. Come with me on Friday, and don’t say ‘maybe’.”

He reached for your hands. “You really are something else.”

“Something good?” you teased.

He looked at the sky. “You are something out of this world. God, you’re—”

Before he could finish, you leaned up on your tiptoes, your hand finding his tie to pull him down just like before, but this time, you didn’t hesitate.

Your lips brushed his, his breath caught, and then he kissed you back, gentle at first, as if afraid to break the moment. You froze for half a second, feeling your heart pounding so hard you could almost hear it over the faint music coming from the gym. 

Your nose bumped his, your fingers trembled against his chest, but Martin didn’t care. He smiled into the kiss, pulling back only enough to whisper. “Wow,”

You nodded, breathless at how his eyes were looking so fondly at you. “That was my first.”

His eyes softened. “Good. Then I’m glad it was me.”

You didn’t even realize you were smiling until he rested his forehead against yours, both of you laughing quietly for no reason other than sheer disbelief.

“OH MY GOD!”

You jumped apart. From the edge of the field, a cluster of silhouettes waved frantically like South Korea two years ago for the World Cup. You hid your face on the curve that connected his neck and shoulder, his arms engulfing you.

“Finally!” Leeseo hissed, hugging Yujin happily while he had a smile on his face.

“Pay up, Seonghyeon.” James snickered, waving a few bills. 

“It took you three years, love your perseverance!” Juhoon screamed, and you couldn’t help but laugh from your spot.

“Worth the wait!” Yujin yelled, pretending to wipe fake tears.

You covered your face, groaning. “They were watching?!”

Martin just laughed, “Of course they were. They were looking at us from the gym.”

He turned toward them, raising your joined hands like a victory gesture. The others erupted in cheers, chanting both your names like a ridiculous anthem.

“Also, did I just hear ‘Pay up’?” Martin raised his shoulder, giving away the answer. You huffed, “Can’t believe they’ve been betting on us.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “And for once, I don’t mind losing.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

He looked back at you, his eyes were full of every emotion you were both feeling. “Ridiculously in love with you.”

And before you could think twice, he leaned in again, slower this time, just enough for your lashes to brush his cheek, for you to close your eyes and let the world spin quietly around you.

You didn’t even care if your friends were still watching.

Because under the silver lights of the empty field, with his jacket around your shoulders, hands on your waist, and your heart in a state of pure bliss, everything finally made sense.

And for once—in the middle of all the noise—you didn’t feel like you had to be perfect. You just felt real.

Just like him.

Just like everlong.

─── A PERSON WHO YEARNS IS A PERSON WHO EARNS! I have never written something this big for anyone in a WHILE, but put some romcoms, a playlist, and I'm LOCKED IN. Also, happy cortis blr debut to me, and any grammar mistakes or stuff I missed will be fixed later. love you all and thanks for reading 💞

[miseulbae]

miseulbae boutta turn back into my fic rec/annotations acct because HOLY FUCKKKK THANK U USER HOLLYOONGS FOR SENDING THIS TO ME (hi it’s @wooahoe)

Senior year wasn’t going to be kind; the past students let you all know that.

🥹🥹🥹 ITS JUST PAIN GUYS OMFG. also HAN YUJINNNN MY CUTIE PATOOTIE

He was wearing a band tee with ripped jeans that looked twice his size, hanging on his hips like they were holding on for dear life. Scuffed Vans dragged slightly as he shifted his weight, the hoodie unzipped and frayed at the sleeves. His hair looked like he’d rolled out of bed on purpose, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips only made it worse.

guys. GUYS. if martin ever went to an american high school this is EXACTLY how i imagined him to be because fym he’s wasian + that tall + he dresses like an edgar like GUYS PLS HE WOULD HAVE SUCH A MASSIVE AHH EGO and he would totally be that one stereotypical dude. pls someone tell me yk what i’m talking about

You audibly gasped when the familiar melody hit your eardrums. “Wonderwall”. 

