ONE YEAR AGO. FIRST YEAR OF UNI — about you ✫ the 1975 [wc. 17,082]
the acceptance emails arrived on a friday night. your families were gathered around the dinner table at martin’s house, half-finished plates pushed aside while your mothers argued over whether homemade kimchi tasted better after three days or five.
your friends spammed the group chat every thirty seconds with increasingly unhelpful encouragements.
juhoon: if either of you fail, im actually disowning you both
james: yn would survive
james: martin would become one of those tortured
underground soundcloud musicians living off ramen
martin: fuck you
yn: he already lives off ramen so he’s halfway there actually
wonhee: OPEN THE FUCKING EMAILS OFMG????
your laptop was open in front of you like it personally wanted to ruin your life. martin sat beside you on the floor, his knee pressed against yours while his fingers tapped anxiously against a soda can. he looked calmer than you, but only because he’d mastered the art of looking relaxed while internally panicking.
“why does the portal look so ominous?” you whispered.
“because universities enjoy psychological warfare,” he muttered back.
your father leaned over the couch dramatically. “just open it already.”
“easy for you to say,” you groaned. “you’re not the one whose uncertain future is sitting behind a loading screen.”
martin snorted softly beside you. “dramatic ass.”
“you literally threw up before your audition evaluation,” you reminded him.
“that was different.”
“you threw up on juhoon’s shoes.”
“okay, and? they were ugly shoes.”
“they were his new vans!”
“exactly.”
“open the emails!” your mothers yelled simultaneously from the dining table. you flinched so hard you accidentally clicked the email. for one horrible second, neither of you breathed.
‘congratulations.’
your eyes widened so quickly it hurt. martin made a strangled noise beside you. “holy shit.”
“holy shit,” you echoed breathlessly.
fashion major and music production major. same university. same campus in busan.
“we got in?” you shouted.
“we got in!” martin repeated louder.
suddenly everybody was yelling. your mom started crying instantly, like you’d won a nobel prize. martin’s mother cried harder. your fathers high-fived so aggressively that one of the glasses on the table between them nearly tipped over. wonhee spam-called you five times in a row while juhoon sent fifteen voice messages screaming incoherently.
martin grabbed your face with both hands so suddenly you barely processed it before he pulled you into him in the tightest hug imaginable.“we actually did it,” he laughed breathlessly into your neck.
you smiled instantly, because he sounded really happy. you hugged him back just as tightly. “we’re moving to busan,” you whispered disbelievingly.
“together.”
“together.”
the word settled dangerously deep inside your chest, and you hated how much you loved that word when it came from him.
soon, moving day arrived far too quickly for your liking.
seoul station looked unbearably and annoyingly crowded at six in the morning, filled with rushing people dragging luggage behind them while train announcements echoed overhead every few minutes. you stood beside martin near the platform entrance looking half-dead with a drink from a nearby cafe in one hand, and your suitcase threatening to collapse beside you.
“why do you own these many clothes?” martin complained while dragging two of your suitcases at once.
“fashion major,” you replied immediately. “it’s academic dedication.”
“you packed six jackets.”
“what if i need options?”
“you’re insane.”
“yet you carried them anyway,” you grinned sleepily.
he rolled his eyes, but adjusted his grip on your luggage without complaining further. your parents hovered nearby acting like you were being shipped off to war instead of university.
“call me every night,” your mom sniffled dramatically.
“don’t eat convenience store food every day,” martin’s father warned.
“don’t get married in busan without telling us first,” your father added.
you and martin looked at each other instantly before bursting into laughter.
“we’re skipping taxes, remember? we’ll be fine!” you called back.
martin nearly choked laughing while your mothers groaned in unison, muttering something about how ‘these kids will never change’.
eventually, after approximately five hundred warnings and emotional speeches later, you boarded the train together. the moment your seats came into view, you immediately claimed the window seat.
“i get motion sickness,” martin argued.
“skill issue. i want to look at the beautiful world outside.”
“yn.”
“martin,” you smiled threateningly.
he stared at you flatly for a second before sighing dramatically and sitting beside you anyway. “if i throw up on you, that’s on you. literally.”
“you’re the least threatening person alive, bro.”
“i microwaved crayons once.”
“and nearly died.”
“exactly.”
the train began moving slowly after that, seoul gradually blurring into passing buildings outside the windows. you stared outside quietly for a moment… busan. university. a completely different life. and you had martin right by your side.
in the seat beside yours, he leaned back with his hood pulled over his messy hair slightly, eyes half-lidded from the exhaustion of carrying your suitcases and having to wake up early that morning.
“you nervous?” he asked softly.
you thought about it honestly before nodding. “…a little.”
he looked at you immediately. and then, naturally, like it was instinct, his hand found yours between your seats. just for a second; just enough to give you a reassuring squeeze before pulling away again, but your stupid heart nearly exploded anyway.
“we’ll be okay,” he said quietly. you believed him immediately because he had such a way with words, that you always ended up believing him.
busan felt louder and saltier than seoul somehow. the air smelled faintly like the ocean mixed with traffic and hot food from nearby street vendors. your university campus was enormous, spread across hills that overlooked the harbor. students dragged suitcases through pathways while orientation banners hung between buildings.
“who designed this campus?” you complained while dragging your suitcase uphill. “the devil?”
martin laughed breathlessly beside you. “you’ve complained ten times in the last five minutes.”
“because my shoulders are collapsing into themselves. even james didn’t run me into the ground so hard during practice in high school,” you complained.
eventually, you both reached the dormitory buildings.
the music majors’ dorms sat directly opposite the arts and fashion majors’ dorms, connected by one long hallway in the newer shared wing.
you stared at the room numbers in disbelief. “no way,” you said slowly.
martin looked between the doors twice before laughing. “you’re kidding.”
room 520.
room 521.
right beside each other.
“that feels spiritually concerning,” you muttered.
“our parents are gonna think this is fate.”
“our mothers are gonna start planning grandchildren immediately.”
“horrifying sentence. never say that again.”
you grinned tiredly while fishing your dorm keycard that you were given on entry, from your pocket. the doors opened almost simultaneously.
your dorm rooms were painfully small, but cozy in a way that felt exciting instead of sad—single beds shoved against walls, tiny desks near wide windows overlooking parts of the city below, unpacked boxes stacked everywhere. you immediately flopped face-first onto your mattress.
“…i live here now,” you mumbled into the sheets.
martin leaned against your doorway with his arms crossed loosely. “you sound like your puppy died.”
“i think my spine dissolved during that train ride.”
he smiled softly for a second before glancing toward your unpacked boxes. “need help?”
“with what? emotional recovery?”
“unpacking, idiot.”
you lifted your head slightly to look at him. “…maybe.”
three hours later, your room somehow looked worse—clothes covered half the floor. one of your desk drawers refused to close properly. martin sat cross-legged near your bed untangling fairy lights while you aggressively fought with hangers.
“why the fuck is all this taking so long?” you complained.
“because you packed your closet like a wild animal.”
“fashion is a difficult art form.”
“this isn’t fashion anymore,” he held up one of your tangled necklaces. “this is archaeological excavation.”
before you could defend yourself, your stomach growled violently. martin looked up immediately. “…beautiful timing. very cinematic.”
“shut up.”
you walked out of your room together, heading downstairs. before either of you could decide where to eat, an older street vendor outside the dorm area spotted you both immediately. his eyes lit up.
“ahhh! young couple!” he grinned, waving you over excitedly. “special discount for pretty students today!” you blinked. martin blinked harder.
“…we’re not—” he started immediately.
“fifty percent off,” the vendor added casually. you froze. slowly, you turned toward martin. he already looked horrified because he knew that expression on your face.
“yn,” he warned quietly.
you grabbed his sleeve instantly. “play along.”
“what?”
“we’re about to become broke university students drowning in debt,” you hissed. “this is survival.”
“you can’t just fake-date for dumplings.”
“watch me. i’m saving us from poverty.”
before he could argue further, you kicked his shin lightly. he looked deeply betrayed. “ow?!”
“babe,” you said through gritted teeth with the fakest smile imaginable. “stop embarrassing me in front of the nice man.”
martin stared at you like you’d become possessed.
the vendor laughed loudly. “ahhh, young love!”
“i hate you,” martin muttered under his breath, so only you could hear.
“no, you don’t,” you replied automatically, smiling. his expression shifted for one dangerous second because that sentence had followed you both your entire lives. you hated how your heart still reacted to it.
the vendor handed over your dwaeji gukbap afterward with a delighted smile and a ridiculous amount of extra side dishes.
“take care of your girlfriend!” he told martin seriously. martin nearly inhaled wrong. you kicked him again before he could deny it.
“he will,” you answered brightly.
eventually, you both sat outside the dorm building near the campus, eating discounted busan food, while the evening sunlight reflected gold against the distant harbor.
“you’re actually evil,” martin informed you between bites.
“and yet,” you pointed your chopsticks at him accusingly, “you’re eating the fake-couple discount food.”
“…it is really good.”
“exactly.”
he laughed softly after that, shaking his head while the sea breeze moved through his hair. you looked at him quietly for a second too long. busan looked good on him already… dangerously good. the sunlight softened the edges of his face while he sat beside you in an oversized hoodie and tired eyes and that same familiar expression you’d spent your whole life memorising without meaning to. and suddenly, horribly, your chest hurt again because nothing had changed—new city. new university. new beginning. same boy. same unbearable love.
he glanced toward you mid-bite. “why are you staring at me now?” your heart nearly stopped.
“you’ve got sauce on your face,” you lied instantly, scoffing.
his eyes widened slightly. “where?”
you leaned forward automatically before thinking properly, thumb brushing lightly against the corner of his mouth. everything went still as your breath caught, and he froze too. the harbor sounds blurred softly around you. crashing waves, zooming cars, distant voices—none of it mattered in that moment, because he was looking at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe for one terrifying second. then you pulled away too quickly.
“…there,” you muttered.
he blinked quickly, throat bobbing once. “oh.”
you looked down at your food immediately because eye contact felt life-threatening. beside you, he stayed unusually quiet afterward, and neither of you noticed the street vendor smiling knowingly from across the road.
somehow, martin’s room took only nineteen minutes to unpack. you stood in the middle of room 520 with your hands on your hips while he finished shoving the last few hoodies into his closet.
“…i hate you,” you said flatly.
martin looked up from where he sat cross-legged beside an almost-empty suitcase. “because i’m efficient?”
“because you own, like, four shirts.”
“they’re good shirts.”
“they’re all just solid colours.”
“exactly,” he nodded seriously. “versatile.”
you stared at his closet in disbelief—three oversized zip-up hoodies, three black shirts, two white ones, four coloured shirts with literally no design on them, cargos folded with suspicious neatness, and one leather jacket hanging carefully near the corner. that was literally it.
“martin edwards park,” you said slowly, “this is psychotic behavior.”
“i’m a music major. we dress like divorced indie dads.”
“you’re nearly twenty.”
“artistically divorced.”
you snorted despite yourself before turning toward the rest of his room. unfortunately, his room looked annoyingly cool already. his desk sat near the window with speakers stacked carefully beside his laptop. vinyl records leaned against the wall near the shelf. a silver pair of headphones rested around the neck of a desk lamp like decoration. even his bed somehow looked aesthetic.
you hated men.
“your room looks like a pinterest board,” you accused.
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“still taking it as one.”
you wandered toward the small rack beside his desk where a few accessories already hung neatly—chains, rings, a pair of wired earphones, beanies, his stupid black skull necklace.
“you packed accessories before basic survival necessities?” you turned toward him in disbelief.
he shrugged once. “priorities.”
“you brought one towel.”
“and?”
“you live like a cryptid.”
“you own ten lip glosses.”
“those are emotionally important.”
“my chains are emotionally important too.”
you narrowed your eyes at him before opening another drawer—more rings, more chains, suspicious amounts of silver jewelry for someone who owned only six-ish shirts. “oh my god,” you laughed. “you’re actually one of those boys.”
“what boys?” his nose scrunched in genuine curiosity.
“the ‘i wear one outfit every day but accessorise differently, so people think i’m fashionable’ boys.”
he gasped dramatically. “slander. take that back, yn!”
“martin, your entire wardrobe is literally if dark academia had a child with an underground soundcloud producer, and then they got divorced.”
“and your wardrobe looks like a futuristic bratz doll exploded.”
“…that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
he laughed quietly while standing up from the floor. today, he wore oversized faded black jeans with silver chains hanging from the belt loops, a washed-out light grey thermal shirt layered beneath a loose zip hoodie, and rings decorating nearly every finger. his hair fell messily over his eyes because he refused to cut it again. he looked unfairly pretty and annoyingly cool. you hated how well he fit beside you aesthetically now. because you matched; you always matched.
“stop staring at me weirdly,” he said suddenly.
your eyes widened. “i wasn’t.”
“you were.”
“prove it.”
“your eyes were literally pointed at my face. again.”
“i was zoning out because your room smells like ugliness and matcha.”
“it’s not that bad,” he said dryly.
“it so is,” you grinned.
he smiled helplessly at you before grabbing the last empty suitcase. “okay, come on. let’s go unpack your apocalypse bunker now.”
three hours later, he deeply regretted offering help. your room looked catastrophic—clothes covered nearly every visible surface, even after so many hours of trying to organise them. open suitcases spilled fabric across the floor, and jewelry tangled across your desk like tiny metal casualties of war.
martin stood frozen in the middle of the destruction holding up a tiny rhinestone baby tee between two fingers. “…what is this supposed to be?”
you looked up from your closet and shrugged. “a shirt.”
“for a small mouse?”
“it’s supposed to fit like that.”
he stared at it again. “i think i could use this as an eyepatch.”
“you have no vision.”
“i have too much vision actually. this room is hurting my eyes.”
you ignored him, scoffing, while hanging up another outfit carefully. unlike his mostly monochrome wardrobe, yours looked like a cyber-slash-neo-y2k fever dream—baby tees with glitter text, off-shoulder tops, oversized fur-lined jackets, mini skirts layered over ripped tights and flared jeans, low-rise cargos with dangling straps, track jackets in silver and gorgeous blue, platform boots, doc martens, and mary janes lined beneath your bed, arm warmers, mesh tops, decorated cross-body bags with charms hanging off the zippers. and belts. so many belts.
martin sat cross-legged beside one suitcase after a while, silently watching you pull out outfit after outfit like a magician performing increasingly concerning tricks. “why do your pants have nine unnecessary buckles?” he asked eventually.
“because they’re cute.”
“they look like they could survive a natural disaster.”
“that’s the goal.”
he held up another item. “is this even a shirt?”
“yes.”
“where’s the rest of it?”
“martin, you dress like a widowed underground bassist. don’t piss me off.”
he burst out laughing immediately. “widowed?”
“you look like your wife died mysteriously in 1990 and now you only communicate through unreleased mixtapes.”
he physically bent forward laughing this time. “that is genuinely insanely creative.”
“am i wrong?”
“...only a little.”
you grinned triumphantly before tossing another jacket onto the bed. he watched quietly while you continued unpacking. and honestly? your clothes looked cool to him—very you—messy, expressive, and dramatic in the same way your sketchbooks looked.
he picked up a black-and-pink jersey top with airbrushed graphics across the front. “wait, this one’s good-good.”
you looked over instantly. “right?” you grinned.
“you’d look good in that.” his words slipped out naturally, but your heart still reacted violently anyway.
you turned away quickly before he noticed your expression. “…i know,” you answered weakly.
he didn’t notice the effect he had on you… or maybe he did. that was the terrifying thing sometimes—you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
eventually, he wandered toward the clothing rack beside your desk while you fought with your favourite tangled necklaces nearby.
“why do you own so many clothes?” he asked again.
“fashion major,” you repeated automatically.
“this feels less like fashion and more like archival research.”
you gasped. “oh my god, shut your damn mouth.”
he laughed softly before pulling one jacket carefully from the rack.
a black cropped leather jacket with silver studs and spikes that you’d worked on yourself, a few nights back.
“…this one’s cool,” he said.
“don’t touch her with your greasy musician hands.”
“greasy musician—wow.”
you grinned before finally looking over at him properly, and then you paused, because he had absentmindedly thrown the jacket over his shoulder while looking through your rack. it suited him disgustingly well.
your stupid stylish best friend. “wait,” you narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “try it on.”
he blinked once. “what?”
“put it on once.”
“yn.”
“martin.”
he sighed dramatically before sliding the jacket on anyway. your heart betrayed you instantly, because damn. the cropped fit sat perfectly against his frame over the loose shirt he wore, silver jewelry glinting under the dorm lights while his hair fell into his eyes messily. he looked like he belonged on the cover of some underground fashion magazine titled ‘emotionally unavailable boys with guitars’. you hated it so much. you loved him so much.
“…wow,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
he looked down at the jacket sleeves. “it’s kinda nice.”
“kinda?” you repeated incredulously, eyes widening in faux annoyance.
he looked back up at you then, and froze slightly, because you were staring again. not teasingly this time; just staring. your eyes moved over him slowly before snapping away too late. his throat bobbed once.
“…why are you looking at me like that?” he asked quietly. your heart nearly exploded inside your ribcage.
“because,” you answered quickly, turning back toward your closet, “you look stupid as fuck.”
“liar,” he murmured softly behind you. your hands stopped moving immediately, just for one second, but martin noticed anyway.
silence stretched strangely. you could practically feel his eyes on your back now, warm and steady and entirely too aware. your heart beat annoyingly harder while you aggressively untangled a necklace that honestly did not need that much concentration.
“you say ‘liar’ like you’re in some netflix mafia drama,” you muttered finally, aiming for casual, but landing somewhere near emotionally unstable.
he snorted softly behind you. “what does that even mean?”
“you know exactly what i mean.”
“i really don’t.”
you turned around finally, narrowing your eyes at him while pointing accusingly toward his face. “that voice.”
“…my normal voice?”
“yeah. your suspiciously deep, weirdly calm voice.”
he blinked innocently. “sorry for having vocal cords, i guess?”
“don’t piss me off, edwards.”
“you’re acting like i transformed into batman,” he choked out.
“close enough honestly.”
he laughed quietly, shoulders shaking slightly beneath your jacket—your jacket that still looked disgustingly good on him, unfortunately. you hated how aware you were of every little thing… the rings on his fingers, the chain resting perfectly against his collarbone, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms.
god. men should be illegal.
“you’re staring again,” he pointed out casually.
“i’m literally not.”
“you literally are.”
“prove it in a court of law.”
“for the hundredth time, yn, your eyes are pointed directly at me.”
“maybe i’m looking at the wall behind you.”
“there is no wall behind me,” he looked back at the empty space.
“okay, well. maybe… spiritually there is,” you tried helplessly.
martin burst into laughter immediately. “spiritually?” he repeated. “what the hell does that even mean?”
“don’t worry about it.”
“no, explain yourself.”
“i don’t owe you explanations,” you rolled your eyes.
“you absolutely do after saying crazy shit like that,” he grinned.
you scoffed dramatically before turning back toward your closet again. “whatever. give me my jacket back.”
instead of answering, you heard him shuffle closer behind you—too close. your stupid nervous system reacted instantly.
“hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “i don’t know.”
you looked over your shoulder suspiciously. “martin.”
“it’s kinda comfortable.”
“martin.”
“and i think,” he continued calmly, adjusting the collar slightly, “i pull it off better.”
you gasped so violently it was almost theatrical. “you bitch.”
he looked extremely delighted with himself now. “language.”
“don’t ‘language’ me in my own dorm room!”
“make me.”
“oh my god,” you laughed loudly. “you move to busan for one day and actually think you’re tough.”
“i’ve always been tough,” he shrugged nonchalantly.
you stared at him flatly. “you cried during toy story 3.”
“everybody cried during toy story 3.”
“you cried during kung fu panda too.”
“…emotional depth.”
“you cried because the turtle died.”
“master oogway mattered to me!”
you physically bent over laughing.
he pointed accusingly at you immediately. “don’t laugh! you cried because your tamagotchi died in fifth grade!”
“that was different!.”
“you held a funeral.”
“because she had hopes! and dreams!”
“it was a pixel.”
“she was a mother.”
he laughed so hard he nearly stumbled backward into your desk. “oh my god,” he wheezed, clutching his stomach slightly. “you’re actually really weird.”
“you literally helped me bury it.”
“because you were crying too hard to dig properly!”
you both laughed together again after that—the kind that hurt your stomach after a while and made breathing difficult. he leaned against the side of your closet trying unsuccessfully to regain composure while you sat half-collapsed on the floor beside your bed wiping tears from under your eyes.
“i hate you,” he laughed breathlessly.
“you’re the one who attended the funeral.”
“you made a playlist.”
“because even mourning requires ambiance.”
he made the most offended noise imaginable before grabbing one of your throw pillows and throwing it directly at your face.
you gasped. “violence?!”