WONDERWALL FUCKKKKK OH MY GOD I LOVE THAT SONGGGG

“Because I know you hate me enough to not care.”

OH DAMNNNN HELL FUCKING NAH BRUH

wait they’re actually so cute tho…user hollyoongs ty for feeding my delusions bc why is reader literally me (besides school prez idgaf abt school)

Far from being discreet, Leeseo was already studying Martin, who was playing dumb and doing random poses. “I hate this. Bring back your ‘I hate the system’ attitude right now. That’s my only entertainment in this school.”

wait she’s so real for that

The bell rang, and everyone began shuffling to their seats. Martin kneeled in front of you and leaned near enough to whisper, “Thank you, princess.” 

AYOOOOOOOOOOO. AYOOOOOOOOOOOO MARTIN THAT WAS SMOOTH ASF DAMN BRUH

And since he was trying, the warnings of your bad leadership were almost nonexistent.

Ok wait why tf do her leadership skills depend on ONE KID like brah she’s not responsible for everyone is she…dear god

“Y/N, I made a decision. You're going to apply for early admission.” You stopped, looking at her in confusion.

oml FUCK EAS. FUCK EAS WHY WOULD U DO THIS TO UR DAUGHTER OMFG FUCK EASSSSSSSSS

“You probably thought I was just being annoying all the time… That was me trying to get your attention without, you know, getting expelled for it.” You blinked at him. “Two years?” He nodded, starting to walk again. “Two very long and humbling years.”

girl…two years is nothing 😭😭

it’s ok twin two years is totally worth it…but tbf being annoying isn’t gonna break her down bro 😭😭

also “maybe i just like you” DAMNNN THAT WAS SMOOTH MARTIN UR ON A ROLL KING

He stepped back slightly, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder, and nodded toward the rest of the band. “It’s called ‘Iris.’”

IMMACULATE MUSIC TASTE

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, half to himself. “Not unless you—” Your heart stuttered. “Unless I what?” He smiled faintly. “Unless you’d actually let me.”

WHY ISNT HE REAL OMFGGGDNWIDNAIDNAIDA

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, a loud crash echoed from behind the dunes. “REALLY YUJIN?!”  Keonho’s voice.

HAN YUJIN SLEEP W ONE EYE OPEN TONIGHT U LITTE FUCKER

—

not going to annotate the rest because i was too busy screaming and kicking my feet and giggling oh my GOD

this was so freaking cute and i LOVED IT SO SO MUCH

anyways my final notes:

i needed this so, so, badly. if you’ve seen my discord msgs then you know i’ve been going through it; reliving heartbreak because of a boy who was never mine (but he could’ve been). i’ve just also been extra lonely lately, and my mind turns to wondering what could have been (and also i js want a bf guys)

this version of martin is quite literally the dream; someone who’s definitely not real but somehow, here they are, right in front of you. it’s the kind of love that’s patient, that’s willing to wait for you, the kind that’s willing to help and willing to love you until you forget why you needed help in the first place.

reader is also going through the pains of being a senior, and LORD DO I FEEL HER. it sucks. college apps suck, school sucks, life sucks, but i’m glad she had someone by her side to keep her grounded. (anyways gang me when)

tldr USER HOLLYOONGS I LOVE YOU SMMM THIS WAS GORGEOUS

[junplusone]

don't lie! a svt interactive series | ROUND 3

chapter warnings: language, main character death chapter word count: 2.2k

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TAGS: @ppyopulii @callis-corner @kkooongie @nerdycheol @helloiliketits @asyre @taesungx @imhereonlytoread @starshuas @avyskai @mochacoda @supi-wupi @purple-eustoma @wondering-out-loud @wooahoe @hanniesrock (fill out this form to be tagged!)

[The bar is deathly silent. What little trust there may have been in the air is immediately evaporated. Nobody knows who is voting for who. Any of the eleven left could be next.]