“self-defense.”
“i didn’t even attack!” you immediately launched the pillow back at him. unfortunately, he caught it easily.
“oh, you’re done for now,” he said calmly, standing up straight.
your eyes widened instantly. “don’t.”
“you started this.”
“martin.”
he took a step toward you.
you scrambled backward across the bed immediately. “martin edwards park.”
“government name, huh? serious situation.”
“don’t you dare.”
his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “why are you scared?”
“i’m not scared.”
“then why are you retreating like a medieval peasant avoiding the plague?”
“because you fight dirty!”
“that sounds like fear.”
“that sounds like shut the fuck up.”
he grinned dangerously. oh no. you recognised that grin.
“martin,” you warned.
“hm?”
“don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“you know exactly what.”
he lunged, and you shrieked instantly.
“oh my god—” he grabbed your ankle before you could escape properly, dragging you back toward him while laughing so hard his voice cracked slightly. “martin!” you wheezed. “martin! stop—!”
“you called me a widowed bassist!”
“i wasn’t wrong!”
“rude.”
his hands found your sides immediately, making you fold in on yourself so fast you nearly fell off the bed. because unfortunately, tragically, your biggest weakness in life was tickling.
“no—!” you gasped between helpless laughter. “martin, i swear to god—”
“swear to god what?” he laughed, leaning over you slightly while continuing his attack. “you gonna spiritually fight me, pretty girl?” you hated that you physically could not breathe properly right now.
“i hate you!” you cried dramatically, trying unsuccessfully to shove him away.
“liar.”
“martin—stop—i can’t breathe—”
“sounds fake.”
“you sound fake!”
he laughed harder at that, hands finally easing slightly while you tried desperately to recover your dignity. unfortunately, in your attempt to push him away, your legs tangled together weirdly. he lost balance immediately. “wait—” you grabbed his sleeve instinctively: big mistake.
the next second, both of you toppled sideways onto the mattress messily. your breath left your lungs in a startled laugh. he caught himself at the last second with one hand pressed into the bed beside your head. everything went still way too quickly afterward.
your laughter faded slowly first, and then his, because suddenly he was hovering over you close—way too close.
his hair fell into his eyes messily from laughing too hard moments earlier. your jacket still hung loosely from his shoulders. one of his rings brushed lightly against your wrist where his hand rested near yours against the sheets. your chest rose too fast beneath him, and his breathing wasn’t exactly steady either.
hallway noise echoed faintly somewhere beyond your door, but right now, it was just you. and him. and the terrifying awareness of how close his face was to yours right now.
he looked at you for one dangerous second too long. your eyes dropped instinctively toward his mouth, then immediately back up. unfortunately, he noticed.
he swallowed. “…hi,” he said quietly.
your heart nearly killed you. “…hi.”
neither of you moved, which honestly felt worse, because every second stretched tighter and tighter between you both like something fragile about to snap. his gaze flickered slowly across your face—to your lips, and then back to your eyes again—like he was thinking too much again. or maybe… like he was trying not to think at all. you could feel his breath against your skin, and your pulse felt genuinely humiliating.
“…you have really long eyelashes,” you blurted out. he blinked once in confusion, and laughed softly under his breath, cracking the tension just slightly.
“that’s your observation?” he murmured.
“i panic when i’m nervous.”
“i noticed.”
“shut up, mars.”
his smile softened at the familiar nickname in a dangerously affectionate way, and somehow that expression hurt worse than anything else, because nobody should look at their best friend like that. right?
the room had gone completely quiet after that. not awkward-quiet, but worse—the kind where every tiny thing suddenly became noticeable all at once: the sound of your breathing, the way his hand had instinctively braced itself beside your head against the mattress, the warmth of his body hovering over yours, the fact that your laughter had faded into something softer without either of you realising when it happened.
his hair had fallen into his eyes from laughing too hard earlier—soft dark strands hanging over his forehead—while his cheeks still stayed faintly flushed from literally wrestling you over something stupid you couldn’t even remember anymore.
“you’re insane,” he breathed out quietly, though he sounded more affected than annoyed.
“you started it,” you whispered back automatically.
“no, actually, you started it when you threatened to put some leopard print scarf on me.”
“because it would elevate your aura.”
“my aura does not need elevating.”
“yes it does. your outfit looked like a divorced rockstar.”
“that is literally the coolest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
you snorted softly despite yourself, but neither of you moved, which was the problem. because now? you were suddenly very aware that martin edwards park was bracing himself over you on your dorm bed while your faces were way too close, and his eyes kept flickering down toward your lips before darting away again like he hated himself for it.
his expression softened slowly. “…your eyeliner smudged,” he murmured quietly.
“oh.”
neither of you moved to fix it. god damn.
the late afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through your window, warm against the side of his face, while city noise drifted faintly from somewhere outside campus. one of your unpacked chrome belts dug painfully into your side, but honestly? you could’ve been getting stabbed and still not moved.
he swallowed again.
“so,” you said weakly, because your brain stopped functioning properly around him sometimes, “you’re, like… really heavy.”
his jaw dropped slightly in disbelief. “wow.”
“i’m just saying.”
“i’m literally holding myself up.”
“barely.”
“yn.”
“what?”
“you’re evil.”
“you’ve been saying that since we were six.”
“because it’s always been true since we were six.”
you grinned faintly, and he stared at your smile. and there it was again—that uncertain shift in the air; because suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty he looked this close. or how easy it would be to—
the dorm room door suddenly swung open. “oh my god?!” you both jerked violently apart like criminals caught committing tax fraud.
a girl stood frozen in the doorway with two massive tote bags hanging off her shoulders and a suitcase beside her. she had long dark hair and really pretty eyes you could get lost in. she was wearing an oversized zip-up hoodie and pink headphones rested around her neck. she blinked at the situation in front of her, and then her expression transformed into pure delight.
“…no because, this is crazy,” she said immediately. your soul left your body.
“wait—”
“hi!” she grinned brightly, looking between both of you like she’d just walked into free entertainment. “i’m yunjin. your dormmate apparently. and wow. first day too? you guys move fast.”
“we weren’t—”
“she attacked me,” martin said at the exact same time.
you turned toward him in betrayal. “excuse me?”
“you literally tackled me onto the bed.”
“you were tickling me!”
“because you called my jeans emotionally unemployed.”
“that’s because they are emotionally unemployed!”
yunjin stared at both of you for a long second before slowly setting her bags down. “so… are you guys dating already or are you doing that thing where you act married for seven years before realising you’re in love with each other?”
you and martin froze. “we’re not in love with each other,” you both said at the same time.
yunjin’s smile widened dangerously. “oh, you’re that kind of duo.”
“please don’t psychoanalyze us,” martin groaned, dragging a hand down his face while sitting up properly from the bed.
“i’m literally a fashion major,” yunjin said. “psychoanalysing people is part of the curriculum.”
“it is not,” you muttered weakly. she ignored you completely.
“you,” she pointed directly at martin, “look at her like she invented music.”
martin choked on air. “i do not.”
“you literally folded her tiny sparkly tank tops like they were historical artifacts.”
“they wrinkle easily!” he defended weakly.
“and you,” she pointed dramatically at you, “look at him like you’d forgive him for arson.”
you opened your mouth, then closed it again. “…depends on the circumstances,” you admitted.
martin made the most offended noise imaginable while yunjin doubled over laughing. “oh my god, you guys are insane.”
the knock that sounded against the still-open doorframe wasn't particularly loud, but it was enough to cut through the chaos that had completely consumed the room. all three of you looked up at once.
a tall guy stood awkwardly in the doorway, balancing a cardboard box against his hip as though he’d already begun regretting every decision that had led him here. written across the side of the box in thick black marker were the words ‘vinyl collection: do not touch’, which somehow felt like a warning and a personality trait at the same time. he had on a dark hoodie, and had messy hair, paired with the sort of perpetually sleepy expression that made it look like he’d been dragged out of bed against his will and still hadn't fully recovered from the traumatic experience.
for a second, he simply stared. his gaze swept slowly across the room, taking in the half-unpacked suitcases that seemed to have exploded across every available surface, martin sitting on the edge of your bed looking deeply offended by circumstances entirely of his own making, you still gripping a fuzzy leopard-print scarf like you were seconds away from committing a crime, and yunjin, who appeared to be experiencing the strongest laughing fit of her life.
the guy blinked. then blinked again. “...uh.” his voice carried the careful caution of someone approaching an unfamiliar animal. “before i make assumptions here, is one of you martin?”
martin immediately looked up. “yeah?”
the relief that crossed the stranger’s face was almost embarrassing to witness. “oh, thank god.” he shifted the box higher in his arms before exhaling dramatically. “no, seriously. thank god.”
martin frowned. “what?”
“i'm heeseung—your roommate.” he pointed vaguely toward the neighboring dorm room. “i’ve been standing outside the room for, like, fifteen minutes trying to figure out whether you got lost during move-in, got kidnapped, or somehow died or switched majors before classes even started.”
a horrified gasp escaped yunjin. “no, because, he almost did die.”
martin’s expression immediately twisted. “i absolutely did not almost die.”
“he did,” yunjin insisted. “emotionally.”
“i don’t think that’s a thing.”
“it became a thing the second she started unpacking.”
you stared at her. “we met ten minutes ago.”
“and yet,” she replied without hesitation, “i’ve somehow managed to be correct about every situation i’ve encountered.” the confidence in her voice was genuinely concerning.
heeseung’s eyes moved slowly between all three of you, long enough for him to begin understanding dynamics he absolutely should not have understood this quickly. finally, he nodded to himself. “...right.” nobody liked the way he said that.
“what?” martin asked suspiciously. heeseung looked at him. then at you. then at yunjin. then back at martin.
“this floor is going to be a complete nightmare.”
martin let out a long suffering sigh. “yeah.”
“absolutely,” yunjin agreed immediately.
“cool,” you strung along.
for a moment, heeseung looked prepared to leave. then something seemed to click. his eyes narrowed slightly. “...wait.”
martin visibly regretted whatever was about to happen. “what?”
“you’re that music guy.”
“what music guy?”
“the guitar account.”
martin blinked. for a second, genuine confusion crossed his face before realisation followed. “oh.”
“oh?” you echoed curiously. he immediately looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“yeah. i guess.” he rubbed the back of his neck slowly.
“no way.” heeseung laughed so suddenly it startled all of you. yunjin looked at him like she was ready to book him into a hospital. “dude, my sister listens to your covers all the time!”
your head snapped toward martin so fast it almost hurt. he looked horrified, while you looked delighted.
“you never told me you already had campus clout,” you nudged his shoulder.
“i don’t have ‘campus clout’.”
“you have followers.”
“i posted, like, five videos.”
“exactly.” heeseung nodded with complete seriousness. “five too many.”
martin groaned loudly. “can everybody stop humiliating me for one day?”
“no,” the answer left you and yunjin at exactly the same time. the boys stared at you both.
the betrayal on martin’s face was immediate. “you switched sides that fast?”
yunjin shrugged.
“she’s funny.”
“i’m funny,” you echoed.
“you got folded into a bed frame ten minutes ago,” he recalled.
“that was tactical weakness.”
“that’s not even a thing, dude,” heeseung chimed in, shaking his head.
before you could stop yourself, laughter escaped you again. the sound came easier this time, and the worst part was that martin's attention found you immediately—like it always did; like it had been doing for years. his eyes moved toward you automatically, drawn there without thought, and for one very very stupid second the rest of the room seemed to blur around the edges. you hated how familiar that felt… hated how your chest still reacted to it… hated how every year that passed somehow made it worse instead of better.
“you are never living this day down,” martin informed you, pointing accusingly in your direction.
“correct,” yunjin said before you could answer. the traitor.
heeseung shifted the box in his arms, nearly losing his grip on one corner before catching it at the last second, and then jerked his head toward the hallway as though suddenly remembering that there were actual responsibilities waiting for them beyond whatever strange social experiment had apparently unfolded inside your dorm room. “anyway,” he said, glancing between the three of you, “orientation starts in, like, thirty minutes, and our RA gave an informal speech earlier that sounded suspiciously close to a threat. apparently anyone who shows up late is getting spiritually destroyed.”
martin let out a long groan that sounded like he was already exhausted by university despite having been a student for less than a day. “you say that like it’s a joke.”
“he wasn’t joking.”
“that’s worse.” with another dramatic sigh, he pushed himself up from the edge of your bed. immediately and very annoyingly, your stomach decided to betray you. it wasn’t even for a good reason, or at least that was what you told yourself. he was just standing up. people stood up all the time. there was absolutely no reason your brain should suddenly become hyperaware of the fact that his hair had gotten somehow messier during all the chaos, a few strands falling slightly into his eyes in a way that looked effortless despite the amount of effort it took other people to achieve that exact look. there was no reason you should notice that his hoodie sleeves had been pushed up sometime during the wrestling match he’d disguised as unpacking, exposing familiar forearms and familiar hands that you’d seen your entire life and somehow still couldn’t stop looking at. and there was definitely no reason you should notice the faint trace of pink still lingering across his cheeks from laughing earlier. that part felt particularly unfair because he looked happy; because you’d always liked the way he looked when he was happy; because some small, embarrassing part of you had spent years collecting moments like that without permission.
as though sensing your attention, he glanced down, and because apparently your body had given up pretending to cooperate with your dignity, you looked up at exactly the same moment. the eye contact happened naturally, like it always did, like neither of you had ever learned how not to find each other in a room. for a second, the noise around you seemed to blur into the background, and there it was again: that feeling. that horrible, impossible, unnamed thing that seemed to appear every time your eyes met and lingered a fraction too long—not enough to mean anything, but too much to mean nothing. the worst kind of almost.
yunjin noticed immediately, of course. her eyes widened ever so slightly before darting between the two of you, and the expression that crossed her face looked disturbingly similar to someone finally fitting the last piece into a puzzle.
“oh.” the word was barely louder than a whisper, more to herself than anyone else.
martin’s reaction was immediate. without even looking away from you, he grabbed one of the plushies scattered across your bed and launched it directly at her face. it hit her shoulder. “don’t start.”
yunjin looked deeply offended. “you say that like i said something.”
“you were about to,” he finally looked at her.
“i wasn’t.”
“you absolutely were.”
the grin spreading across her face suggested otherwise. thankfully, heeseung chose that moment to rescue everyone from whatever conversation was about to happen. “c’mon,” he called, backing toward the hallway. “if we miss orientation because of whatever this is, i’m blaming all three of you weirdos.”
martin pointed at yunjin one last time. “this conversation isn’t over.”
“it absolutely is.”
“it isn’t.”
“it is.”
“it isn’t.” then he disappeared into the hallway with heeseung. and somehow, the room felt quieter, which was actually ridiculous. he’d been gone for maybe ten seconds; maybe less. you’d spent entire summers without seeing him sometimes—entire school breaks, entire vacations. so there was absolutely no logical reason for his absence to feel noticeable, and yet, the empty space he left behind seemed larger than it should have been, like the room had shifted around him without your permission.
“bro,” heeseung’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere in the hallway. “you literally had her pinned to the bed.” your entire body froze.
a beat later, martin’s horrified voice followed. “i was being assaulted.”
“you looked pretty happy about it.”
“shut up.”
the conversation dissolved into distant laughter before fading entirely. meanwhile, your face felt approximately nine hundred degrees. slowly, very slowly, yunjin turned toward you.
you pointed at her immediately. “don’t.”
“i haven’t even said anything.”
“your face is saying enough.”
her grin widened. “your face is saying significantly more.”
a groan escaped you before you could stop it. you threw yourself backward onto the mattress and buried your face into the nearest pillow. “i hate this university already.”
“no, you don’t.”
your voice came out muffled. “…maybe not entirely.”
“exactly.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke. you watched her from beneath the edge of the pillow as she crouched beside one of the suitcases she’d dragged in earlier and began unpacking with the confidence of somebody moving into a place she’d lived her entire life instead of somewhere she’d arrived less than an hour ago. and somehow, despite the fact that you’d only known her for ten minutes, the room already felt different—less temporary; less awkward; less like two strangers sharing a space. maybe it was because she behaved as though friendship was a foregone conclusion rather than something that needed to be carefully negotiated. or maybe it was because there was something familiar about her energy—the way she filled silence without overwhelming it, the way her teasing never felt cruel, the way she made conversation feel easy instead of exhausting. she seemed like the kind of person who could sit beside you for hours without making you feel responsible for entertaining them; the kind of person who made spaces feel lived in.
“are you planning on helping me unpack?” you looked up. she was holding an aggressively fluffy cardigan. “or,” she continued, entirely too casually, “are you planning on mourning your fake-boyfriend situationship for the rest of the evening?”
a horrified gasp escaped into the pillow from your mouth. “that wording was evil.”
“so that’s a yes?”
you considered pretending to be unconscious. unfortunately, she already knew you were alive. “...fine. yes.”
“excellent!”
with all the grace and dignity of a fallen soldier, you rolled off the bed and onto your feet before making your way toward her side of the room, already regretting every life choice that had somehow led to a complete stranger diagnosing your emotional problems within the first hour of meeting you.
the second you started helping yunjin unpack, everything about her suddenly began making sense, not in some life-altering revelation way, just in the quiet way people sometimes clicked into place once you saw the things they surrounded themselves with. her side of the room looked exactly how she felt: like somebody had taken the aesthetic of a clean-girl influencer, thrown it into a blender with an overenthusiastic theatre kid, and somehow ended up with something that just worked. lace tops spilled from one suitcase in soft pastel piles. oversized hoodies were tangled together like they'd been stuffed in at three in the morning with absolutely no concern for organisation. tiny silver rings and necklaces appeared every time she opened another pouch. chunky boots sat beside delicate camisoles. at least three different shades of pink existed within arm’s reach at all times.
and then there was the makeup bag, or rather, the makeup explosion. you watched in silence as what looked like approximately thirty lip products immediately attempted to escape the second she unzipped it.
your eyebrows climbed higher. “you own an unreasonable amount of pink.”
she didn’t even look up. she was too busy wrestling a cardigan off a hanger. “and you own enough belts to survive an apocalypse.”
you glanced toward your own side of the room. fair observation. “fashion is survival.”
“that sounds concerning.”
“that’s because you’re uncultured.”
“that’s because i think normal people don’t prepare for the collapse of civilisation through accessories.”
“normal people are boring.”
a laugh escaped before you both could stop it. the sound lingered comfortably between you for a moment, and the strange thing was that it shouldn’t have felt comfortable. somehow the awkwardness that usually accompanied meeting new people had already disappeared. maybe it was because yunjin seemed physically incapable of behaving like a stranger, or maybe it was because she’d walked into your life with the confidence of somebody who had already decided friendship was inevitable. either way, the room felt warmer now, less like two people assigned to share a space, and more like the beginning of something.
you reached for another hanger and slid a graphic tee onto it while yunjin continued unpacking at an almost alarming speed. for a few minutes, conversation drifted harmlessly between you.
“so,” she started.
the word immediately made you suspicious. not because of the word itself, because of the way she said it—slow. deliberate. dangerously casual.
you didn’t even bother looking at her. “no.”
“you haven’t even heard the question.”
“i don’t need to.”
“oh?”
you hung a sweater inside the wardrobe. “i already know where this is going.”
“and?”
“and no.”
the smile in her voice was audible, which meant she was absolutely going to ignore you. “how long have you and martin been in love with each other?”
the hanger slipped, not dramatically enough to hit the floor, just enough that you had to catch it again before it fell. across the room, yunjin looked deeply satisfied with herself. you looked horrified.
“we are not—”
“oh my god.” she dropped her head back immediately. “stop lying to me.”
“i’m not lying!”
“you absolutely are.”
“yunjin.”
“yn. i literally watched that entire k-drama scene unfold in front of me.”
“there was no scene.”
“there absolutely was.”
you groaned loudly. the problem wasn’t that she was asking, but that you knew exactly what she was talking about—every glance, every accidental touch, every stupid moment that had happened since move-in. and somehow hearing it out loud made everything feel worse. “it’s not like that.”
“then explain the eye contact.”
you immediately regretted engaging. “what eye contact?”
she stared at you. the look on her face suggested she was seconds away from filing a formal complaint against your intelligence. “the eye contact.”
“that explains nothing.”
“the eye contact where both of you looked approximately one second away from kissing.”
your soul wanted to leave your body immediately. “we were not—”
“you were.”
“we weren't.”
“you literally looked at each other like divorced lovers reuniting during wartime.”
you paused, and then blinked. “…that’s weirdly specific.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“answer the question.”
the sigh that escaped you felt old. you abandoned the hangers entirely before lowering yourself onto the floor beside her suitcase. the carpet scratched lightly against your legs. sunlight spilled through the dorm window, stretching golden across the room and catching on the silver jewelry scattered around yunjin’s side. for some reason, the domesticity of it all made this conversation worse, like you’d known her longer than a single afternoon.
“…we’ve known each other forever.”
the teasing expression on her face softened slightly. “how forever?”
you stared down at the sweater in your lap, at the loose thread hanging from one sleeve, at literally anything except her. “like…” the answer sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud. “...toddler forever.”
everything stopped. the tee she’d been folding froze halfway through the process. “oh.”
“yeah.”
“oh, this is serious serious.”
you immediately groaned. “it is not.”
“it absolutely is.”
“no.”
“yes.”
you grabbed one of her sweaters and began folding it with far more aggression than necessary. “it’s not serious.” the weakness of the argument was obvious, even to you.
she looked unconvinced. actually, she looked concerned, which somehow felt weirder. “it’s giving… soulmatism.”
you looked up at her with narrowed eyes. “that’s not a word.”
“it is now.”
“that’s not how language works.”
“language is fake.”
you hated that you laughed. you hated it even more because she looked unbearably pleased afterward. and somehow, after that, talking became dangerously easier. maybe it was because yunjin actually listened when people spoke, or maybe it was because she never treated emotions like inconveniences… or maybe it was because she had a way of making confessions feel casual, like you weren’t handing somebody pieces of yourself, but like you were simply continuing a conversation.
whatever the reason was, one story became another, and then another, and another, until you found yourself talking without really meaning to—about paper rings exchanged under warm lights, about strawberry milk cartons saved during lunch, about middle school dances, about train rides, about birthdays spent together, about aquariums, about all the tiny moments that shouldn’t have mattered so much but somehow did. the stories piled up around you—years and years of them—every single one somehow leading back to martin edwards park.
by the time you finished talking, yunjin was sitting motionless on the floor surrounded by half-unpacked skincare products and jewelry organisers. she looked like somebody attempting to process a particularly devastating tv show finale.
“…no because if this ends badly, i’m suing somebody.”
you immediately buried your face in your hands. “see?” your voice came out muffled. “this is exactly why i can’t tell him.”
“but he literally loves you.”
the words hit harder than they should have, making you shake your head immediately. “not like that.”
“yn.” the way she said your name made you nervous, like somebody preparing evidence. “that man learned your favorite anime opening on guitar in middle school.”
the memory surfaced immediately—martin sitting on the edge of his bed, frowning at sheet music, playing the same section over and over until he got it right. just because you’d mentioned liking it once. “…yeah.”
“he waits through your track practices.”
another memory—summer heat, bleachers, martin sitting through three straight hours of training with a bottle of water and absolutely no reason to be there. “…yeah.”
“he remembered the exact jellyfish exhibit you cried at when you were a kid.”
your chest hurt just a little because suddenly you weren’t in your dorm room anymore. you were ten years old again, standing in front of dark blue glass while jellyfish drifted through water like floating ghosts. you’d forgotten when exactly that had happened, what you’d eaten afterward, and almost everything else. but he remembered—of course he remembered. he remembered things the way other people collected photographs: carefully, quietly, keeping them safe until years later when he’d hand them back to you. “…yeah.”
“and today,” yunjin continued, sounding increasingly exasperated, “he looked ready to square up with god knows who because your eyeliner smudged.”
you let your head fall against the side of her suitcase. “that’s just his personality.”
a long silence stretched out, the kind that made you look up eventually. she was staring at you, just… staring. the look on her face suggested she’d reached a conclusion, and unfortunately for you, it wasn’t a flattering one. “you are actually the dumbest smart person i’ve ever met.”
you smiled weakly. “thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
before you could defend yourself, a sharp knock echoed through the room making both of you look toward the door.
“orientation in five!” heeseung’s voice carried through the hallway. then, after a brief pause, he added, “also martin walked into a wall literally thirty seconds ago.”
a horrified voice immediately followed. “heeseung, shut up.”
yunjin’s jaw dropped in amusement as she got ready to bully him about it for the next few years. “oh my god.”
you bit down on the inside of your cheek. unfortunately, that did absolutely nothing to stop the smile spreading across your face.
campus orientation was genuinely hellish: too many people, too much noise, and way too many overly cheerful upperclassmen wearing matching university hoodies while yelling directions through microphones like literal military commanders. the four of you ended up squeezed together near the back of the massive auditorium after barely finding seats beside each other. the air was thick with humidity and freshman anxiety.
you sat directly between yunjin and martin, while heeseung slouched on martin’s other side looking exhausted already. “i think i blacked out during the third speech,” he admitted, his head tilted back against the plastic seat.
“there were seven speeches,” you informed him helpfully.
“exactly.”
martin leaned closer toward you slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. “did you eat anything today besides pocky?”
you looked offended. “i had iced coffee too.”
“that’s not food.”
“it has calories.”
“that’s not how nutrition works.”
“you sound thirty,” you rolled your eyes.
“you sound malnourished.”
yunjin watched both of you from your left like she was witnessing live theatre, her eyes darting back and forth between your faces. heeseung noticed her expression immediately.
“…oh, you clocked them too?” heeseung muttered across the seats.
“immediately,” she whispered back.
you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward slightly to glare past martin. “i can hear both of you.”
“good,” they answered together, completely unfazed.
martin looked between all three of you suspiciously, his brow furrowing. “…why do i feel like i’m being cyberbullied in real life?”
“because you are,” heeseung nodded solemnly.
a loud cheer erupted somewhere near the front of the auditorium as one of the orientation leaders announced club sign-ups, the sound echoing sharply through the sound system. the sudden noise startled you enough that you instinctively flinched slightly toward martin. without even looking, his hand moved automatically to steady your knee. just for a second—just instinct. his fingers were warm through your jeans, grounding you instantly before he pulled his hand back into his pockets.
yunjin slowly looked at heeseung. he slowly looked back at her. simultaneously, their lips moved in a silent, terrifying synchronisation: ‘they’re doomed.’
orientation dissolved into absolute chaos pretty quickly after that. the auditorium emptied into the campus courtyard in huge, noisy waves of students while upperclassmen practically hunted freshmen down with club flyers. music blasted somewhere near the student union building, where somebody was already performing an acoustic cover of a k-pop ballad with a guitar near the fountain, while fashion majors were taking photos literally everywhere, and the engineering students looked universally terrified.
“why does everybody here dress like they’re in a pinterest board?” heeseung muttered, looking around the area with a slight frown.
“because we’re art and music students,” yunjin replied, adjusting her tote bag. “half this campus survives entirely on aesthetics and caffeine.”
“that explains the emotional instability in the air,” you snorted softly while adjusting the straps of your bag. your outfit definitely wasn’t helping the pinterest allegations either—low-rise dark washed jeans with silver chain details hanging against your thigh, a pink graphic tee layered over white thermals, chunky headphones resting around your neck, and rings decorating almost every finger. your eyeliner was slightly smudged from earlier, giving your makeup an accidentally messy look. beside you, martin somehow looked equally unfair: he wore an oversized black hoodie layered beneath a faded leather jacket despite the warm weather, a long silver necklace resting against his shirt, baggy jeans, and black headphones hanging around his neck, rings, bracelets, and that wavy, annoyingly pretty hair that fell slightly into his eyes.
“okay,” yunjin clapped suddenly, snapping everyone out of their daze. “campus exploration mission.”
“i thought this was orientation.”
“it is orientation,” she nodded. “we’re orienting ourselves toward good food and attractive people.”
“those are two very different things,” heeseung frowned.
“not to me. let’s go!”
the four of you began wandering through the crowded campus pathways afterward, occasionally stopping whenever some extra hyper club member aggressively shoved ugly neon flyers into your hands. at one point, martin ended up arguing with a music production senior for nearly ten minutes about analog recording frequencies, his hands gesturing wildly while the rest of you sat at a nearby concrete table pretending to care.
“he’s kinda nerdy,” yunjin whispered to you quietly, leaning her chin on her palm.
“you noticed that now?”
“he tried explaining microphone frequencies to me earlier with the passion of a divorced rockstar.”
“those are literally the same words i used today!” you burst into laughter, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the courtyard. martin shot both of you a suspicious look from across the table, pausing mid-sentence with the senior.
“what are you laughing at?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“nothing,” you replied without missing a beat.
“that sounded fake.”
“your face sounds fake,” you rolled your eyes.
“…what does that even mean?”
“exactly. shut up.”
heeseung looked genuinely emotional watching you both, shaking his head. “you guys argue like an old married couple. it’s exhausting as fuck to listen to.”
eventually, the four of you split apart slightly while exploring one of the outdoor student booths lining the main courtyard. martin got completely distracted by some vintage vinyl display, his inner music nerd taking over, and heeseung followed him because apparently they shared the same exact soul of a forty-year-old man. which left you and yunjin wandering between the art booths together.
“you know,” she started carefully, her voice dropping into that specific matchmaker tone, “i still think he likes you.”
you sighed dramatically, examining a handmade ceramic pins display. “yunjin, you’ve known us for, like, four hours.”
“and i’m already deeply invested.”
“you need hobbies.”
“this is my hobby now.”
before you could respond, someone stepped beside you suddenly, blocking the sunlight. “hey.”
you turned and came face-to-face with a guy who stood there holding two iced americanos in one hand, while his other hand rested casually in the pocket of his varsity jacket. sharp eyes, a pretty smile, and orange-ish hair pushed back slightly. he had a very confident, effortless aura about him. he tilted his head slightly, his eyes crinkling as he recognised you from the auditorium earlier. “you’re one of the fashion majors from orientation, right?”
“oh,” you blinked, caught off guard. “yeah.”
“i’m jeongin.”
“yn.”
“pretty name for a pretty woman,” he smiled, offering a casual nod. yunjin physically perked up beside you like a shark smelling blood in the water. you ignored her, keeping your eyes on him. he took a sip of his coffee, his smile widening slightly. “you looked deeply miserable during the speeches earlier.”
“that’s because i was.”
“that’s fair. i almost fell asleep during the dean’s speech.”
“you and half the campus,” you smiled back. he laughed softly. okay… he was actually kind of charming. yunjin noticed your expression immediately, a tiny, knowing smirk spreading across her face.
“so,” he glanced toward the flyer in your hand, a tiny smirk playing on his lips, “you joining any clubs or are you just pretending to listen like the rest of us?”
“mostly pretending,” you hummed.
“you’re surviving university well already.”
“thank you,” you nodded solemnly. he laughed again—that same low, nice sound from before. unfortunately, you were actually a little funny, which meant conversations like this happened relatively often. yunjin slowly looked over your shoulder toward something behind you. then her eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows shooting up.
before you could even turn around, a familiar voice cut right through the conversation. “yn.” your stomach betrayed you instantly, doing a violent flip. martin stood there holding two cans of redbull and a plastic bag of snacks, while heeseung lingered beside him looking way too entertained already. martin’s expression looked neutral—too neutral, which was usually dangerous.
“hi,” you said carefully. his eyes flickered briefly toward jeongin, taking in the varsity jacket and the two americanos, before landing back on you. jeongin looked back casually, tilting his head, and suddenly the atmosphere became weird. not openly hostile or aggressive, just… boy weird.
“this is jeongin,” yunjin introduced immediately, jumping into the silence like the shit stirrer she truly was. “he was just talking to yn.”
“i gathered that,” martin replied too calmly.
jeongin smiled politely, totally unfazed by the sudden drop in temperature. “you guys friends?”
before you could even open your mouth to answer, yunjin cut in. “she’s basically his wife.”
“yunjin!” you choked, your face heating up instantly.
martin nearly inhaled his own oxygen wrong, clearing his throat aggressively as his ears went a furious shade of pink. beside him, heeseung physically turned away because he started laughing too hard, burying his face in his hand.
jeongin blinked once, looking between you. “…oh.”
“we are not married,” you said immediately, looking at yunjin with an expression that clearly said ‘i am going to murder you in your sleep’. you wanted to actualise a black hole and die right there on the pavement.
“she proposed first, actually,” martin added dryly, recovering his composure remarkably fast.
you stared at him in pure betrayal. “why would you bring up the paper rings right now?!”
“because you started the marriage allegations.”
“you literally agreed to it!” you said, exasperatedly.
“i was a kid!”
“you said yes immediately!” you threw your hands up.
jeongin watched the entire exchange slowly, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. then he looked at yunjin. then heeseung, who was still silently shaking with laughter. then back at you and martin. “…so you’re not dating.”
“no,” both of you answered instantly, your voices overlapping in perfect, frantic synchronisation. another heavy pause stretched over the yard. “…right,” jeongin nodded, his tone suggesting he believed absolutely zero percent of that. he offered a polite, somewhat amused, smile. “well, i should probably head to the design building. see you around, yn.” he still lingered, though.
“yeah, see you,” you muttered. martin stepped up, handing you one of the redbulls a little abruptly. your fingers brushed briefly while taking the cold metal can from him. it was a tiny moment. a tiny, stupid, completely insignificant moment. but he looked down at your hand for half a second too long afterward, his thumb twitching slightly against his jacket pocket as his expression softened almost unconsciously.
yunjin saw it. heeseung saw it. unfortunately, both of them were thoroughly evil.
“so,” heeseung said casually to martin, a knowing smirk stretching across his face, “you looked ready to kill him just now.”
martin looked genuinely horrified, his head snapping toward him. “what?”
“you walked over here like a divorced husband discovering his wife on a dating app,” yunjin nodded seriously, her arms crossed over her chest.
“i did not.”
“you literally interrupted their flirting.”
“we weren’t flirting,” you defended weakly, your face feeling warm as you gripped your canned drink a little tighter.
jeongin, who hadn’t actually walked away yet, tilted his head with a lazy, amused smile. “… i kinda was.”
absolute silence. oh. oh no. martin froze completely, his entire posture locking up. beside him, heeseung made a choked noise so sudden and violent it sounded medically concerning. yunjin grabbed your arm immediately, her fingers digging into your jacket sleeve like she was about to witness front-row live entertainment. meanwhile, martin stared at jeongin with the exact expression of someone trying very hard to remain normal. “…cool,” he said finally. not normally at all.
jeongin either didn’t notice the sudden drop in atmosphere or he chose violence intentionally. “you’re pretty,” he told you casually, his tone incredibly effortless. “i wanted to talk to you earlier in the auditorium, but you were always with him.”
the silence afterward was catastrophic because martin visibly stiffened, his shoulders squaring beneath his leather jacket. your own brain completely stopped functioning, the words echoing in your ears. yunjin physically folded into herself, trying not to scream out loud, while heeseung just whispered, “oh my god,” under his breath like he’d just witnessed a historic geopolitical event.
you looked at martin instinctively. big mistake. because his jaw had tightened slightly, a sharp line forming along his throat, and his pretty eyes were darkened slightly under his bangs. and suddenly he looked… jealous? your chest hurt immediately, your heart nearly exploding on impact from the sheer ridiculousness of it.
“you should come hang with us later tonight,” jeongin continued easily, totally ignoring the tension radiating off martin. “some freshmen are exploring the night market nearby.”
before you could even open your mouth to answer, martin chimed in, “she’s busy.” everyone turned toward him. including himself, apparently, because he looked deeply startled right after the words left his mouth.
you blinked, looking up at him. “i am?”
he stared at you for one painfully long second, his eyes wide and slightly panicked before he recovered his composure. “…we’re unpacking stuff later,” he said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. yunjin almost started convulsing from trying not to laugh, her shoulders shaking violently against yours.
jeongin looked between both of you once again, his sharp eyes taking in your flushed face and martin’s absolute rigidity, and then he suddenly grinned. “oh,” he said softly, like he’d just figured out a very amusing secret.
martin’s expression darkened instantly. “we’re not dating,” he said, not for the first time that day, his voice dropping an octave.
“sure,” jeongin nodded politely, which somehow felt ten times worse than him actually arguing back. he eventually actually left after exchanging socials with yunjin instead of you, which honestly felt entirely intentional. “see you guys around,” he smiled casually, walking backward a few steps into the yard. then he looked at you specifically, his eyes crinkling. “and yn? don’t let him scare every guy away before the semester even starts.”
martin looked genuinely offended. “i didn’t scare anybody.”
jeongin only grinned, turning around and disappearing back into the buzzing crowd of students. the exact second he was fully out of hearing range, yunjin exploded. “oh, you are sick,” she let out the scream she’d been holding in.
“i actually need this documented academically for future research purposes,” heeseung added, clutching his chest dramatically.
martin frowned immediately, his ears still burning pink. “what are you both even talking about?”
“you got jealous.”
“i did not.”
“you interrupted a man mid-flirt like an overprotective victorian husband,” yunjin cackled.
“he was annoying.”
“he was hot,” yunjin corrected smoothly.
martin visibly recoiled, his eyebrows shooting up. “okay, now you’re just saying things to upset me.” the words slipped out so naturally, so entirely without thought, that nobody reacted for half a second. then the realisation hit, and silence slammed into the group. martin froze. you froze.. heeseung’s mouth fell completely open, and yunjin dramatically grabbed onto his shoulder to steady herself because her knees were actually giving out.
martin recovered first, clearing his throat aggressively as he looked anywhere but at you. “…not upset me,” he corrected weakly, his voice cracking slightly. “like—like, generally. as a person.”
“right,” heeseung nodded solemnly, his face deadpan. “you sounded very normal and convincing there, bro.”
“shut up.”
unfortunately for martin, his ears had already gone a furious shade of red, which made everything so much worse. you rolled your eyes to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips, but inside, your heart was still hammering against your ribs, helpless against the look he had given you just moments before.
by nighttime, the entire campus had transformed—fairy lights glowed in long, tangled strings around the main lawn while students gathered in messy circles across picnic blankets and foldable chairs. someone had set up huge speakers nearby, the bass thumping low against the ground. somebody else was definitely grilling food illegally behind one of the dorm buildings because the smell of charcoal drifted over the grass all the way till your group. a massive campfire burned near the center of the field, warm orange light flickering across hundreds of faces while music drifted softly through the cool night air. the atmosphere felt… nice. too nice. maybe even dangerously nice.
“this is kinda cute,” you admitted quietly, tucking your legs under you as you sat down beside yunjin on one of the plaid blankets.
“kinda?” she looked around dramatically, gesturing with her hands. “this is peak university movie montage. if a guitar guy shows up, i’m gonna go feral.”
heeseung dropped down nearby a second later, holding a ridiculous assortment of drinks and snacks balanced dangerously in his arms. “i stole these from a business major,” he announced, dumping them in the center of the blanket.
“you can’t just confess crimes casually,” martin frowned, sitting down right beside you.
“it’s orientation week. laws don’t exist yet.”
“that’s not how society works.”
“you sound like you pay taxes willingly, dude.”
“yn and i already planned to skip taxes, actually,” martin said while looking personally insulted, his mouth parting slightly in offense. you laughed quietly at his face, accepting one of the brightly colored canned drinks heeseung confusedly tossed into your lap.
“what even is this?” you asked, tilting the can to read the blurry label.
“something fruity.”
“that sounds dangerous coming from your mouth, hee.”
“exactly.”
you took a sip anyway, because why not. immediately, you grimaced. “oh my god.”
yunjin snorted, leaning closer. “you hate it?”
“it tastes like… if battery acid and artificial strawberries had a baby,” you shuddered.
“…you’re drinking more though.”
“unfortunately,” you muttered, taking another long sip.
the night blurred softer after that—music, laughter, and the distant sound of people shouting lyrics badly around the fire. you watched yunjin aggressively force an exhausted heeseung into some random group game against his will a few blankets over. beside you, martin was sitting close. close enough that your shoulders kept brushing accidentally every time either of you shifted. or maybe not accidentally. you honestly couldn’t tell anymore.
the fruity battery-acid drink turned out to be way stronger than expected, too. you weren’t blackout drunk—not even close—but just enough to make your chest feel fuzzy and warm, your thoughts a little softer, and your self-control significantly worse than usual.
that was a massive problem when martin existed nearby looking like… martin. his sleeves were pushed up slightly now, and his hair was entirely messy from the night wind. his silver rings glinted sharply under the orange firelight as he laughed quietly at something heeseung was yelling from across the lawn, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm against his knee. you stared too long. again.
yunjin noticed immediately. “oh, she’s gone,” she whispered loudly toward heeseung, pointing a finger at you.
“what?”
“she’s doing the yearning stare again.”
you nearly choked on your drink, your eyes widening. “i am not!”
“you look at him like he personally hung the moon, yn.”
“that doesn’t even make sense.”
“it does, actually,” she insisted.
martin looked over finally, drawing his eyes away from the fire. “what are you guys talking about?”
“nothing,” you answered way too quickly, your voice hitting a higher octave.