“THE DISCUSSION PERIOD HAS NOW CONCLUDED. PLAYER 009, A CIVILIAN, HAS BEEN ELIMINATED.”

[The color drains from MINGYU’s face. He looks towards 002 and SEOKMIN, who are equally stunned. Yet they are powerless. The game is a force in and of itself. It cannot be stopped.]

002: What? This is an error, right?

009 | MINGYU, to 002: Jeonghan hyung…

010 | SEOKMIN, angrily: Are you guys happy now? Why would you think it was a good idea to listen to Soonyoung, when he was throwing out accusations left and right?

009 | MINGYU: Guys, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dragged us here. We should have turned around and left, Seokmin, you were right. I’m so sorry.

010 | SEOKMIN: No, Gyu, it’s not your fault. Please don’t apologize. Please.

[SOONYOUNG himself is shocked into silence. He sits motionlessly, staring at MINGYU. However, he only sees JIHOON in his mind’s eye.]

005 | SOONYOUNG: It can’t be. It had to have been him.

010 | SEOKMIN: Well, you were fucking wrong! 

[A loud bang! interrupts the conversation. SEOKMIN flinches violently at the sound that indicates that his friend is no more. JEONGHAN keeps his eyes screwed shut, tears beginning to gather at his lash line. SOONYOUNG still hasn’t moved an inch.]

010 | SEOKMIN, in tears: I’m going to be so surprised if he’s not the mafia. There’s no way, right? He got Mingyu voted off! A civilian.

008 | MINGHAO: We’ll have time to discuss this later. But it’s something to keep in mind, for sure.

[Everyone is clearly wary of SOONYOUNG. There is only one player who seems utterly confused by this chain of events, but he remains silent for now.]

“NIGHT HAS FALLEN. EVERYONE, LOWER YOUR HEADS.”

002 | JEONGHAN: Maybe this is just a bad dream. Maybe I’ll get chosen, and I’ll get shot by the laser, and I’ll wake up back in my own bed. Everything will be just fine.

004 | JUNHUI: Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. But I really do wish you were right.

“MAFIA, RAISE YOUR HEADS. ON YOUR DEVICE, SELECT ONE PLAYER YOU WOULD LIKE TO ELIMINATE.”

[Silence. SEOKMIN shudders, murmuring a silent prayer under his breath.]

“MAFIA, LOWER YOUR HEADS. DETECTIVE, RAISE YOUR HEAD AND SELECT ONE PLAYER ON YOUR DEVICE WHOSE IDENTITY YOU WOULD LIKE TO REVEAL.”

[The detective thinks long and hard. After all, a good choice could change the trajectory of the entire game, and a bad one could lead him astray. The detective might be given an additional ability, but he is not more protected than the civilians. At the end of the day, the detective just wants to live.]

“DETECTIVE, LOWER YOUR HEAD. DOCTOR, RAISE YOUR HEAD AND SELECT A PLAYER ON YOUR DEVICE YOU WOULD LIKE TO SAVE.”

[Despite himself, the doctor looks quite troubled. Something is telling him that the same player he chose last round will need his help once more. But the game will not allow it. Resigned, he selects his second choice number and hopes he’s made the right choice.]

“DOCTOR, LOWER YOUR HEAD. MORNING HAS COME. EVERYONE, RAISE YOUR HEADS.”

005 | SOONYOUNG: It’s going to be me. I just know it.

012 | SEUNGKWAN, snarkily: How can it be you? Mafias can’t eliminate each other, remember?

“THE MAFIA HAS ELIMINATED PLAYER 001.”

[Everyone waits with bated breath, for a reaction. SEUNGCHEOL does not show any signs of surprise. He only uncrosses his legs to stretch them out slightly. Only the doctor looks particularly surprised at the result.]

001 | SEUNGCHEOL: Ah, well. I knew this was going to happen. 

008 | MINGHAO: Don’t say that.

001 | SEUNGCHEOL: It’s true. I suppose I’ve played too many games, overstayed my welcome. Pity, though. I was kind of hoping to get that ten-day visa out of this game.

[It is somewhat of a sad sight, to see him so resigned. He is here alone. No companion to brave the borderlands with, no brother by his side. Still, he has not come to the end of his life entirely friendless.]

004 | SEUNGCHEOL, to JUNHUI: Anyways, thanks for saving my ass during that last game. Didn’t think I’d see you again here. But I’m glad you’re alive.

004 | JUNHUI, tearing up: Thank you. I hope you know it took every ounce of strength in my body to hold you up from falling.

[SEUNGCHEOL laughs.]

001 | SEUNGCHEOL: I appreciate it. You too, Xu Minghao. I hope you guys find a way out of here, whatever it is.

[It does not matter that JUNHUI and MINGHAO have seen many, many deaths before now. It is still difficult to witness. They bow their heads as the laser shoots through the ceiling and takes SEUNGCHEOL’s life with it. JUNHUI presses his face into his dear friend’s shoulder, unable to watch the scene that unfolds in front of him.]

“EVERYONE, YOUR THIRTY MINUTE DISCUSSION PERIOD BEGINS NOW.”

008 | MINGHAO: I hate it here. I hate these stupid, heartless games.

005 | SOONYOUNG: Me, too.

002 | JEONGHAN: How could you say such a thing immediately after targeting an innocent man and having him killed?

005 | SOONYOUNG, on the verge of tears: I didn’t mean to! I really, really thought it was him!

010 | SEOKMIN: Clearly, your hunch wasn’t enough proof!

006 | WONWOO: Guys, please. Let’s not yell.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: So, who are we voting for? Soonyoung?

005 | SOONYOUNG: Guys, it’s really not me! Trust me!

[Everyone stares at each other carefully. There are only two players who seem sure of themselves.]

008 | MINGHAO: First, can we go around saying our roles, just to be sure everyone is what they say they are?

012 | SEUNGKWAN: And what are you?

008 | MINGHAO: I’m a civilian.

004 | JUNHUI: Me, too.

003: Okay, I’m just going to say this now, then. I’m the doctor.

002 | JEONGHAN: Wait, what? I’m the doctor.

011 | VERNON: You’re lying, aren’t you? Joshua’s the doctor, I trust him.

006 | WONWOO: I’m confused.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: And do we still not know who the detective is?

010 | SEOKMIN: Dude, why would the detective reveal himself? 003’s life is already at stake after whatever he just said.

002 | JEONGHAN: No, Seokmin, it’s not. Because I’m the doctor, and he isn’t. He’s clearly lying. Just look at him!

003 | JOSHUA, incredulous. Are you crazy? I am the doctor! I even chose to save you in the first round!

004 | JUNHUI: Guys, let’s just be clear about this. Please. 

003 | JOSHUA: I’m trying, but this crazy guy is claiming to be the doctor instead of me! What am I supposed to even do?

002 | JEONGHAN: Oh, wait. Sorry, guys. I’m actually the pharmacist. I got the roles mixed up.

[Everybody stops and stares at him in complete silence. When they speak again, all hell breaks loose.]

004 | JUNHUI: Are you actually crazy?

012 | SEUNGKWAN: What the hell does that mean? Pharmacist?

006 | WONWOO: Such a role doesn’t even exist in this game, or the rules would have said it. He’s obviously lying.

002 | JEONGHAN: No, it’s real. I swear!

012 | SEUNGKWAN: So who are we supposed to vote for now? This lunatic, or Soonyoung?

008 | MINGHAO: Well, Soonyoung is also a lunatic.

005 | SOONYOUNG, in desperation: I swear it’s not me, guys. I swear!

008 | MINGHAO: See? Lunatic.

004 | JUNHUI: For me, I think I’m suspicious of Soonyoung, and then players 002 and 006.