“yn’s in love with—ow!” yunjin yelped, clutching her shin after you kicked her violently across the blanket. martin blinked slowly, looking between the two of you in mild confusion.
“…yn, you just assaulted her.”
“she lied.”
“i literally didn’t even finish the sentence,” yunjin complained, rubbing her leg.
“you didn’t need to.”
heeseung looked between all of you before letting out a deeply exhausted, long-suffering sigh. “this friend group is gonna kill me before the first semester even starts.”
the campfire crackled loudly nearby, a shower of sparks flying up into the dark sky while the music shifted into something slower and softer. students started pairing off slowly around the lawn—some dancing badly near the speakers, others wandering toward the dark food stalls, or just sitting closer together beneath shared blankets. the air grew noticeably colder, the wind biting through your thin zip-up. without thinking much about it—blame the alcohol, blame the temperature—you leaned slightly closer toward martin’s side for warmth.
he noticed instantly. “you cold?”
“a little,” you muttered, looking down at your drink. without saying another word, he tugged off his heavy flannel overshirt, his movements effortless as he draped it gently over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through the sleeves. your heart beat much faster because the fabric was still warm from his skin, and it smelled entirely like him—the specific laundry detergent his mom had been using since you were kids, faint cologne, and something else that was just painfully, distinctly martin.
“you’re gonna freeze,” you muttered quietly, burying your chin into the high collar of the shirt.
“i’m fine.”
“you say that every time.”
“because you steal my clothes every time,” he pointed out dryly.
“that sounds like a you problem.”
he laughed softly under his breath, his head tipping back slightly against the cool night air. your heart nearly folded in on itself. god, this was genuinely humiliating. the alcohol made everything ten times worse because suddenly all your carefully hidden feelings sat way too close to the surface—raw and exposed. every glance he threw your way felt incredibly heavy. every accidental touch lingered a second too long. at some point, yunjin and heeseung completely disappeared to go bully another freshman group into sharing their marshmallows, leaving you and martin sitting near the dark edge of the firelight dangerously alone.
the music softened again nearby, the acoustic guitar chords floating over the lawn. martin leaned back against the grass, propping himself up on his elbows with a quiet sigh as he looked up at the sky. you didn’t look at the sky. you watched him instead.
“you’re staring again,” he murmured without looking over.
drunk bravery was a disease. “so what if i am?”
that got his attention immediately. his head turned toward you slowly as the firelight flickered across his face while surprise flashed briefly through his expression.
“…you okay?” he asked, still balanced on his elbows to look up at you, his eyes dark under his bangs.
“no.”
his brows furrowed instantly and his entire posture shifted as he sat up a bit straighter on the blanket. “what’s wrong? did you drink too much of that battery acid stuff? i kept warning you to slow down.”
“maybe.”
“you absolute lightweight,” he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, fondly exasperated tone that always made your chest feel tight. “i knew i shouldn’t have let heeseung give you that.”
“you’re literally prettier tonight,” you suddenly informed him. the words tumbled out of your mouth before your brain could even initiate a broadcast. what followed was absolute, catastrophic silence. oh no. your internal filter had arrived around twenty fucking thousand business days too late.
martin blinked once, his hand freezing mid-motion where he had been about to run it through his hair. “…what did you just say?”
“you heard me,” you said, stubbornly refusing to back down now that the damage was already done, even though your face was burning so hot, it felt like the campfire was under your skin.
his ears turned a furious shade of pink almost instantly, the color creeping up from the collar of his shirt. you wanted to desperately disappear into thin air right then and there. “yn—”
“no, because actually,” you interrupted aggressively, pointing a slightly shaky finger vaguely at his face to stop him from speaking, “it’s genuinely, incredibly annoying. you have no idea.”
“what is?” he asked, his voice sounding a little breathless now as he watched your finger.
“you.”
“…me?”
“yes. your whole…” you gestured helplessly between his face and his shoulders, completely losing your grip on vocabulary, “your whole everything. it’s unfair.”
he stared at you in complete disbelief now, his mouth slightly parted. you kept going anyway, because apparently the artificial strawberry alcohol had taken away your survival instincts and replaced them with pure, unfiltered honesty.
“you keep doing this thing where you look all…” your hands moved vaguely in the air again, trying to map out the exact way the firelight caught his jawline, “…all soft and nice and stupidly handsome all the time. in that ugly uniform back then, in that leather jacket right now. it’s ridiculous.”
he looked like his soul had temporarily left his body. he just sat there, the orange light flickering across his wide eyes. “handsome?” he repeated weakly, his voice cracking just a fraction. “you think i look… handsome?”
“oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face entirely into your hands immediately, the rough denim of his flannel overshirt pressing against your cheeks. “forget i said that. delete it from your memory, actually. i’m insane. don’t let me touch alcohol ever again.”
unfortunately for you, he started laughing softly. it wasn’t a mocking laugh, or a teasing one, which would have been so much easier to handle. it was worse—it was that deep, quiet, devastatingly fond sound that always made your knees weak. “you’re so drunk right now,” he murmured, his voice practically vibrating against the space between you.
“i’m not drunk, i’m emotionally suffering,” you mumbled into your palms.
“that too,” he chuckled softly.
you peeked at him through the small gaps between your fingers. big mistake. huge mistake, actually, because now he was looking at you in that way again. that soft, weird, focused way that always made your heart beat too fast.
“you’re pretty too, you know,” he said quietly, his eyes locked onto yours as you lowered your hands. “especially when you’re tired and your eyeliner is all smudged like that.”
your heart stopped completely. the air in your lungs went entirely cold. “…don’t joke right now, martin. i will actually throw this drink at your head.”
his expression shifted immediately, the teasing softness hardening into something intense, something real, something that made your stomach drop. “i’m not joking,” he said, his voice incredibly steady.
the air changed again, the heavy humidity of the night suddenly compressing into that terrifying almost-feeling that had been hovering over the two of you for years. the fire crackled loudly somewhere nearby, and the distant, buzzed laughter of other freshmen echoed across the lawn, but suddenly everything felt completely muted around the two of you. he looked at you for a second too long, his gaze dropping from your eyes. you looked back, unable to move, unable to breathe. and suddenly your chest hurt so badly you wanted to scream because this was the ultimate problem. always this. too much feeling. too much history. too much almost.
his eyes flickered downward briefly—pointed directly, unmistakably, toward your lips. your breath caught instantly in your throat. he noticed, and you noticed him noticing. and somehow, despite the rules and the allegations and the fear, neither of you moved away. the distance between you suddenly felt very small.
his leather jacket brushed against the flannel on your shoulders. “yn,” he said softly. you almost cried at the way he said your name—gentle, careful, like it was something sacred that only he could worship correctly. he didn’t say it as a warning, or an insult, or even as a question. it was just your name, but it sounded like something dangerous and precious in his mouth. your eyes locked onto his, leaning slightly closer.
“oh my god, heeseung, look! they’re doing the eye contact thing again. i told you they were doomed as fuck!” the loud, cackling whisper shattered the silence like bricks through glass.
you both jumped apart like actual convicted criminals caught in the act, martin clearing his throat aggressively as he violently turned his head to stare at the grass, his entire face flashing a bright, brilliant red under the firelight. heeseung nearly collapsed laughing, bending over with his hands on his knees, while yunjin pointed a sticky marshmallow stick at both of you accusatorily.
“you guys are embarrassing!” she yelled over the bass, her voice carrying across at least three neighboring blankets. “the tension is literally radioactive! i can see the waves, like the ones from spiderman’s spidey tingles!”
martin grabbed a nearby, half-empty marshmallow packet from the grass and threw it directly at her face. it was a remarkably accurate shot. somehow—the plastic bag hit yunjin squarely in the forehead with a soft thud before dropping into her lap. she gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “domestic violence! i am calling campus security! i am reporting a hate crime!”
“you deserved that,” he informed her, his voice tight as he tried—and failed—to control the dark blush still burning across his cheekbones.
“you almost kissed her!” yunjin shrieked, totally unfazed.
“literally nothing happened!”
heeseung stepped up, pointing aggressively between both of you like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “bro, don’t lie to the court. your faces were literally moving closer. we saw the physical trajectory. it was a closing gap.”
“we were talking,” martin defended, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms over his chest. “the music is loud. i was leaning in so I could hear her.”
“your eyes were closed halfway, bro.”
he froze. his arms slowly uncrossed. “…they were not.” you, unfortunately, remembered that they absolutely, one hundred percent, were. your memory might have been a little fuzzy around the edges from the weird alcohol, but you distinctly remembered the heavy, dark sweep of his eyelashes just inches from your own, which meant your entire body immediately overheated again, a hot wave of panic rushing straight to your ears.
“okay!” you announced loudly, standing up way too quickly from the plaid blanket. “i’m choosing peace and pretending you both said absolutely nothing. goodbye!”
“you’re walking crooked,” yunjin noted, watching you sway.
“the earth is tilted,” you argued, staring straight ahead.
“that’s not how gravity works, yn.”
“not with that attitude it doesn’t, yunjin,” you glared drunkenly at her.
heeseung started laughing all over again while martin instinctively reached out, his reflexes kicking in the exact second you almost tripped over the raised edge of the picnic blanket. his hands wrapped around your waist briefly to steady you. his palms were incredibly warm through the fabric of your shirt and his flannel on top, spanning the sides of your ribs, holding you entirely still against the pull of gravity. for a second, everything felt perfectly balanced and safe. your brain short-circuited instantly, the remaining alcohol turning into pure static.
“there,” he muttered quietly, his breath brushing the side of your neck as he helped you find your footing again. his hands lingered on your waist for just a beat too long before he slowly pulled them back, his fingers twitching slightly. “careful. i don’t need you cracking your skull open on orientation night.”
you looked up at him through your messy bangs. another massive, fatal mistake… because now he was standing too close, looking down at you with some intense, protective gaze that made your stupid alcohol-filled heart immediately start malfunctioning again.
“i wouldn’t have cracked it,” you whispered, your voice suddenly losing all its previous defensive bite. “you caught me.”
his eyes softened, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked back up, his voice dropping an octave. “i’m always gonna catch you, yn. you know that.”
thankfully, before your brain could completely spiral into a puddle of mush, loud, explosive music suddenly blasted through the main campus speakers. the beat dropped hard, and a massive, roaring cheer erupted across the entire lawn.
“oh hell yes,” yunjin gasped, her eyes lighting up. students immediately started abandoning their blankets, rushing toward the large open space near the roaring campfire where a group of upperclassmen had apparently decided orientation night required a massive, chaotic dance floor now.
“you guys are coming,” heeseung announced, already bouncing on his heels.
“i don’t dance,” martin said instantly, taking a step back.
“that’s crazy because our entire major literally revolves around rhythm,” heeseung pointed out, grabbing his shoulder.
“music and dancing are not the same thing.”
“you’re literally lying to yourself.”
yunjin grabbed your wrist dramatically, her grip tight and unyielding. “come on, yn! don’t let the resident loser ruin the vibe!” you honestly didn’t need much convincing.
maybe it was the heavy buzz of the alcohol, or maybe it was the infectious energy of the music pulsing through the grass. or maybe, honestly, it was just the overwhelming rush of being independent, finally away from home, with your best friends beside you under the glowing campus lights while the night still felt entirely endless and full of potential. either way, you let yourself get dragged straight into the center of the crowd.
the atmosphere became chaotic immediately—hundreds of students were yelling lyrics at the top of their lungs, people jumping around horribly off-beat, and someone had already fallen face-first onto the grass nearby, laughing too hard to get back up. the playlist shifted wildly between trendy pop songs and old, nostalgic throwback hits, but everybody screamed along regardless, throwing their hands in the air.
yunjin danced like rent was due, throwing her hair around and aggressively pointing at people in the crowd to blow kisses to. heeseung somehow danced even worse, doing ironical 80s disco moves that had you clutching your stomach from laughing so hard. martin mostly stood nearby on the perimeter of your little circle, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, laughing quietly at all of you. he looked so separate from the chaos, so steady and grounded, that you couldn’t take it.
you stepped forward and grabbed both his wrists dramatically, pulling his hands out of his pockets.
“oh no,” he said immediately, his lips twitching into a smile even as he tried to pull back.
“oh yes.”
“yn, please. have mercy.”
“dance, loser!” you yelled over the chorus of a pop song, tugging on his arms.
“i physically can’t, like, i genuinely lack the coordination for whatever heeseung is doing over there.”
“you’re literally a musician! your whole life is tempo!”
“that’s discrimination,” he protested, but the resistance in his arms was already fading.
you snorted before trying to pull him closer into the dense crowd anyway, moving your shoulders to the beat. he resisted for a whole two seconds before giving up completely. mostly because you looked too happy to say no to. your laugh echoed loudly through the music, bright and unfiltered, while the warm firelight flickered beautifully across your face.
he watched you, and he suddenly felt that familiar, terrifying, heavy ache in his chest again. god, he loved you so much. it was honestly becoming a liability, and medically concerning how much space you took up in his head, how a single look from you could completely dictate the rest of his day.
you caught him staring and pulled him a little closer, your hands shifting from his wrists to rest lightly against his chest. “see? it’s not that hard,” you laughed, looking up at him. “just move a little.”
he let out a soft, defeated breath, his hands coming up to rest gently on your hips to keep people from bumping into you as the crowd surged. “i’m only doing this because you’re drunk,” he lied softly, his thumb absentmindedly drawing a small circle against your waist.
“liar,” you teased, leaning into his space. “you’re doing it because you love me.”
his heart did a violent, dangerous backflip. he looked down at your face, his expression turning incredibly serious for a split second despite the screaming crowd around you. “yeah,” he murmured, the word swallowed by the loud bass, though his eyes said it clearly enough—‘yeah, i do’.
eventually, the crowd shifted around again as another wave of students joined the circle, pushing people around. somewhere in the sudden chaos, yunjin completely disappeared toward the snack tables to hunt down more food, and heeseung and martin got aggressively dragged into an intense dance-battle circle against their will, leaving you tucked away in a corner of the moving crowd.
suddenly you found yourself beside an unfamiliar guy—dark hair, sharp smile, performatively fake glasses slightly crooked from dancing.
“oh,” he laughed when you nearly bumped into him. “sorry.”
“my bad,” you grinned tipsily.
“i’m seungmin,” he introduced himself over the loud music.
“yn.”
recognition flashed across his face immediately. “ohhh. jeongin told me you’re that martin guy’s—”
“best friend,” you interrupted automatically.
seungmin looked deeply unconvinced. “…right.”
the music switched again with a massive, heavy bass drop, and the crowd collectively screamed in recognition. “oh my god, i love this song!” you gasped, your eyes lighting up as you threw your hands in the air, completely giving in to the rhythm.
seungmin laughed immediately, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head at you. “you’re definitely drunk.”
“i’m not drunk, seungmo,” you yelled back over the blaring speakers, spinning around on your heel. “i’m experiencing life!”
“that sounded deeply philosophical.”
“thank you! i try!” you grinned.
unlike martin, who always tended to watch you carefully and protectively whenever you drank—guarding your space and counting your sips—seungmin just matched your chaotic energy instantly. within minutes, the two of you were yelling lyrics completely out of key, jumping hysterically, and dancing stupidly among the sweaty crowd like you’d known each other for an entire lifetime instead of just a few minutes. to you, this was just pure, unadulterated excitement. new friend, fun person, cool vibes, the university experience you had always read about.
unfortunately, martin noticed from across the lawn, and he immediately looked like somebody had shot him.
he stood near the edge of the dense crowd, holding two fresh drinks he’d gone to get for the two of you, staring directly through the moving bodies to where you were laughing brightly at something seungmin had just said. his fingers tightened around the aluminum cans, his jaw setting into a rigid, hard line as he watched seungmin casually lean in close to hear you over the music.
heeseung materialised beside him instantly, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “oh, brother.”
“i’m literally fine,” martin said, his voice entirely flat, though his eyes didn’t leave your face for a single second.
“sure you are. you look like you’re about to write a critically acclaimed, ten-minute, best-selling indie breakup album.”
he looked away immediately, staring down at the grass as if it were the most fascinating thing on campus. “they’re just dancing, bro. it’s fine. she’s having fun.”
“yeah,” heeseung nodded, crossing his arms and tilting his head toward the dance floor. “and you’re staring at them like a tragic war veteran watching his entire hometown burn to the ground.”
“i am not.”
“martin, you’ve literally crushed your drink can.”
he looked down at his right hand. oh. he had. the metal can was completely mangled, liquid dripping slowly over his silver rings and onto his sneakers. “…oops,” he muttered, his face turning a dark, frustrated shade of red.
meanwhile, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent crisis happening. seungmin had somehow convinced you to join a completely ridiculous dance challenge with a group of random upperclassmen nearby, and the two of you were currently losing horribly.
“this is rigged,” you accused, pointing dramatically at the guy who had just executed a perfect backflip. “he’s a professional!”
“you’re just bad at coordination, yn,” seungmin teased, leaning back with a grin.
“i was an athlete!” you protested loudly.
“that actually makes this so much sadder.”
you gasped dramatically, clutching your chest before breaking out into another fit of laughter. but as you laughed, the world suddenly felt oddly, overwhelmingly warm. the cool night air didn’t feel cold anymore; instead, a sudden wave of heat flushed through your body, and the colorful fairy lights blurred sharply at the edges, spinning into bright, dizzying streaks of gold and orange. hm… weird.
“you okay?” seungmin asked, his teasing smile fading instantly as he noticed your expression shift, your eyes glazing over slightly.
“yeah,” you nodded automatically, trying to ground yourself, but the motion of nodding was a terrible idea. you immediately swayed heavily sideways, your balance completely deserting you. “oh,” you whispered. okay, maybe you were not okay.
the music suddenly sounded like it was playing underwater, the thumping bass echoing distantly in your ears. your stomach flipped unpleasantly, a sharp wave of nausea hitting you right before a massive wave of dizziness crashed over your head all at once, making the grass feel like it was tilting at a ninety-degree angle.
“oh shit,” seungmin muttered, his eyes widening in alarm as he reached his arms out slightly toward you. “yn? hey, stay upright—”
somewhere nearby, martin looked over instantly. his eyes had never really left you anyway, but the exact millisecond your shoulders slumped and your footing gave way, his internal alarm went off.
your vision blurred badly now, the bright colours of the campfire and the strings of fairy lights smearing together into a dizzying canvas of color. the heavy bass from the speakers faded into a muffled noise. your knees buckled beneath you before you could fully realise what was happening, the grass rushing up to meet you.
and then warm, solid arms caught you before you could even graze the ground. there was a strong, unyielding grip around your waist, pulling you up and anchoring you against a broad chest. a familiar, comforting scent washed over you—his cologne, and the winter wind.
and then, his voice followed. “hey, hey, hey—careful. i’ve got you, ynnie.” martin. of course it was martin.
your head lolled slightly against his chest, your forehead resting against the cool zipper of his jacket while he carefully shifted his weight to steady you both. he was holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to shield you from the entire world. the last clear thing you saw before your vision went completely fuzzy again was his face hovering directly over yours. his brows were deeply furrowed with worry, his usually guarded eyes turned soft and hyper-focused, and his lips were parted slightly as his gaze scanned your face, frantically checking to see if you were okay.
“…pretty,” you mumbled weakly, your voice thick and slurred as you reached up a heavy hand to vaguely touch his jawline. his intense, worried expression broke instantly. a helpless flush crept all the way up his neck, and his lips twitched, completely losing his battle against the effect of your words.
“oh my god,” heeseung whispered somewhere nearby, having jogged over right behind him. “he’s done for. he’s actually never recovering from that. put it on his tombstone, seriously.”
“shut up, heeseung,” martin hissed quietly, keeping his eyes locked entirely on you while trying not to smile, but ultimately failing, because how could he not smile at his girl? his hands smoothed over your back, keeping you pressed securely against him. you blinked slowly up at him, the darkness of the night sky framing his face like a halo.
“mars?” you whispered, using the old childhood nickname that always made his defenses completely crumble.
“yeah, pretty girl,” he answered softly, his voice dropping to a tender, private whisper meant only for you. he leaned down slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead with the gentlest touch. “i got you. i always got you.” wrapped up in his warmth, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart against your ear, that was more than enough.
by the time martin carried you back toward the freshman dorm buildings, the campus had gotten noticeably quieter. the heavy bass from the lawn faded into a dull hum in the background behind you both, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves as the cool night air drifted through the brick pathways. you were fully conscious now—the brief wave of blacking out had passed—you were just dramatically, dangerously drunk. which somehow made you even more of a menace.
martin had originally been carrying you piggyback-style because, according to you, your legs had ‘officially stopped cooperating.’ your cheek rested heavily against his shoulder while your arms hung loosely around his neck, your fingers casually playing with the collar of his jacket.