[The final addition is an unexpected statement. JUNHUI turns heads with his sentence.]

006 | WONWOO: Huh?

008 | MINGHAO, intrigued: Wait, why 006?

004 | JUNHUI: I don’t know, I just have a feeling. You don’t have to take everything I say for granted, you know.

008 | MINGHAO, gently: No, it’s not like that. I just asked because there’s a clear reason why the other two are suspicious, but not him.

004 | JUNHUI: Again, just a feeling.

[MINGHAO ponders this for a while, and then turns to everyone else. He observes the room with his shrewd eyes, darting from player to player, until something dawns on him suddenly.]

008 | MINGHAO, with newly equipped information: Ah, okay. I’ve made my choice now.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: Well, it can’t be Wonwoo hyung. I’m betting on either of these two.

002 | JEONGHAN: I’m really a pharmacist! I already told you!

003 | JOSHUA: I’m so confused, I don’t even know who I’m supposed to believe right now.

004 | JUNHUI: I’m just saying 006 as a suggestion. Like I said, none of you have to believe me. I’m not asking you to.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: Okay, we get it! It’s just a feeling! You already said this so many times, stop repeating what we already know!

[SEOKMIN has clearly had enough of the confusion. He stands up, taking hold of JEONGHAN’s wrist and pulling him to the side, where they can speak freely between them.]

010 | SEOKMIN: Hyung, what are you doing? You told me you were a civilian!

002 | JEONGHAN: I am!

010 | SEOKMIN: But you said you’re the doctor, and now you’re on about some made-up role nobody knows of. Why are you lying?

[JEONGHAN raises an eyebrow.]

002 | JEONGHAN: Lying? Who said I’m lying?

APPROXIMATELY ONE AND A HALF HOUR AGO:

[JEONGHAN sits patiently beside SEOKMIN, waiting for the roles to be assigned. This will be fun, he thinks. He likes games. His screen suddenly flashes with words, capturing his attention, and he reads them carefully.]

SECRET ROLE: PHARMACIST

FACTION: UNCLEAR

ABILITY: AS THE TOWN’S PHARMACIST, YOU HAVE A STORE OF PRESCRIPTION DRUGS AT YOUR DISPOSAL. EACH NIGHT, YOU MAY CHOOSE TO USE A PILL ON A PLAYER OF YOUR CHOICE. THIS WILL RESULT IN THE PLAYER’S ABILITY BEING BLOCKED, IF ANY. YOU MUST MAKE YOUR CHOICE BETWEEN THE END OF THE VOTING PERIOD AND NIGHTFALL. YOU MAY ALSO CHOOSE TO REFRAIN FROM USING THE PILL IF YOU WISH TO DO SO.

PROHIBITED ACTIONS: YOU MAY ONLY USE THE PILL ON EACH PLAYER ONCE.

[An interesting turn of events. JEONGHAN wonders if anyone else might be aware that this role exists. He wants nothing more than to tell SEOKMIN and MINGYU, but he knows he cannot.]

002 | JEONGHAN, to himself: ‘Remember, things may not always be as they seem.’ How interesting.

PRESENT TIME:

010 | SEOKMIN: Okay. Okay, I got it. But unless you reveal this to everyone, they’re going to try and vote you off. They’re already kind of suspicious of you.

002 | JEONGHAN: Hey, it’s alright. It’ll be fine.

010 | SEOKMIN: It’s not fine! Hyung, I… can’t. I can’t lose you too. 

002 | JEONGHAN: You won’t, Seokmin. 

010 | SEOKMIN: I can’t do this alone. I can’t keep playing these games alone. I’m not strong enough on my own.

002 | JEONGHAN: You know, Seokmin, I’ve always thought this. You’re a lot stronger than you let yourself believe.

[The clock has only got ten minutes left to it. The others are still deliberating on who needs to get voted off.]

012 | SEUNGKWAN: I’m sorry, I still can’t ignore the fact that Soonyoung had an innocent man voted off purely based on a hunch.