“you smell nice,” you informed him very seriously, your breath brushing right against his ear.
he laughed quietly under his breath, tilting his head slightly away from the tickle of your hair. “thanks.”
“you always smell nice. even when you look mean.”
“that’s slightly creepy, yn.”
“i’m not creepy, i’m observant.”
“you’re drunk.”
“both can coexist,” you argued logically, nodding against his neck. “it’s a spectrum.”
he smiled helplessly to himself, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip under your legs to hoist you a little higher. damn, you were actually gonna kill him someday. he could feel the steady warmth of your body pressed against his back, and every time you spoke, his heart did a stupid, erratic little jump.
“you know,” you mumbled after a moment of staring at the passing lampposts, “i think my internal organs completely dissolved back there. the strawberry battery acid got them.”
“that’s not medically possible.”
“you don’t know that, mars. you’re a music production major.”
“i literally do know that. i took high school biology.”
“...whatever. no.”
he snorted softly, the sound vibrating through his back against your chest. your building’s lights glowed warmly ahead, illuminating the empty concrete courtyard. your head tipped sleepily against his shoulder again, your eyes closing as the gentle motion of his walking rocked you.
after a quieter moment, your eyes snapped open and you suddenly gasped softly. “oh my god.”
“what?” he asked, his tone instantly sharpened with worry. “do you feel sick again? do i need to put you down?”
“…i never finished unpacking my belts,” you whispered in horror.
he paused and then laughed harder this time—a real, unsuppressed sound that echoed softly in the quiet courtyard. “your priorities are absolutely unbelievable.”
“no, because yunjin was helping me, and then you came into the room and you were being…” you lifted one hand from his shoulder to gesture vaguely in the air, “…all handsome and emotionally stressful. you ruined the workflow.”
he nearly tripped over the first step of the dorm entrance. “…emotionally stressful?” he repeated, his voice cracking just a fraction as he recovered his footing.
“yes.”
“that’s not a real medical condition, pretty girl.”
“it should be. they should put your picture next to it in the textbook.”
your voice had grown much softer now—thicker and sleepier as the wind caressed your face. martin slowed his pace slightly. when he reached the dorm entrance, he carefully lowered you back onto your feet.
“alright,” he said. “can you walk?”
“obviously.” you took one step. then another. then somehow managed to walk directly into a decorative concrete planter.
he grabbed your elbow before your face could meet the shrubbery. “yn.”
“mars,” you almost cried, eyes filling. “the bush moved!”
“the bush did not move.”
“that sounds exactly like something a moving bush would say,” you pouted sadly.
he pinched the bridge of his nose. “come on.”
you took another step. and immediately swayed. your balance vanished so fast it almost looked cartoonish—one second you were standing upright; the next, your body tilted dangerously sideways toward the concrete walkway.
he caught you instantly again. his arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall, pulling you back against his chest. “okay,” he said firmly.
“okay what?”
“okay, we’re done pretending you can walk.”
“i can absolutely walk. the bush moved last time, ‘twasn’t my fault.” to prove your point, you attempted another step, causing your ankle to roll in the wrong direction. he closed his eyes for one long second, then sighed deeply—the kind of sigh people let out when accepting a fate they can no longer avoid.
before you could protest, one arm slid behind your knees while the other wrapped securely around your back. the world tilted. you let out a surprised squeak as your feet left the ground entirely. “mars!”
“nope.”
“what do you mean ‘nope’?”
“i mean you’ve lost walking privileges.”
“that’s authoritarian.”
“and yet here we are.”
you stared up at him in outrage from where he was carrying you bridal-style. the anger lasted approximately four seconds, and then you got comfortable. “…this is actually kinda nice.”
“i know.”
“wow. so humble.”
“you almost fell into a bush. i’m not taking any chances.”
“the bush started it.”
he laughed under his breath again and continued toward the stairwell. he carried you up the stairs with deliberate, careful steps—apparently there were no elevators because your university wished suffering upon its students—making sure your shoes didn’t bump against the railings. after a minute, your head settled against his shoulder. “you know what your problem is, mars?” you murmured suddenly.
he smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on the step ahead. “what’s my problem, ynnie?”
“you keep looking at me all… all…”
“all what?”
you frowned against his shoulder, your eyebrows knitting together as your alcohol-addled brain tried desperately to find the right words to describe the heavy, suffocating feeling in your chest.
“…like you like me,” you whispered honestly.
his entire body went completely rigid for half a second. his feet froze on the concrete step. the stairwell suddenly felt suffocatingly quiet, the distant sounds of the campus completely cutting out. his grip on you tightened instinctively. he swallowed hard, his throat dry, before forcing his legs to start moving again, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.
“…you’re drunk, yn,” he said, his voice lower now, strained under the weight of the massive secret he’d been carrying for years.
“mm.”
“you should sleep. you’re filtering absolutely nothing right now.”
“…you’re still pretty though,” you mumbled into his jacket, your eyelids fluttering shut as you gave up the fight against sleep.
martin’s heart genuinely hurt now—a sharp ache right in the center of his chest. because you said things like that so easily, throwing around words that could completely ruin him, while having absolutely no idea what they did to his sanity. or maybe you did know. maybe you felt the shift too. and to him, as he finally reached your dorm door, that was the most terrifying part of all.
‘friendship’ feels like too small of a word to describe what you had together. the thing you share is more than friends, nearly lovers, but not quite. there’s no other way to explain it.
ONE YEAR AGO. FIRST YEAR OF UNI — about you ✫ the 1975 [wc. 17,082]
the acceptance emails arrived on a friday night. your families were gathered around the dinner table at martin’s house, half-finished plates pushed aside while your mothers argued over whether homemade kimchi tasted better after three days or five.
your friends spammed the group chat every thirty seconds with increasingly unhelpful encouragements.
juhoon: if either of you fail, im actually disowning you both
james: yn would survive
james: martin would become one of those tortured
underground soundcloud musicians living off ramen
martin: fuck you
yn: he already lives off ramen so he’s halfway there actually
wonhee: OPEN THE FUCKING EMAILS OFMG????
your laptop was open in front of you like it personally wanted to ruin your life. martin sat beside you on the floor, his knee pressed against yours while his fingers tapped anxiously against a soda can. he looked calmer than you, but only because he’d mastered the art of looking relaxed while internally panicking.
“why does the portal look so ominous?” you whispered.
“because universities enjoy psychological warfare,” he muttered back.
your father leaned over the couch dramatically. “just open it already.”
“easy for you to say,” you groaned. “you’re not the one whose uncertain future is sitting behind a loading screen.”
martin snorted softly beside you. “dramatic ass.”
“you literally threw up before your audition evaluation,” you reminded him.
“that was different.”
“you threw up on juhoon’s shoes.”
“okay, and? they were ugly shoes.”
“they were his new vans!”
“exactly.”
“open the emails!” your mothers yelled simultaneously from the dining table. you flinched so hard you accidentally clicked the email. for one horrible second, neither of you breathed.
‘congratulations.’
your eyes widened so quickly it hurt. martin made a strangled noise beside you. “holy shit.”
“holy shit,” you echoed breathlessly.
fashion major and music production major. same university. same campus in busan.
“we got in?” you shouted.
“we got in!” martin repeated louder.
suddenly everybody was yelling. your mom started crying instantly, like you’d won a nobel prize. martin’s mother cried harder. your fathers high-fived so aggressively that one of the glasses on the table between them nearly tipped over. wonhee spam-called you five times in a row while juhoon sent fifteen voice messages screaming incoherently.
martin grabbed your face with both hands so suddenly you barely processed it before he pulled you into him in the tightest hug imaginable.“we actually did it,” he laughed breathlessly into your neck.
you smiled instantly, because he sounded really happy. you hugged him back just as tightly. “we’re moving to busan,” you whispered disbelievingly.
“together.”
“together.”
the word settled dangerously deep inside your chest, and you hated how much you loved that word when it came from him.
soon, moving day arrived far too quickly for your liking.
seoul station looked unbearably and annoyingly crowded at six in the morning, filled with rushing people dragging luggage behind them while train announcements echoed overhead every few minutes. you stood beside martin near the platform entrance looking half-dead with a drink from a nearby cafe in one hand, and your suitcase threatening to collapse beside you.
“why do you own these many clothes?” martin complained while dragging two of your suitcases at once.
“fashion major,” you replied immediately. “it’s academic dedication.”
“you packed six jackets.”
“what if i need options?”
“you’re insane.”
“yet you carried them anyway,” you grinned sleepily.
he rolled his eyes, but adjusted his grip on your luggage without complaining further. your parents hovered nearby acting like you were being shipped off to war instead of university.
“call me every night,” your mom sniffled dramatically.
“don’t eat convenience store food every day,” martin’s father warned.
“don’t get married in busan without telling us first,” your father added.
you and martin looked at each other instantly before bursting into laughter.
“we’re skipping taxes, remember? we’ll be fine!” you called back.
martin nearly choked laughing while your mothers groaned in unison, muttering something about how ‘these kids will never change’.
eventually, after approximately five hundred warnings and emotional speeches later, you boarded the train together. the moment your seats came into view, you immediately claimed the window seat.
“i get motion sickness,” martin argued.
“skill issue. i want to look at the beautiful world outside.”
“yn.”
“martin,” you smiled threateningly.
he stared at you flatly for a second before sighing dramatically and sitting beside you anyway. “if i throw up on you, that’s on you. literally.”
“you’re the least threatening person alive, bro.”
“i microwaved crayons once.”
“and nearly died.”
“exactly.”
the train began moving slowly after that, seoul gradually blurring into passing buildings outside the windows. you stared outside quietly for a moment… busan. university. a completely different life. and you had martin right by your side.
in the seat beside yours, he leaned back with his hood pulled over his messy hair slightly, eyes half-lidded from the exhaustion of carrying your suitcases and having to wake up early that morning.
“you nervous?” he asked softly.
you thought about it honestly before nodding. “…a little.”
he looked at you immediately. and then, naturally, like it was instinct, his hand found yours between your seats. just for a second; just enough to give you a reassuring squeeze before pulling away again, but your stupid heart nearly exploded anyway.
“we’ll be okay,” he said quietly. you believed him immediately because he had such a way with words, that you always ended up believing him.
busan felt louder and saltier than seoul somehow. the air smelled faintly like the ocean mixed with traffic and hot food from nearby street vendors. your university campus was enormous, spread across hills that overlooked the harbor. students dragged suitcases through pathways while orientation banners hung between buildings.
“who designed this campus?” you complained while dragging your suitcase uphill. “the devil?”
martin laughed breathlessly beside you. “you’ve complained ten times in the last five minutes.”
“because my shoulders are collapsing into themselves. even james didn’t run me into the ground so hard during practice in high school,” you complained.
eventually, you both reached the dormitory buildings.
the music majors’ dorms sat directly opposite the arts and fashion majors’ dorms, connected by one long hallway in the newer shared wing.
you stared at the room numbers in disbelief. “no way,” you said slowly.
martin looked between the doors twice before laughing. “you’re kidding.”
room 520.
room 521.
right beside each other.
“that feels spiritually concerning,” you muttered.
“our parents are gonna think this is fate.”
“our mothers are gonna start planning grandchildren immediately.”
“horrifying sentence. never say that again.”
you grinned tiredly while fishing your dorm keycard that you were given on entry, from your pocket. the doors opened almost simultaneously.
your dorm rooms were painfully small, but cozy in a way that felt exciting instead of sad—single beds shoved against walls, tiny desks near wide windows overlooking parts of the city below, unpacked boxes stacked everywhere. you immediately flopped face-first onto your mattress.
“…i live here now,” you mumbled into the sheets.
martin leaned against your doorway with his arms crossed loosely. “you sound like your puppy died.”
“i think my spine dissolved during that train ride.”
he smiled softly for a second before glancing toward your unpacked boxes. “need help?”
“with what? emotional recovery?”
“unpacking, idiot.”
you lifted your head slightly to look at him. “…maybe.”
three hours later, your room somehow looked worse—clothes covered half the floor. one of your desk drawers refused to close properly. martin sat cross-legged near your bed untangling fairy lights while you aggressively fought with hangers.
“why the fuck is all this taking so long?” you complained.
“because you packed your closet like a wild animal.”
“fashion is a difficult art form.”
“this isn’t fashion anymore,” he held up one of your tangled necklaces. “this is archaeological excavation.”
before you could defend yourself, your stomach growled violently. martin looked up immediately. “…beautiful timing. very cinematic.”
“shut up.”
you walked out of your room together, heading downstairs. before either of you could decide where to eat, an older street vendor outside the dorm area spotted you both immediately. his eyes lit up.
“ahhh! young couple!” he grinned, waving you over excitedly. “special discount for pretty students today!” you blinked. martin blinked harder.
“…we’re not—” he started immediately.
“fifty percent off,” the vendor added casually. you froze. slowly, you turned toward martin. he already looked horrified because he knew that expression on your face.
“yn,” he warned quietly.
you grabbed his sleeve instantly. “play along.”
“what?”
“we’re about to become broke university students drowning in debt,” you hissed. “this is survival.”
“you can’t just fake-date for dumplings.”
“watch me. i’m saving us from poverty.”
before he could argue further, you kicked his shin lightly. he looked deeply betrayed. “ow?!”
“babe,” you said through gritted teeth with the fakest smile imaginable. “stop embarrassing me in front of the nice man.”
martin stared at you like you’d become possessed.
the vendor laughed loudly. “ahhh, young love!”
“i hate you,” martin muttered under his breath, so only you could hear.
“no, you don’t,” you replied automatically, smiling. his expression shifted for one dangerous second because that sentence had followed you both your entire lives. you hated how your heart still reacted to it.
the vendor handed over your dwaeji gukbap afterward with a delighted smile and a ridiculous amount of extra side dishes.
“take care of your girlfriend!” he told martin seriously. martin nearly inhaled wrong. you kicked him again before he could deny it.
“he will,” you answered brightly.
eventually, you both sat outside the dorm building near the campus, eating discounted busan food, while the evening sunlight reflected gold against the distant harbor.
“you’re actually evil,” martin informed you between bites.
“and yet,” you pointed your chopsticks at him accusingly, “you’re eating the fake-couple discount food.”
“…it is really good.”
“exactly.”
he laughed softly after that, shaking his head while the sea breeze moved through his hair. you looked at him quietly for a second too long. busan looked good on him already… dangerously good. the sunlight softened the edges of his face while he sat beside you in an oversized hoodie and tired eyes and that same familiar expression you’d spent your whole life memorising without meaning to. and suddenly, horribly, your chest hurt again because nothing had changed—new city. new university. new beginning. same boy. same unbearable love.
he glanced toward you mid-bite. “why are you staring at me now?” your heart nearly stopped.
“you’ve got sauce on your face,” you lied instantly, scoffing.
his eyes widened slightly. “where?”
you leaned forward automatically before thinking properly, thumb brushing lightly against the corner of his mouth. everything went still as your breath caught, and he froze too. the harbor sounds blurred softly around you. crashing waves, zooming cars, distant voices—none of it mattered in that moment, because he was looking at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe for one terrifying second. then you pulled away too quickly.
“…there,” you muttered.
he blinked quickly, throat bobbing once. “oh.”
you looked down at your food immediately because eye contact felt life-threatening. beside you, he stayed unusually quiet afterward, and neither of you noticed the street vendor smiling knowingly from across the road.
somehow, martin’s room took only nineteen minutes to unpack. you stood in the middle of room 520 with your hands on your hips while he finished shoving the last few hoodies into his closet.
“…i hate you,” you said flatly.
martin looked up from where he sat cross-legged beside an almost-empty suitcase. “because i’m efficient?”
“because you own, like, four shirts.”
“they’re good shirts.”
“they’re all just solid colours.”
“exactly,” he nodded seriously. “versatile.”
you stared at his closet in disbelief—three oversized zip-up hoodies, three black shirts, two white ones, four coloured shirts with literally no design on them, cargos folded with suspicious neatness, and one leather jacket hanging carefully near the corner. that was literally it.
“martin edwards park,” you said slowly, “this is psychotic behavior.”
“i’m a music major. we dress like divorced indie dads.”
“you’re nearly twenty.”
“artistically divorced.”
you snorted despite yourself before turning toward the rest of his room. unfortunately, his room looked annoyingly cool already. his desk sat near the window with speakers stacked carefully beside his laptop. vinyl records leaned against the wall near the shelf. a silver pair of headphones rested around the neck of a desk lamp like decoration. even his bed somehow looked aesthetic.
you hated men.
“your room looks like a pinterest board,” you accused.
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“still taking it as one.”
you wandered toward the small rack beside his desk where a few accessories already hung neatly—chains, rings, a pair of wired earphones, beanies, his stupid black skull necklace.
“you packed accessories before basic survival necessities?” you turned toward him in disbelief.
he shrugged once. “priorities.”
“you brought one towel.”
“and?”
“you live like a cryptid.”
“you own ten lip glosses.”
“those are emotionally important.”
“my chains are emotionally important too.”
you narrowed your eyes at him before opening another drawer—more rings, more chains, suspicious amounts of silver jewelry for someone who owned only six-ish shirts. “oh my god,” you laughed. “you’re actually one of those boys.”
“what boys?” his nose scrunched in genuine curiosity.
“the ‘i wear one outfit every day but accessorise differently, so people think i’m fashionable’ boys.”
he gasped dramatically. “slander. take that back, yn!”
“martin, your entire wardrobe is literally if dark academia had a child with an underground soundcloud producer, and then they got divorced.”
“and your wardrobe looks like a futuristic bratz doll exploded.”
“…that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
he laughed quietly while standing up from the floor. today, he wore oversized faded black jeans with silver chains hanging from the belt loops, a washed-out light grey thermal shirt layered beneath a loose zip hoodie, and rings decorating nearly every finger. his hair fell messily over his eyes because he refused to cut it again. he looked unfairly pretty and annoyingly cool. you hated how well he fit beside you aesthetically now. because you matched; you always matched.
“stop staring at me weirdly,” he said suddenly.
your eyes widened. “i wasn’t.”
“you were.”
“prove it.”
“your eyes were literally pointed at my face. again.”
“i was zoning out because your room smells like ugliness and matcha.”
“it’s not that bad,” he said dryly.
“it so is,” you grinned.
he smiled helplessly at you before grabbing the last empty suitcase. “okay, come on. let’s go unpack your apocalypse bunker now.”
three hours later, he deeply regretted offering help. your room looked catastrophic—clothes covered nearly every visible surface, even after so many hours of trying to organise them. open suitcases spilled fabric across the floor, and jewelry tangled across your desk like tiny metal casualties of war.
martin stood frozen in the middle of the destruction holding up a tiny rhinestone baby tee between two fingers. “…what is this supposed to be?”
you looked up from your closet and shrugged. “a shirt.”
“for a small mouse?”
“it’s supposed to fit like that.”
he stared at it again. “i think i could use this as an eyepatch.”
“you have no vision.”
“i have too much vision actually. this room is hurting my eyes.”
you ignored him, scoffing, while hanging up another outfit carefully. unlike his mostly monochrome wardrobe, yours looked like a cyber-slash-neo-y2k fever dream—baby tees with glitter text, off-shoulder tops, oversized fur-lined jackets, mini skirts layered over ripped tights and flared jeans, low-rise cargos with dangling straps, track jackets in silver and gorgeous blue, platform boots, doc martens, and mary janes lined beneath your bed, arm warmers, mesh tops, decorated cross-body bags with charms hanging off the zippers. and belts. so many belts.
martin sat cross-legged beside one suitcase after a while, silently watching you pull out outfit after outfit like a magician performing increasingly concerning tricks. “why do your pants have nine unnecessary buckles?” he asked eventually.
“because they’re cute.”
“they look like they could survive a natural disaster.”
“that’s the goal.”
he held up another item. “is this even a shirt?”
“yes.”
“where’s the rest of it?”
“martin, you dress like a widowed underground bassist. don’t piss me off.”
he burst out laughing immediately. “widowed?”
“you look like your wife died mysteriously in 1990 and now you only communicate through unreleased mixtapes.”
he physically bent forward laughing this time. “that is genuinely insanely creative.”
“am i wrong?”
“...only a little.”
you grinned triumphantly before tossing another jacket onto the bed. he watched quietly while you continued unpacking. and honestly? your clothes looked cool to him—very you—messy, expressive, and dramatic in the same way your sketchbooks looked.
he picked up a black-and-pink jersey top with airbrushed graphics across the front. “wait, this one’s good-good.”
you looked over instantly. “right?” you grinned.
“you’d look good in that.” his words slipped out naturally, but your heart still reacted violently anyway.
you turned away quickly before he noticed your expression. “…i know,” you answered weakly.
he didn’t notice the effect he had on you… or maybe he did. that was the terrifying thing sometimes—you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
eventually, he wandered toward the clothing rack beside your desk while you fought with your favourite tangled necklaces nearby.
“why do you own so many clothes?” he asked again.
“fashion major,” you repeated automatically.
“this feels less like fashion and more like archival research.”
you gasped. “oh my god, shut your damn mouth.”
he laughed softly before pulling one jacket carefully from the rack.
a black cropped leather jacket with silver studs and spikes that you’d worked on yourself, a few nights back.
“…this one’s cool,” he said.
“don’t touch her with your greasy musician hands.”
“greasy musician—wow.”
you grinned before finally looking over at him properly, and then you paused, because he had absentmindedly thrown the jacket over his shoulder while looking through your rack. it suited him disgustingly well.
your stupid stylish best friend. “wait,” you narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “try it on.”
he blinked once. “what?”
“put it on once.”
“yn.”
“martin.”
he sighed dramatically before sliding the jacket on anyway. your heart betrayed you instantly, because damn. the cropped fit sat perfectly against his frame over the loose shirt he wore, silver jewelry glinting under the dorm lights while his hair fell into his eyes messily. he looked like he belonged on the cover of some underground fashion magazine titled ‘emotionally unavailable boys with guitars’. you hated it so much. you loved him so much.
“…wow,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
he looked down at the jacket sleeves. “it’s kinda nice.”
“kinda?” you repeated incredulously, eyes widening in faux annoyance.
he looked back up at you then, and froze slightly, because you were staring again. not teasingly this time; just staring. your eyes moved over him slowly before snapping away too late. his throat bobbed once.
“…why are you looking at me like that?” he asked quietly. your heart nearly exploded inside your ribcage.
“because,” you answered quickly, turning back toward your closet, “you look stupid as fuck.”
“liar,” he murmured softly behind you. your hands stopped moving immediately, just for one second, but martin noticed anyway.
silence stretched strangely. you could practically feel his eyes on your back now, warm and steady and entirely too aware. your heart beat annoyingly harder while you aggressively untangled a necklace that honestly did not need that much concentration.
“you say ‘liar’ like you’re in some netflix mafia drama,” you muttered finally, aiming for casual, but landing somewhere near emotionally unstable.
he snorted softly behind you. “what does that even mean?”
“you know exactly what i mean.”
“i really don’t.”
you turned around finally, narrowing your eyes at him while pointing accusingly toward his face. “that voice.”
“…my normal voice?”
“yeah. your suspiciously deep, weirdly calm voice.”
he blinked innocently. “sorry for having vocal cords, i guess?”
“don’t piss me off, edwards.”
“you’re acting like i transformed into batman,” he choked out.
“close enough honestly.”
he laughed quietly, shoulders shaking slightly beneath your jacket—your jacket that still looked disgustingly good on him, unfortunately. you hated how aware you were of every little thing… the rings on his fingers, the chain resting perfectly against his collarbone, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms.
god. men should be illegal.
“you’re staring again,” he pointed out casually.
“i’m literally not.”
“you literally are.”
“prove it in a court of law.”
“for the hundredth time, yn, your eyes are pointed directly at me.”
“maybe i’m looking at the wall behind you.”
“there is no wall behind me,” he looked back at the empty space.
“okay, well. maybe… spiritually there is,” you tried helplessly.
martin burst into laughter immediately. “spiritually?” he repeated. “what the hell does that even mean?”
“don’t worry about it.”
“no, explain yourself.”
“i don’t owe you explanations,” you rolled your eyes.
“you absolutely do after saying crazy shit like that,” he grinned.
you scoffed dramatically before turning back toward your closet again. “whatever. give me my jacket back.”
instead of answering, you heard him shuffle closer behind you—too close. your stupid nervous system reacted instantly.
“hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “i don’t know.”
you looked over your shoulder suspiciously. “martin.”
“it’s kinda comfortable.”
“martin.”
“and i think,” he continued calmly, adjusting the collar slightly, “i pull it off better.”
you gasped so violently it was almost theatrical. “you bitch.”
he looked extremely delighted with himself now. “language.”
“don’t ‘language’ me in my own dorm room!”
“make me.”
“oh my god,” you laughed loudly. “you move to busan for one day and actually think you’re tough.”
“i’ve always been tough,” he shrugged nonchalantly.
you stared at him flatly. “you cried during toy story 3.”
“everybody cried during toy story 3.”
“you cried during kung fu panda too.”
“…emotional depth.”
“you cried because the turtle died.”
“master oogway mattered to me!”
you physically bent over laughing.
he pointed accusingly at you immediately. “don’t laugh! you cried because your tamagotchi died in fifth grade!”
“that was different!.”
“you held a funeral.”
“because she had hopes! and dreams!”
“it was a pixel.”
“she was a mother.”
he laughed so hard he nearly stumbled backward into your desk. “oh my god,” he wheezed, clutching his stomach slightly. “you’re actually really weird.”
“you literally helped me bury it.”
“because you were crying too hard to dig properly!”
you both laughed together again after that—the kind that hurt your stomach after a while and made breathing difficult. he leaned against the side of your closet trying unsuccessfully to regain composure while you sat half-collapsed on the floor beside your bed wiping tears from under your eyes.
“i hate you,” he laughed breathlessly.
“you’re the one who attended the funeral.”
“you made a playlist.”
“because even mourning requires ambiance.”
he made the most offended noise imaginable before grabbing one of your throw pillows and throwing it directly at your face.
you gasped. “violence?!”
“self-defense.”
“i didn’t even attack!” you immediately launched the pillow back at him. unfortunately, he caught it easily.
“oh, you’re done for now,” he said calmly, standing up straight.
your eyes widened instantly. “don’t.”
“you started this.”
“martin.”
he took a step toward you.
you scrambled backward across the bed immediately. “martin edwards park.”
“government name, huh? serious situation.”
“don’t you dare.”
his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “why are you scared?”
“i’m not scared.”
“then why are you retreating like a medieval peasant avoiding the plague?”
“because you fight dirty!”
“that sounds like fear.”
“that sounds like shut the fuck up.”
he grinned dangerously. oh no. you recognised that grin.
“martin,” you warned.
“hm?”
“don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“you know exactly what.”
he lunged, and you shrieked instantly.
“oh my god—” he grabbed your ankle before you could escape properly, dragging you back toward him while laughing so hard his voice cracked slightly. “martin!” you wheezed. “martin! stop—!”
“you called me a widowed bassist!”
“i wasn’t wrong!”
“rude.”
his hands found your sides immediately, making you fold in on yourself so fast you nearly fell off the bed. because unfortunately, tragically, your biggest weakness in life was tickling.
“no—!” you gasped between helpless laughter. “martin, i swear to god—”
“swear to god what?” he laughed, leaning over you slightly while continuing his attack. “you gonna spiritually fight me, pretty girl?” you hated that you physically could not breathe properly right now.
“i hate you!” you cried dramatically, trying unsuccessfully to shove him away.
“liar.”
“martin—stop—i can’t breathe—”
“sounds fake.”
“you sound fake!”
he laughed harder at that, hands finally easing slightly while you tried desperately to recover your dignity. unfortunately, in your attempt to push him away, your legs tangled together weirdly. he lost balance immediately. “wait—” you grabbed his sleeve instinctively: big mistake.
the next second, both of you toppled sideways onto the mattress messily. your breath left your lungs in a startled laugh. he caught himself at the last second with one hand pressed into the bed beside your head. everything went still way too quickly afterward.
your laughter faded slowly first, and then his, because suddenly he was hovering over you close—way too close.
his hair fell into his eyes messily from laughing too hard moments earlier. your jacket still hung loosely from his shoulders. one of his rings brushed lightly against your wrist where his hand rested near yours against the sheets. your chest rose too fast beneath him, and his breathing wasn’t exactly steady either.
hallway noise echoed faintly somewhere beyond your door, but right now, it was just you. and him. and the terrifying awareness of how close his face was to yours right now.
he looked at you for one dangerous second too long. your eyes dropped instinctively toward his mouth, then immediately back up. unfortunately, he noticed.
he swallowed. “…hi,” he said quietly.
your heart nearly killed you. “…hi.”
neither of you moved, which honestly felt worse, because every second stretched tighter and tighter between you both like something fragile about to snap. his gaze flickered slowly across your face—to your lips, and then back to your eyes again—like he was thinking too much again. or maybe… like he was trying not to think at all. you could feel his breath against your skin, and your pulse felt genuinely humiliating.
“…you have really long eyelashes,” you blurted out. he blinked once in confusion, and laughed softly under his breath, cracking the tension just slightly.
“that’s your observation?” he murmured.
“i panic when i’m nervous.”
“i noticed.”
“shut up, mars.”
his smile softened at the familiar nickname in a dangerously affectionate way, and somehow that expression hurt worse than anything else, because nobody should look at their best friend like that. right?
the room had gone completely quiet after that. not awkward-quiet, but worse—the kind where every tiny thing suddenly became noticeable all at once: the sound of your breathing, the way his hand had instinctively braced itself beside your head against the mattress, the warmth of his body hovering over yours, the fact that your laughter had faded into something softer without either of you realising when it happened.
his hair had fallen into his eyes from laughing too hard earlier—soft dark strands hanging over his forehead—while his cheeks still stayed faintly flushed from literally wrestling you over something stupid you couldn’t even remember anymore.
“you’re insane,” he breathed out quietly, though he sounded more affected than annoyed.
“you started it,” you whispered back automatically.
“no, actually, you started it when you threatened to put some leopard print scarf on me.”
“because it would elevate your aura.”
“my aura does not need elevating.”
“yes it does. your outfit looked like a divorced rockstar.”
“that is literally the coolest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
you snorted softly despite yourself, but neither of you moved, which was the problem. because now? you were suddenly very aware that martin edwards park was bracing himself over you on your dorm bed while your faces were way too close, and his eyes kept flickering down toward your lips before darting away again like he hated himself for it.
his expression softened slowly. “…your eyeliner smudged,” he murmured quietly.
“oh.”
neither of you moved to fix it. god damn.
the late afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through your window, warm against the side of his face, while city noise drifted faintly from somewhere outside campus. one of your unpacked chrome belts dug painfully into your side, but honestly? you could’ve been getting stabbed and still not moved.
he swallowed again.
“so,” you said weakly, because your brain stopped functioning properly around him sometimes, “you’re, like… really heavy.”
his jaw dropped slightly in disbelief. “wow.”
“i’m just saying.”
“i’m literally holding myself up.”
“barely.”
“yn.”
“what?”
“you’re evil.”
“you’ve been saying that since we were six.”
“because it’s always been true since we were six.”
you grinned faintly, and he stared at your smile. and there it was again—that uncertain shift in the air; because suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty he looked this close. or how easy it would be to—
the dorm room door suddenly swung open. “oh my god?!” you both jerked violently apart like criminals caught committing tax fraud.
a girl stood frozen in the doorway with two massive tote bags hanging off her shoulders and a suitcase beside her. she had long dark hair and really pretty eyes you could get lost in. she was wearing an oversized zip-up hoodie and pink headphones rested around her neck. she blinked at the situation in front of her, and then her expression transformed into pure delight.
“…no because, this is crazy,” she said immediately. your soul left your body.
“wait—”
“hi!” she grinned brightly, looking between both of you like she’d just walked into free entertainment. “i’m yunjin. your dormmate apparently. and wow. first day too? you guys move fast.”
“we weren’t—”
“she attacked me,” martin said at the exact same time.
you turned toward him in betrayal. “excuse me?”
“you literally tackled me onto the bed.”
“you were tickling me!”
“because you called my jeans emotionally unemployed.”
“that’s because they are emotionally unemployed!”
yunjin stared at both of you for a long second before slowly setting her bags down. “so… are you guys dating already or are you doing that thing where you act married for seven years before realising you’re in love with each other?”
you and martin froze. “we’re not in love with each other,” you both said at the same time.
yunjin’s smile widened dangerously. “oh, you’re that kind of duo.”
“please don’t psychoanalyze us,” martin groaned, dragging a hand down his face while sitting up properly from the bed.
“i’m literally a fashion major,” yunjin said. “psychoanalysing people is part of the curriculum.”
“it is not,” you muttered weakly. she ignored you completely.
“you,” she pointed directly at martin, “look at her like she invented music.”
martin choked on air. “i do not.”
“you literally folded her tiny sparkly tank tops like they were historical artifacts.”
“they wrinkle easily!” he defended weakly.
“and you,” she pointed dramatically at you, “look at him like you’d forgive him for arson.”
you opened your mouth, then closed it again. “…depends on the circumstances,” you admitted.
martin made the most offended noise imaginable while yunjin doubled over laughing. “oh my god, you guys are insane.”
the knock that sounded against the still-open doorframe wasn't particularly loud, but it was enough to cut through the chaos that had completely consumed the room. all three of you looked up at once.
a tall guy stood awkwardly in the doorway, balancing a cardboard box against his hip as though he’d already begun regretting every decision that had led him here. written across the side of the box in thick black marker were the words ‘vinyl collection: do not touch’, which somehow felt like a warning and a personality trait at the same time. he had on a dark hoodie, and had messy hair, paired with the sort of perpetually sleepy expression that made it look like he’d been dragged out of bed against his will and still hadn't fully recovered from the traumatic experience.
for a second, he simply stared. his gaze swept slowly across the room, taking in the half-unpacked suitcases that seemed to have exploded across every available surface, martin sitting on the edge of your bed looking deeply offended by circumstances entirely of his own making, you still gripping a fuzzy leopard-print scarf like you were seconds away from committing a crime, and yunjin, who appeared to be experiencing the strongest laughing fit of her life.
the guy blinked. then blinked again. “...uh.” his voice carried the careful caution of someone approaching an unfamiliar animal. “before i make assumptions here, is one of you martin?”
martin immediately looked up. “yeah?”
the relief that crossed the stranger’s face was almost embarrassing to witness. “oh, thank god.” he shifted the box higher in his arms before exhaling dramatically. “no, seriously. thank god.”
martin frowned. “what?”
“i'm heeseung—your roommate.” he pointed vaguely toward the neighboring dorm room. “i’ve been standing outside the room for, like, fifteen minutes trying to figure out whether you got lost during move-in, got kidnapped, or somehow died or switched majors before classes even started.”
a horrified gasp escaped yunjin. “no, because, he almost did die.”
martin’s expression immediately twisted. “i absolutely did not almost die.”
“he did,” yunjin insisted. “emotionally.”
“i don’t think that’s a thing.”
“it became a thing the second she started unpacking.”
you stared at her. “we met ten minutes ago.”
“and yet,” she replied without hesitation, “i’ve somehow managed to be correct about every situation i’ve encountered.” the confidence in her voice was genuinely concerning.
heeseung’s eyes moved slowly between all three of you, long enough for him to begin understanding dynamics he absolutely should not have understood this quickly. finally, he nodded to himself. “...right.” nobody liked the way he said that.
“what?” martin asked suspiciously. heeseung looked at him. then at you. then at yunjin. then back at martin.
“this floor is going to be a complete nightmare.”
martin let out a long suffering sigh. “yeah.”
“absolutely,” yunjin agreed immediately.
“cool,” you strung along.
for a moment, heeseung looked prepared to leave. then something seemed to click. his eyes narrowed slightly. “...wait.”
martin visibly regretted whatever was about to happen. “what?”
“you’re that music guy.”
“what music guy?”
“the guitar account.”
martin blinked. for a second, genuine confusion crossed his face before realisation followed. “oh.”
“oh?” you echoed curiously. he immediately looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“yeah. i guess.” he rubbed the back of his neck slowly.
“no way.” heeseung laughed so suddenly it startled all of you. yunjin looked at him like she was ready to book him into a hospital. “dude, my sister listens to your covers all the time!”
your head snapped toward martin so fast it almost hurt. he looked horrified, while you looked delighted.
“you never told me you already had campus clout,” you nudged his shoulder.
“i don’t have ‘campus clout’.”
“you have followers.”
“i posted, like, five videos.”
“exactly.” heeseung nodded with complete seriousness. “five too many.”
martin groaned loudly. “can everybody stop humiliating me for one day?”
“no,” the answer left you and yunjin at exactly the same time. the boys stared at you both.
the betrayal on martin’s face was immediate. “you switched sides that fast?”
yunjin shrugged.
“she’s funny.”
“i’m funny,” you echoed.
“you got folded into a bed frame ten minutes ago,” he recalled.
“that was tactical weakness.”
“that’s not even a thing, dude,” heeseung chimed in, shaking his head.
before you could stop yourself, laughter escaped you again. the sound came easier this time, and the worst part was that martin's attention found you immediately—like it always did; like it had been doing for years. his eyes moved toward you automatically, drawn there without thought, and for one very very stupid second the rest of the room seemed to blur around the edges. you hated how familiar that felt… hated how your chest still reacted to it… hated how every year that passed somehow made it worse instead of better.
“you are never living this day down,” martin informed you, pointing accusingly in your direction.
“correct,” yunjin said before you could answer. the traitor.
heeseung shifted the box in his arms, nearly losing his grip on one corner before catching it at the last second, and then jerked his head toward the hallway as though suddenly remembering that there were actual responsibilities waiting for them beyond whatever strange social experiment had apparently unfolded inside your dorm room. “anyway,” he said, glancing between the three of you, “orientation starts in, like, thirty minutes, and our RA gave an informal speech earlier that sounded suspiciously close to a threat. apparently anyone who shows up late is getting spiritually destroyed.”
martin let out a long groan that sounded like he was already exhausted by university despite having been a student for less than a day. “you say that like it’s a joke.”
“he wasn’t joking.”
“that’s worse.” with another dramatic sigh, he pushed himself up from the edge of your bed. immediately and very annoyingly, your stomach decided to betray you. it wasn’t even for a good reason, or at least that was what you told yourself. he was just standing up. people stood up all the time. there was absolutely no reason your brain should suddenly become hyperaware of the fact that his hair had gotten somehow messier during all the chaos, a few strands falling slightly into his eyes in a way that looked effortless despite the amount of effort it took other people to achieve that exact look. there was no reason you should notice that his hoodie sleeves had been pushed up sometime during the wrestling match he’d disguised as unpacking, exposing familiar forearms and familiar hands that you’d seen your entire life and somehow still couldn’t stop looking at. and there was definitely no reason you should notice the faint trace of pink still lingering across his cheeks from laughing earlier. that part felt particularly unfair because he looked happy; because you’d always liked the way he looked when he was happy; because some small, embarrassing part of you had spent years collecting moments like that without permission.
as though sensing your attention, he glanced down, and because apparently your body had given up pretending to cooperate with your dignity, you looked up at exactly the same moment. the eye contact happened naturally, like it always did, like neither of you had ever learned how not to find each other in a room. for a second, the noise around you seemed to blur into the background, and there it was again: that feeling. that horrible, impossible, unnamed thing that seemed to appear every time your eyes met and lingered a fraction too long—not enough to mean anything, but too much to mean nothing. the worst kind of almost.
yunjin noticed immediately, of course. her eyes widened ever so slightly before darting between the two of you, and the expression that crossed her face looked disturbingly similar to someone finally fitting the last piece into a puzzle.
“oh.” the word was barely louder than a whisper, more to herself than anyone else.
martin’s reaction was immediate. without even looking away from you, he grabbed one of the plushies scattered across your bed and launched it directly at her face. it hit her shoulder. “don’t start.”
yunjin looked deeply offended. “you say that like i said something.”
“you were about to,” he finally looked at her.
“i wasn’t.”
“you absolutely were.”
the grin spreading across her face suggested otherwise. thankfully, heeseung chose that moment to rescue everyone from whatever conversation was about to happen. “c’mon,” he called, backing toward the hallway. “if we miss orientation because of whatever this is, i’m blaming all three of you weirdos.”
martin pointed at yunjin one last time. “this conversation isn’t over.”
“it absolutely is.”
“it isn’t.”
“it is.”
“it isn’t.” then he disappeared into the hallway with heeseung. and somehow, the room felt quieter, which was actually ridiculous. he’d been gone for maybe ten seconds; maybe less. you’d spent entire summers without seeing him sometimes—entire school breaks, entire vacations. so there was absolutely no logical reason for his absence to feel noticeable, and yet, the empty space he left behind seemed larger than it should have been, like the room had shifted around him without your permission.
“bro,” heeseung’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere in the hallway. “you literally had her pinned to the bed.” your entire body froze.
a beat later, martin’s horrified voice followed. “i was being assaulted.”
“you looked pretty happy about it.”
“shut up.”
the conversation dissolved into distant laughter before fading entirely. meanwhile, your face felt approximately nine hundred degrees. slowly, very slowly, yunjin turned toward you.
you pointed at her immediately. “don’t.”
“i haven’t even said anything.”