005 | SOONYOUNG: I don’t know how many more times I need to say it’s not me! I’m just a civilian!

011 | VERNON: Why are you so sure it’s Soonyoung? I get why you might suspect him, but we also have two other mafias to think about it. There’s no concrete evidence pointing to him.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: Mingyu dying wasn’t concrete evidence to you?

004 | JUNHUI, quietly: Does nobody else seriously think 006 is even a little off?

003 | JOSHUA: He could be. He hasn’t spoken much this entire time.

011 | VERNON: Well, isn’t that why 007 got voted off? And he was innocent, wasn’t he?

[JUNHUI throws VERNON a vexed glance that only MINGHAO seems to understand.]

012 | SEUNGKWAN, to JUNHUI: Why are you so keen on Wonwoo hyung, anyways? Isn’t Soonyoung the obvious answer?

004 | JUNHUI, irritated: I already said I’m not asking you to agree with me! That’s just what I think! Am I not allowed to have an opinion?

008 | MINGHAO, quietly: Jun, calm down. I trust you. But even if you think you’re right, you can’t afford to start an argument now. Or you’ll be the one who gets voted off.

[JUNHUI huffs in frustration, but he knows MINGHAO is right. Slowly, JEONGHAN and SEOKMIN return to the center table. The clock shows only a few minutes left.]

012 | SEUNGKWAN: You’re all messing with my head. I don’t know who to vote for.

005 | SOONYOUNG: I’m really not it, guys. Seriously.

011 | VERNON: Weirdly, the more he talks, the less I think it’s him.

003 | JOSHUA: Are we sure that’s not just a tactic?

008 | MINGHAO: He seems like too much of a lunatic to care about tactics, don’t you think?

[The buzzer sounds like a death bell when the clock is finally up. JUNHUI sighs heavily, leaning into MINGHAO for support. His eyes are zeroed in on one player with a firm conviction. Meanwhile, SOONYOUNG can only pray that he lives to see the next round, and JEONGHAN hopes that his harmless lie has not cost him his life.]

who will you vote out tonight?

002 | JEONGHAN

003 | JOSHUA

004 | JUNHUI

005 | SOONYOUNG

006 | WONWOO

008 | MINGHAO

010 | SEOKMIN

011 | VERNON

012 | SEUNGKWAN

Voting ended onJul 15, 2025

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[miseulbae]

i am actually having so much fun w this so instead of a review ur getting my thoughts on the mafia.

002 — yjh: not mafia

HELP NOT THE PHARMACIST ROLE BEING AN ACTUAL ROLE that took me OUTT but if he’s the pharmacist then he’s not lying…

003 — shua: probably mafia

idk i just keep getting The Vibe that he is the mafia

004 — jun: mafia

realistically ? i doubt he is the mafia. BUT. him and hao have something going on and i really don’t think it’s because they’re close. but also? like seungcheol is NOT surprised and that is exactly why i think junhao are the mafia—gunshot but if he actually does end up being the killer OHO HERSHEY U HAVE ME IN CHILLSSSS

005 — ksy: nah

he’s too hoshi. and i refuse to believe that ho would kill his woo. ALSO PLEDIS DO U WANT ME TO DIE WHY ARE U SENDING AWAY MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT GAYS

006 — jww: oh he’s definitely the mafia

like logically ofc. realistically he’s probably not and hershey’s just using him as bait WHICH BTW STOP THAT UR BREAKING MY HEART HERE

008 — hao: 100%

please see jun’s reasoning.

010 — dk: possibly

i feel like we haven’t seen enough of dokey so i’m not too sure

011 — vern: possibly

he’s always a wildcard tbh

012 — seungkwan: nah

same reason as dk but. i just don’t see it

sidenote i lowk forgot that chan died and my heart dropped. also I WAS SO SURE THAT IT WAS MINGYU UGHH