“your face is saying enough.”
her grin widened. “your face is saying significantly more.”
a groan escaped you before you could stop it. you threw yourself backward onto the mattress and buried your face into the nearest pillow. “i hate this university already.”
“no, you don’t.”
your voice came out muffled. “…maybe not entirely.”
“exactly.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke. you watched her from beneath the edge of the pillow as she crouched beside one of the suitcases she’d dragged in earlier and began unpacking with the confidence of somebody moving into a place she’d lived her entire life instead of somewhere she’d arrived less than an hour ago. and somehow, despite the fact that you’d only known her for ten minutes, the room already felt different—less temporary; less awkward; less like two strangers sharing a space. maybe it was because she behaved as though friendship was a foregone conclusion rather than something that needed to be carefully negotiated. or maybe it was because there was something familiar about her energy—the way she filled silence without overwhelming it, the way her teasing never felt cruel, the way she made conversation feel easy instead of exhausting. she seemed like the kind of person who could sit beside you for hours without making you feel responsible for entertaining them; the kind of person who made spaces feel lived in.
“are you planning on helping me unpack?” you looked up. she was holding an aggressively fluffy cardigan. “or,” she continued, entirely too casually, “are you planning on mourning your fake-boyfriend situationship for the rest of the evening?”
a horrified gasp escaped into the pillow from your mouth. “that wording was evil.”
“so that’s a yes?”
you considered pretending to be unconscious. unfortunately, she already knew you were alive. “...fine. yes.”
“excellent!”
with all the grace and dignity of a fallen soldier, you rolled off the bed and onto your feet before making your way toward her side of the room, already regretting every life choice that had somehow led to a complete stranger diagnosing your emotional problems within the first hour of meeting you.
the second you started helping yunjin unpack, everything about her suddenly began making sense, not in some life-altering revelation way, just in the quiet way people sometimes clicked into place once you saw the things they surrounded themselves with. her side of the room looked exactly how she felt: like somebody had taken the aesthetic of a clean-girl influencer, thrown it into a blender with an overenthusiastic theatre kid, and somehow ended up with something that just worked. lace tops spilled from one suitcase in soft pastel piles. oversized hoodies were tangled together like they'd been stuffed in at three in the morning with absolutely no concern for organisation. tiny silver rings and necklaces appeared every time she opened another pouch. chunky boots sat beside delicate camisoles. at least three different shades of pink existed within arm’s reach at all times.
and then there was the makeup bag, or rather, the makeup explosion. you watched in silence as what looked like approximately thirty lip products immediately attempted to escape the second she unzipped it.
your eyebrows climbed higher. “you own an unreasonable amount of pink.”
she didn’t even look up. she was too busy wrestling a cardigan off a hanger. “and you own enough belts to survive an apocalypse.”
you glanced toward your own side of the room. fair observation. “fashion is survival.”
“that sounds concerning.”
“that’s because you’re uncultured.”
“that’s because i think normal people don’t prepare for the collapse of civilisation through accessories.”
“normal people are boring.”
a laugh escaped before you both could stop it. the sound lingered comfortably between you for a moment, and the strange thing was that it shouldn’t have felt comfortable. somehow the awkwardness that usually accompanied meeting new people had already disappeared. maybe it was because yunjin seemed physically incapable of behaving like a stranger, or maybe it was because she’d walked into your life with the confidence of somebody who had already decided friendship was inevitable. either way, the room felt warmer now, less like two people assigned to share a space, and more like the beginning of something.
you reached for another hanger and slid a graphic tee onto it while yunjin continued unpacking at an almost alarming speed. for a few minutes, conversation drifted harmlessly between you.
“so,” she started.
the word immediately made you suspicious. not because of the word itself, because of the way she said it—slow. deliberate. dangerously casual.
you didn’t even bother looking at her. “no.”
“you haven’t even heard the question.”
“i don’t need to.”
“oh?”
you hung a sweater inside the wardrobe. “i already know where this is going.”
“and?”
“and no.”
the smile in her voice was audible, which meant she was absolutely going to ignore you. “how long have you and martin been in love with each other?”
the hanger slipped, not dramatically enough to hit the floor, just enough that you had to catch it again before it fell. across the room, yunjin looked deeply satisfied with herself. you looked horrified.
“we are not—”
“oh my god.” she dropped her head back immediately. “stop lying to me.”
“i’m not lying!”
“you absolutely are.”
“yunjin.”
“yn. i literally watched that entire k-drama scene unfold in front of me.”
“there was no scene.”
“there absolutely was.”
you groaned loudly. the problem wasn’t that she was asking, but that you knew exactly what she was talking about—every glance, every accidental touch, every stupid moment that had happened since move-in. and somehow hearing it out loud made everything feel worse. “it’s not like that.”
“then explain the eye contact.”
you immediately regretted engaging. “what eye contact?”
she stared at you. the look on her face suggested she was seconds away from filing a formal complaint against your intelligence. “the eye contact.”
“that explains nothing.”
“the eye contact where both of you looked approximately one second away from kissing.”
your soul wanted to leave your body immediately. “we were not—”
“you were.”
“we weren't.”
“you literally looked at each other like divorced lovers reuniting during wartime.”
you paused, and then blinked. “…that’s weirdly specific.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“answer the question.”
the sigh that escaped you felt old. you abandoned the hangers entirely before lowering yourself onto the floor beside her suitcase. the carpet scratched lightly against your legs. sunlight spilled through the dorm window, stretching golden across the room and catching on the silver jewelry scattered around yunjin’s side. for some reason, the domesticity of it all made this conversation worse, like you’d known her longer than a single afternoon.
“…we’ve known each other forever.”
the teasing expression on her face softened slightly. “how forever?”
you stared down at the sweater in your lap, at the loose thread hanging from one sleeve, at literally anything except her. “like…” the answer sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud. “...toddler forever.”
everything stopped. the tee she’d been folding froze halfway through the process. “oh.”
“yeah.”
“oh, this is serious serious.”
you immediately groaned. “it is not.”
“it absolutely is.”
“no.”
“yes.”
you grabbed one of her sweaters and began folding it with far more aggression than necessary. “it’s not serious.” the weakness of the argument was obvious, even to you.
she looked unconvinced. actually, she looked concerned, which somehow felt weirder. “it’s giving… soulmatism.”
you looked up at her with narrowed eyes. “that’s not a word.”
“it is now.”
“that’s not how language works.”
“language is fake.”
you hated that you laughed. you hated it even more because she looked unbearably pleased afterward. and somehow, after that, talking became dangerously easier. maybe it was because yunjin actually listened when people spoke, or maybe it was because she never treated emotions like inconveniences… or maybe it was because she had a way of making confessions feel casual, like you weren’t handing somebody pieces of yourself, but like you were simply continuing a conversation.
whatever the reason was, one story became another, and then another, and another, until you found yourself talking without really meaning to—about paper rings exchanged under warm lights, about strawberry milk cartons saved during lunch, about middle school dances, about train rides, about birthdays spent together, about aquariums, about all the tiny moments that shouldn’t have mattered so much but somehow did. the stories piled up around you—years and years of them—every single one somehow leading back to martin edwards park.
by the time you finished talking, yunjin was sitting motionless on the floor surrounded by half-unpacked skincare products and jewelry organisers. she looked like somebody attempting to process a particularly devastating tv show finale.
“…no because if this ends badly, i’m suing somebody.”
you immediately buried your face in your hands. “see?” your voice came out muffled. “this is exactly why i can’t tell him.”
“but he literally loves you.”
the words hit harder than they should have, making you shake your head immediately. “not like that.”
“yn.” the way she said your name made you nervous, like somebody preparing evidence. “that man learned your favorite anime opening on guitar in middle school.”
the memory surfaced immediately—martin sitting on the edge of his bed, frowning at sheet music, playing the same section over and over until he got it right. just because you’d mentioned liking it once. “…yeah.”
“he waits through your track practices.”
another memory—summer heat, bleachers, martin sitting through three straight hours of training with a bottle of water and absolutely no reason to be there. “…yeah.”
“he remembered the exact jellyfish exhibit you cried at when you were a kid.”
your chest hurt just a little because suddenly you weren’t in your dorm room anymore. you were ten years old again, standing in front of dark blue glass while jellyfish drifted through water like floating ghosts. you’d forgotten when exactly that had happened, what you’d eaten afterward, and almost everything else. but he remembered—of course he remembered. he remembered things the way other people collected photographs: carefully, quietly, keeping them safe until years later when he’d hand them back to you. “…yeah.”
“and today,” yunjin continued, sounding increasingly exasperated, “he looked ready to square up with god knows who because your eyeliner smudged.”
you let your head fall against the side of her suitcase. “that’s just his personality.”
a long silence stretched out, the kind that made you look up eventually. she was staring at you, just… staring. the look on her face suggested she’d reached a conclusion, and unfortunately for you, it wasn’t a flattering one. “you are actually the dumbest smart person i’ve ever met.”
you smiled weakly. “thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
before you could defend yourself, a sharp knock echoed through the room making both of you look toward the door.
“orientation in five!” heeseung’s voice carried through the hallway. then, after a brief pause, he added, “also martin walked into a wall literally thirty seconds ago.”
a horrified voice immediately followed. “heeseung, shut up.”
yunjin’s jaw dropped in amusement as she got ready to bully him about it for the next few years. “oh my god.”
you bit down on the inside of your cheek. unfortunately, that did absolutely nothing to stop the smile spreading across your face.
campus orientation was genuinely hellish: too many people, too much noise, and way too many overly cheerful upperclassmen wearing matching university hoodies while yelling directions through microphones like literal military commanders. the four of you ended up squeezed together near the back of the massive auditorium after barely finding seats beside each other. the air was thick with humidity and freshman anxiety.
you sat directly between yunjin and martin, while heeseung slouched on martin’s other side looking exhausted already. “i think i blacked out during the third speech,” he admitted, his head tilted back against the plastic seat.
“there were seven speeches,” you informed him helpfully.
“exactly.”
martin leaned closer toward you slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. “did you eat anything today besides pocky?”
you looked offended. “i had iced coffee too.”
“that’s not food.”
“it has calories.”
“that’s not how nutrition works.”
“you sound thirty,” you rolled your eyes.
“you sound malnourished.”
yunjin watched both of you from your left like she was witnessing live theatre, her eyes darting back and forth between your faces. heeseung noticed her expression immediately.
“…oh, you clocked them too?” heeseung muttered across the seats.
“immediately,” she whispered back.
you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward slightly to glare past martin. “i can hear both of you.”
“good,” they answered together, completely unfazed.
martin looked between all three of you suspiciously, his brow furrowing. “…why do i feel like i’m being cyberbullied in real life?”
“because you are,” heeseung nodded solemnly.
a loud cheer erupted somewhere near the front of the auditorium as one of the orientation leaders announced club sign-ups, the sound echoing sharply through the sound system. the sudden noise startled you enough that you instinctively flinched slightly toward martin. without even looking, his hand moved automatically to steady your knee. just for a second—just instinct. his fingers were warm through your jeans, grounding you instantly before he pulled his hand back into his pockets.
yunjin slowly looked at heeseung. he slowly looked back at her. simultaneously, their lips moved in a silent, terrifying synchronisation: ‘they’re doomed.’
orientation dissolved into absolute chaos pretty quickly after that. the auditorium emptied into the campus courtyard in huge, noisy waves of students while upperclassmen practically hunted freshmen down with club flyers. music blasted somewhere near the student union building, where somebody was already performing an acoustic cover of a k-pop ballad with a guitar near the fountain, while fashion majors were taking photos literally everywhere, and the engineering students looked universally terrified.
“why does everybody here dress like they’re in a pinterest board?” heeseung muttered, looking around the area with a slight frown.
“because we’re art and music students,” yunjin replied, adjusting her tote bag. “half this campus survives entirely on aesthetics and caffeine.”
“that explains the emotional instability in the air,” you snorted softly while adjusting the straps of your bag. your outfit definitely wasn’t helping the pinterest allegations either—low-rise dark washed jeans with silver chain details hanging against your thigh, a pink graphic tee layered over white thermals, chunky headphones resting around your neck, and rings decorating almost every finger. your eyeliner was slightly smudged from earlier, giving your makeup an accidentally messy look. beside you, martin somehow looked equally unfair: he wore an oversized black hoodie layered beneath a faded leather jacket despite the warm weather, a long silver necklace resting against his shirt, baggy jeans, and black headphones hanging around his neck, rings, bracelets, and that wavy, annoyingly pretty hair that fell slightly into his eyes.
“okay,” yunjin clapped suddenly, snapping everyone out of their daze. “campus exploration mission.”
“i thought this was orientation.”
“it is orientation,” she nodded. “we’re orienting ourselves toward good food and attractive people.”
“those are two very different things,” heeseung frowned.
“not to me. let’s go!”
the four of you began wandering through the crowded campus pathways afterward, occasionally stopping whenever some extra hyper club member aggressively shoved ugly neon flyers into your hands. at one point, martin ended up arguing with a music production senior for nearly ten minutes about analog recording frequencies, his hands gesturing wildly while the rest of you sat at a nearby concrete table pretending to care.
“he’s kinda nerdy,” yunjin whispered to you quietly, leaning her chin on her palm.
“you noticed that now?”
“he tried explaining microphone frequencies to me earlier with the passion of a divorced rockstar.”
“those are literally the same words i used today!” you burst into laughter, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the courtyard. martin shot both of you a suspicious look from across the table, pausing mid-sentence with the senior.
“what are you laughing at?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“nothing,” you replied without missing a beat.
“that sounded fake.”
“your face sounds fake,” you rolled your eyes.
“…what does that even mean?”
“exactly. shut up.”
heeseung looked genuinely emotional watching you both, shaking his head. “you guys argue like an old married couple. it’s exhausting as fuck to listen to.”
eventually, the four of you split apart slightly while exploring one of the outdoor student booths lining the main courtyard. martin got completely distracted by some vintage vinyl display, his inner music nerd taking over, and heeseung followed him because apparently they shared the same exact soul of a forty-year-old man. which left you and yunjin wandering between the art booths together.
“you know,” she started carefully, her voice dropping into that specific matchmaker tone, “i still think he likes you.”
you sighed dramatically, examining a handmade ceramic pins display. “yunjin, you’ve known us for, like, four hours.”
“and i’m already deeply invested.”
“you need hobbies.”
“this is my hobby now.”
before you could respond, someone stepped beside you suddenly, blocking the sunlight. “hey.”
you turned and came face-to-face with a guy who stood there holding two iced americanos in one hand, while his other hand rested casually in the pocket of his varsity jacket. sharp eyes, a pretty smile, and orange-ish hair pushed back slightly. he had a very confident, effortless aura about him. he tilted his head slightly, his eyes crinkling as he recognised you from the auditorium earlier. “you’re one of the fashion majors from orientation, right?”
“oh,” you blinked, caught off guard. “yeah.”
“i’m jeongin.”
“yn.”
“pretty name for a pretty woman,” he smiled, offering a casual nod. yunjin physically perked up beside you like a shark smelling blood in the water. you ignored her, keeping your eyes on him. he took a sip of his coffee, his smile widening slightly. “you looked deeply miserable during the speeches earlier.”
“that’s because i was.”
“that’s fair. i almost fell asleep during the dean’s speech.”
“you and half the campus,” you smiled back. he laughed softly. okay… he was actually kind of charming. yunjin noticed your expression immediately, a tiny, knowing smirk spreading across her face.
“so,” he glanced toward the flyer in your hand, a tiny smirk playing on his lips, “you joining any clubs or are you just pretending to listen like the rest of us?”
“mostly pretending,” you hummed.
“you’re surviving university well already.”
“thank you,” you nodded solemnly. he laughed again—that same low, nice sound from before. unfortunately, you were actually a little funny, which meant conversations like this happened relatively often. yunjin slowly looked over your shoulder toward something behind you. then her eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows shooting up.
before you could even turn around, a familiar voice cut right through the conversation. “yn.” your stomach betrayed you instantly, doing a violent flip. martin stood there holding two cans of redbull and a plastic bag of snacks, while heeseung lingered beside him looking way too entertained already. martin’s expression looked neutral—too neutral, which was usually dangerous.
“hi,” you said carefully. his eyes flickered briefly toward jeongin, taking in the varsity jacket and the two americanos, before landing back on you. jeongin looked back casually, tilting his head, and suddenly the atmosphere became weird. not openly hostile or aggressive, just… boy weird.
“this is jeongin,” yunjin introduced immediately, jumping into the silence like the shit stirrer she truly was. “he was just talking to yn.”
“i gathered that,” martin replied too calmly.
jeongin smiled politely, totally unfazed by the sudden drop in temperature. “you guys friends?”
before you could even open your mouth to answer, yunjin cut in. “she’s basically his wife.”
“yunjin!” you choked, your face heating up instantly.
martin nearly inhaled his own oxygen wrong, clearing his throat aggressively as his ears went a furious shade of pink. beside him, heeseung physically turned away because he started laughing too hard, burying his face in his hand.
jeongin blinked once, looking between you. “…oh.”
“we are not married,” you said immediately, looking at yunjin with an expression that clearly said ‘i am going to murder you in your sleep’. you wanted to actualise a black hole and die right there on the pavement.
“she proposed first, actually,” martin added dryly, recovering his composure remarkably fast.
you stared at him in pure betrayal. “why would you bring up the paper rings right now?!”
“because you started the marriage allegations.”
“you literally agreed to it!” you said, exasperatedly.
“i was a kid!”
“you said yes immediately!” you threw your hands up.
jeongin watched the entire exchange slowly, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. then he looked at yunjin. then heeseung, who was still silently shaking with laughter. then back at you and martin. “…so you’re not dating.”
“no,” both of you answered instantly, your voices overlapping in perfect, frantic synchronisation. another heavy pause stretched over the yard. “…right,” jeongin nodded, his tone suggesting he believed absolutely zero percent of that. he offered a polite, somewhat amused, smile. “well, i should probably head to the design building. see you around, yn.” he still lingered, though.
“yeah, see you,” you muttered. martin stepped up, handing you one of the redbulls a little abruptly. your fingers brushed briefly while taking the cold metal can from him. it was a tiny moment. a tiny, stupid, completely insignificant moment. but he looked down at your hand for half a second too long afterward, his thumb twitching slightly against his jacket pocket as his expression softened almost unconsciously.
yunjin saw it. heeseung saw it. unfortunately, both of them were thoroughly evil.
“so,” heeseung said casually to martin, a knowing smirk stretching across his face, “you looked ready to kill him just now.”
martin looked genuinely horrified, his head snapping toward him. “what?”
“you walked over here like a divorced husband discovering his wife on a dating app,” yunjin nodded seriously, her arms crossed over her chest.
“i did not.”
“you literally interrupted their flirting.”
“we weren’t flirting,” you defended weakly, your face feeling warm as you gripped your canned drink a little tighter.
jeongin, who hadn’t actually walked away yet, tilted his head with a lazy, amused smile. “… i kinda was.”
absolute silence. oh. oh no. martin froze completely, his entire posture locking up. beside him, heeseung made a choked noise so sudden and violent it sounded medically concerning. yunjin grabbed your arm immediately, her fingers digging into your jacket sleeve like she was about to witness front-row live entertainment. meanwhile, martin stared at jeongin with the exact expression of someone trying very hard to remain normal. “…cool,” he said finally. not normally at all.
jeongin either didn’t notice the sudden drop in atmosphere or he chose violence intentionally. “you’re pretty,” he told you casually, his tone incredibly effortless. “i wanted to talk to you earlier in the auditorium, but you were always with him.”
the silence afterward was catastrophic because martin visibly stiffened, his shoulders squaring beneath his leather jacket. your own brain completely stopped functioning, the words echoing in your ears. yunjin physically folded into herself, trying not to scream out loud, while heeseung just whispered, “oh my god,” under his breath like he’d just witnessed a historic geopolitical event.
you looked at martin instinctively. big mistake. because his jaw had tightened slightly, a sharp line forming along his throat, and his pretty eyes were darkened slightly under his bangs. and suddenly he looked… jealous? your chest hurt immediately, your heart nearly exploding on impact from the sheer ridiculousness of it.
“you should come hang with us later tonight,” jeongin continued easily, totally ignoring the tension radiating off martin. “some freshmen are exploring the night market nearby.”
before you could even open your mouth to answer, martin chimed in, “she’s busy.” everyone turned toward him. including himself, apparently, because he looked deeply startled right after the words left his mouth.
you blinked, looking up at him. “i am?”
he stared at you for one painfully long second, his eyes wide and slightly panicked before he recovered his composure. “…we’re unpacking stuff later,” he said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. yunjin almost started convulsing from trying not to laugh, her shoulders shaking violently against yours.
jeongin looked between both of you once again, his sharp eyes taking in your flushed face and martin’s absolute rigidity, and then he suddenly grinned. “oh,” he said softly, like he’d just figured out a very amusing secret.
martin’s expression darkened instantly. “we’re not dating,” he said, not for the first time that day, his voice dropping an octave.
“sure,” jeongin nodded politely, which somehow felt ten times worse than him actually arguing back. he eventually actually left after exchanging socials with yunjin instead of you, which honestly felt entirely intentional. “see you guys around,” he smiled casually, walking backward a few steps into the yard. then he looked at you specifically, his eyes crinkling. “and yn? don’t let him scare every guy away before the semester even starts.”
martin looked genuinely offended. “i didn’t scare anybody.”
jeongin only grinned, turning around and disappearing back into the buzzing crowd of students. the exact second he was fully out of hearing range, yunjin exploded. “oh, you are sick,” she let out the scream she’d been holding in.
“i actually need this documented academically for future research purposes,” heeseung added, clutching his chest dramatically.
martin frowned immediately, his ears still burning pink. “what are you both even talking about?”
“you got jealous.”
“i did not.”
“you interrupted a man mid-flirt like an overprotective victorian husband,” yunjin cackled.
“he was annoying.”
“he was hot,” yunjin corrected smoothly.
martin visibly recoiled, his eyebrows shooting up. “okay, now you’re just saying things to upset me.” the words slipped out so naturally, so entirely without thought, that nobody reacted for half a second. then the realisation hit, and silence slammed into the group. martin froze. you froze.. heeseung’s mouth fell completely open, and yunjin dramatically grabbed onto his shoulder to steady herself because her knees were actually giving out.
martin recovered first, clearing his throat aggressively as he looked anywhere but at you. “…not upset me,” he corrected weakly, his voice cracking slightly. “like—like, generally. as a person.”
“right,” heeseung nodded solemnly, his face deadpan. “you sounded very normal and convincing there, bro.”
“shut up.”
unfortunately for martin, his ears had already gone a furious shade of red, which made everything so much worse. you rolled your eyes to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips, but inside, your heart was still hammering against your ribs, helpless against the look he had given you just moments before.
by nighttime, the entire campus had transformed—fairy lights glowed in long, tangled strings around the main lawn while students gathered in messy circles across picnic blankets and foldable chairs. someone had set up huge speakers nearby, the bass thumping low against the ground. somebody else was definitely grilling food illegally behind one of the dorm buildings because the smell of charcoal drifted over the grass all the way till your group. a massive campfire burned near the center of the field, warm orange light flickering across hundreds of faces while music drifted softly through the cool night air. the atmosphere felt… nice. too nice. maybe even dangerously nice.
“this is kinda cute,” you admitted quietly, tucking your legs under you as you sat down beside yunjin on one of the plaid blankets.
“kinda?” she looked around dramatically, gesturing with her hands. “this is peak university movie montage. if a guitar guy shows up, i’m gonna go feral.”
heeseung dropped down nearby a second later, holding a ridiculous assortment of drinks and snacks balanced dangerously in his arms. “i stole these from a business major,” he announced, dumping them in the center of the blanket.
“you can’t just confess crimes casually,” martin frowned, sitting down right beside you.
“it’s orientation week. laws don’t exist yet.”
“that’s not how society works.”
“you sound like you pay taxes willingly, dude.”
“yn and i already planned to skip taxes, actually,” martin said while looking personally insulted, his mouth parting slightly in offense. you laughed quietly at his face, accepting one of the brightly colored canned drinks heeseung confusedly tossed into your lap.
“what even is this?” you asked, tilting the can to read the blurry label.
“something fruity.”
“that sounds dangerous coming from your mouth, hee.”
“exactly.”
you took a sip anyway, because why not. immediately, you grimaced. “oh my god.”
yunjin snorted, leaning closer. “you hate it?”
“it tastes like… if battery acid and artificial strawberries had a baby,” you shuddered.
“…you’re drinking more though.”
“unfortunately,” you muttered, taking another long sip.
the night blurred softer after that—music, laughter, and the distant sound of people shouting lyrics badly around the fire. you watched yunjin aggressively force an exhausted heeseung into some random group game against his will a few blankets over. beside you, martin was sitting close. close enough that your shoulders kept brushing accidentally every time either of you shifted. or maybe not accidentally. you honestly couldn’t tell anymore.
the fruity battery-acid drink turned out to be way stronger than expected, too. you weren’t blackout drunk—not even close—but just enough to make your chest feel fuzzy and warm, your thoughts a little softer, and your self-control significantly worse than usual.
that was a massive problem when martin existed nearby looking like… martin. his sleeves were pushed up slightly now, and his hair was entirely messy from the night wind. his silver rings glinted sharply under the orange firelight as he laughed quietly at something heeseung was yelling from across the lawn, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm against his knee. you stared too long. again.
yunjin noticed immediately. “oh, she’s gone,” she whispered loudly toward heeseung, pointing a finger at you.
“what?”
“she’s doing the yearning stare again.”
you nearly choked on your drink, your eyes widening. “i am not!”
“you look at him like he personally hung the moon, yn.”
“that doesn’t even make sense.”
“it does, actually,” she insisted.
martin looked over finally, drawing his eyes away from the fire. “what are you guys talking about?”
“nothing,” you answered way too quickly, your voice hitting a higher octave.
“yn’s in love with—ow!” yunjin yelped, clutching her shin after you kicked her violently across the blanket. martin blinked slowly, looking between the two of you in mild confusion.
“…yn, you just assaulted her.”
“she lied.”
“i literally didn’t even finish the sentence,” yunjin complained, rubbing her leg.
“you didn’t need to.”
heeseung looked between all of you before letting out a deeply exhausted, long-suffering sigh. “this friend group is gonna kill me before the first semester even starts.”
the campfire crackled loudly nearby, a shower of sparks flying up into the dark sky while the music shifted into something slower and softer. students started pairing off slowly around the lawn—some dancing badly near the speakers, others wandering toward the dark food stalls, or just sitting closer together beneath shared blankets. the air grew noticeably colder, the wind biting through your thin zip-up. without thinking much about it—blame the alcohol, blame the temperature—you leaned slightly closer toward martin’s side for warmth.
he noticed instantly. “you cold?”
“a little,” you muttered, looking down at your drink. without saying another word, he tugged off his heavy flannel overshirt, his movements effortless as he draped it gently over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through the sleeves. your heart beat much faster because the fabric was still warm from his skin, and it smelled entirely like him—the specific laundry detergent his mom had been using since you were kids, faint cologne, and something else that was just painfully, distinctly martin.
“you’re gonna freeze,” you muttered quietly, burying your chin into the high collar of the shirt.
“i’m fine.”
“you say that every time.”
“because you steal my clothes every time,” he pointed out dryly.
“that sounds like a you problem.”
he laughed softly under his breath, his head tipping back slightly against the cool night air. your heart nearly folded in on itself. god, this was genuinely humiliating. the alcohol made everything ten times worse because suddenly all your carefully hidden feelings sat way too close to the surface—raw and exposed. every glance he threw your way felt incredibly heavy. every accidental touch lingered a second too long. at some point, yunjin and heeseung completely disappeared to go bully another freshman group into sharing their marshmallows, leaving you and martin sitting near the dark edge of the firelight dangerously alone.
the music softened again nearby, the acoustic guitar chords floating over the lawn. martin leaned back against the grass, propping himself up on his elbows with a quiet sigh as he looked up at the sky. you didn’t look at the sky. you watched him instead.
“you’re staring again,” he murmured without looking over.
drunk bravery was a disease. “so what if i am?”
that got his attention immediately. his head turned toward you slowly as the firelight flickered across his face while surprise flashed briefly through his expression.
“…you okay?” he asked, still balanced on his elbows to look up at you, his eyes dark under his bangs.
“no.”
his brows furrowed instantly and his entire posture shifted as he sat up a bit straighter on the blanket. “what’s wrong? did you drink too much of that battery acid stuff? i kept warning you to slow down.”
“maybe.”
“you absolute lightweight,” he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, fondly exasperated tone that always made your chest feel tight. “i knew i shouldn’t have let heeseung give you that.”
“you’re literally prettier tonight,” you suddenly informed him. the words tumbled out of your mouth before your brain could even initiate a broadcast. what followed was absolute, catastrophic silence. oh no. your internal filter had arrived around twenty fucking thousand business days too late.
martin blinked once, his hand freezing mid-motion where he had been about to run it through his hair. “…what did you just say?”
“you heard me,” you said, stubbornly refusing to back down now that the damage was already done, even though your face was burning so hot, it felt like the campfire was under your skin.
his ears turned a furious shade of pink almost instantly, the color creeping up from the collar of his shirt. you wanted to desperately disappear into thin air right then and there. “yn—”
“no, because actually,” you interrupted aggressively, pointing a slightly shaky finger vaguely at his face to stop him from speaking, “it’s genuinely, incredibly annoying. you have no idea.”
“what is?” he asked, his voice sounding a little breathless now as he watched your finger.
“you.”
“…me?”
“yes. your whole…” you gestured helplessly between his face and his shoulders, completely losing your grip on vocabulary, “your whole everything. it’s unfair.”
he stared at you in complete disbelief now, his mouth slightly parted. you kept going anyway, because apparently the artificial strawberry alcohol had taken away your survival instincts and replaced them with pure, unfiltered honesty.
“you keep doing this thing where you look all…” your hands moved vaguely in the air again, trying to map out the exact way the firelight caught his jawline, “…all soft and nice and stupidly handsome all the time. in that ugly uniform back then, in that leather jacket right now. it’s ridiculous.”
he looked like his soul had temporarily left his body. he just sat there, the orange light flickering across his wide eyes. “handsome?” he repeated weakly, his voice cracking just a fraction. “you think i look… handsome?”
“oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face entirely into your hands immediately, the rough denim of his flannel overshirt pressing against your cheeks. “forget i said that. delete it from your memory, actually. i’m insane. don’t let me touch alcohol ever again.”
unfortunately for you, he started laughing softly. it wasn’t a mocking laugh, or a teasing one, which would have been so much easier to handle. it was worse—it was that deep, quiet, devastatingly fond sound that always made your knees weak. “you’re so drunk right now,” he murmured, his voice practically vibrating against the space between you.
“i’m not drunk, i’m emotionally suffering,” you mumbled into your palms.
“that too,” he chuckled softly.
you peeked at him through the small gaps between your fingers. big mistake. huge mistake, actually, because now he was looking at you in that way again. that soft, weird, focused way that always made your heart beat too fast.
“you’re pretty too, you know,” he said quietly, his eyes locked onto yours as you lowered your hands. “especially when you’re tired and your eyeliner is all smudged like that.”
your heart stopped completely. the air in your lungs went entirely cold. “…don’t joke right now, martin. i will actually throw this drink at your head.”
his expression shifted immediately, the teasing softness hardening into something intense, something real, something that made your stomach drop. “i’m not joking,” he said, his voice incredibly steady.
the air changed again, the heavy humidity of the night suddenly compressing into that terrifying almost-feeling that had been hovering over the two of you for years. the fire crackled loudly somewhere nearby, and the distant, buzzed laughter of other freshmen echoed across the lawn, but suddenly everything felt completely muted around the two of you. he looked at you for a second too long, his gaze dropping from your eyes. you looked back, unable to move, unable to breathe. and suddenly your chest hurt so badly you wanted to scream because this was the ultimate problem. always this. too much feeling. too much history. too much almost.
his eyes flickered downward briefly—pointed directly, unmistakably, toward your lips. your breath caught instantly in your throat. he noticed, and you noticed him noticing. and somehow, despite the rules and the allegations and the fear, neither of you moved away. the distance between you suddenly felt very small.
his leather jacket brushed against the flannel on your shoulders. “yn,” he said softly. you almost cried at the way he said your name—gentle, careful, like it was something sacred that only he could worship correctly. he didn’t say it as a warning, or an insult, or even as a question. it was just your name, but it sounded like something dangerous and precious in his mouth. your eyes locked onto his, leaning slightly closer.
“oh my god, heeseung, look! they’re doing the eye contact thing again. i told you they were doomed as fuck!” the loud, cackling whisper shattered the silence like bricks through glass.
you both jumped apart like actual convicted criminals caught in the act, martin clearing his throat aggressively as he violently turned his head to stare at the grass, his entire face flashing a bright, brilliant red under the firelight. heeseung nearly collapsed laughing, bending over with his hands on his knees, while yunjin pointed a sticky marshmallow stick at both of you accusatorily.
“you guys are embarrassing!” she yelled over the bass, her voice carrying across at least three neighboring blankets. “the tension is literally radioactive! i can see the waves, like the ones from spiderman’s spidey tingles!”
martin grabbed a nearby, half-empty marshmallow packet from the grass and threw it directly at her face. it was a remarkably accurate shot. somehow—the plastic bag hit yunjin squarely in the forehead with a soft thud before dropping into her lap. she gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “domestic violence! i am calling campus security! i am reporting a hate crime!”
“you deserved that,” he informed her, his voice tight as he tried—and failed—to control the dark blush still burning across his cheekbones.
“you almost kissed her!” yunjin shrieked, totally unfazed.
“literally nothing happened!”
heeseung stepped up, pointing aggressively between both of you like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “bro, don’t lie to the court. your faces were literally moving closer. we saw the physical trajectory. it was a closing gap.”
“we were talking,” martin defended, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms over his chest. “the music is loud. i was leaning in so I could hear her.”
“your eyes were closed halfway, bro.”
he froze. his arms slowly uncrossed. “…they were not.” you, unfortunately, remembered that they absolutely, one hundred percent, were. your memory might have been a little fuzzy around the edges from the weird alcohol, but you distinctly remembered the heavy, dark sweep of his eyelashes just inches from your own, which meant your entire body immediately overheated again, a hot wave of panic rushing straight to your ears.
“okay!” you announced loudly, standing up way too quickly from the plaid blanket. “i’m choosing peace and pretending you both said absolutely nothing. goodbye!”
“you’re walking crooked,” yunjin noted, watching you sway.
“the earth is tilted,” you argued, staring straight ahead.
“that’s not how gravity works, yn.”
“not with that attitude it doesn’t, yunjin,” you glared drunkenly at her.
heeseung started laughing all over again while martin instinctively reached out, his reflexes kicking in the exact second you almost tripped over the raised edge of the picnic blanket. his hands wrapped around your waist briefly to steady you. his palms were incredibly warm through the fabric of your shirt and his flannel on top, spanning the sides of your ribs, holding you entirely still against the pull of gravity. for a second, everything felt perfectly balanced and safe. your brain short-circuited instantly, the remaining alcohol turning into pure static.
“there,” he muttered quietly, his breath brushing the side of your neck as he helped you find your footing again. his hands lingered on your waist for just a beat too long before he slowly pulled them back, his fingers twitching slightly. “careful. i don’t need you cracking your skull open on orientation night.”
you looked up at him through your messy bangs. another massive, fatal mistake… because now he was standing too close, looking down at you with some intense, protective gaze that made your stupid alcohol-filled heart immediately start malfunctioning again.
“i wouldn’t have cracked it,” you whispered, your voice suddenly losing all its previous defensive bite. “you caught me.”
his eyes softened, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked back up, his voice dropping an octave. “i’m always gonna catch you, yn. you know that.”
thankfully, before your brain could completely spiral into a puddle of mush, loud, explosive music suddenly blasted through the main campus speakers. the beat dropped hard, and a massive, roaring cheer erupted across the entire lawn.
“oh hell yes,” yunjin gasped, her eyes lighting up. students immediately started abandoning their blankets, rushing toward the large open space near the roaring campfire where a group of upperclassmen had apparently decided orientation night required a massive, chaotic dance floor now.
“you guys are coming,” heeseung announced, already bouncing on his heels.
“i don’t dance,” martin said instantly, taking a step back.
“that’s crazy because our entire major literally revolves around rhythm,” heeseung pointed out, grabbing his shoulder.
“music and dancing are not the same thing.”
“you’re literally lying to yourself.”
yunjin grabbed your wrist dramatically, her grip tight and unyielding. “come on, yn! don’t let the resident loser ruin the vibe!” you honestly didn’t need much convincing.
maybe it was the heavy buzz of the alcohol, or maybe it was the infectious energy of the music pulsing through the grass. or maybe, honestly, it was just the overwhelming rush of being independent, finally away from home, with your best friends beside you under the glowing campus lights while the night still felt entirely endless and full of potential. either way, you let yourself get dragged straight into the center of the crowd.
the atmosphere became chaotic immediately—hundreds of students were yelling lyrics at the top of their lungs, people jumping around horribly off-beat, and someone had already fallen face-first onto the grass nearby, laughing too hard to get back up. the playlist shifted wildly between trendy pop songs and old, nostalgic throwback hits, but everybody screamed along regardless, throwing their hands in the air.
yunjin danced like rent was due, throwing her hair around and aggressively pointing at people in the crowd to blow kisses to. heeseung somehow danced even worse, doing ironical 80s disco moves that had you clutching your stomach from laughing so hard. martin mostly stood nearby on the perimeter of your little circle, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, laughing quietly at all of you. he looked so separate from the chaos, so steady and grounded, that you couldn’t take it.
you stepped forward and grabbed both his wrists dramatically, pulling his hands out of his pockets.
“oh no,” he said immediately, his lips twitching into a smile even as he tried to pull back.
“oh yes.”
“yn, please. have mercy.”
“dance, loser!” you yelled over the chorus of a pop song, tugging on his arms.
“i physically can’t, like, i genuinely lack the coordination for whatever heeseung is doing over there.”
“you’re literally a musician! your whole life is tempo!”
“that’s discrimination,” he protested, but the resistance in his arms was already fading.
you snorted before trying to pull him closer into the dense crowd anyway, moving your shoulders to the beat. he resisted for a whole two seconds before giving up completely. mostly because you looked too happy to say no to. your laugh echoed loudly through the music, bright and unfiltered, while the warm firelight flickered beautifully across your face.
he watched you, and he suddenly felt that familiar, terrifying, heavy ache in his chest again. god, he loved you so much. it was honestly becoming a liability, and medically concerning how much space you took up in his head, how a single look from you could completely dictate the rest of his day.
you caught him staring and pulled him a little closer, your hands shifting from his wrists to rest lightly against his chest. “see? it’s not that hard,” you laughed, looking up at him. “just move a little.”
he let out a soft, defeated breath, his hands coming up to rest gently on your hips to keep people from bumping into you as the crowd surged. “i’m only doing this because you’re drunk,” he lied softly, his thumb absentmindedly drawing a small circle against your waist.
“liar,” you teased, leaning into his space. “you’re doing it because you love me.”
his heart did a violent, dangerous backflip. he looked down at your face, his expression turning incredibly serious for a split second despite the screaming crowd around you. “yeah,” he murmured, the word swallowed by the loud bass, though his eyes said it clearly enough—‘yeah, i do’.
eventually, the crowd shifted around again as another wave of students joined the circle, pushing people around. somewhere in the sudden chaos, yunjin completely disappeared toward the snack tables to hunt down more food, and heeseung and martin got aggressively dragged into an intense dance-battle circle against their will, leaving you tucked away in a corner of the moving crowd.
suddenly you found yourself beside an unfamiliar guy—dark hair, sharp smile, performatively fake glasses slightly crooked from dancing.
“oh,” he laughed when you nearly bumped into him. “sorry.”
“my bad,” you grinned tipsily.
“i’m seungmin,” he introduced himself over the loud music.
“yn.”
recognition flashed across his face immediately. “ohhh. jeongin told me you’re that martin guy’s—”
“best friend,” you interrupted automatically.
seungmin looked deeply unconvinced. “…right.”
the music switched again with a massive, heavy bass drop, and the crowd collectively screamed in recognition. “oh my god, i love this song!” you gasped, your eyes lighting up as you threw your hands in the air, completely giving in to the rhythm.
seungmin laughed immediately, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head at you. “you’re definitely drunk.”
“i’m not drunk, seungmo,” you yelled back over the blaring speakers, spinning around on your heel. “i’m experiencing life!”
“that sounded deeply philosophical.”
“thank you! i try!” you grinned.
unlike martin, who always tended to watch you carefully and protectively whenever you drank—guarding your space and counting your sips—seungmin just matched your chaotic energy instantly. within minutes, the two of you were yelling lyrics completely out of key, jumping hysterically, and dancing stupidly among the sweaty crowd like you’d known each other for an entire lifetime instead of just a few minutes. to you, this was just pure, unadulterated excitement. new friend, fun person, cool vibes, the university experience you had always read about.
unfortunately, martin noticed from across the lawn, and he immediately looked like somebody had shot him.
he stood near the edge of the dense crowd, holding two fresh drinks he’d gone to get for the two of you, staring directly through the moving bodies to where you were laughing brightly at something seungmin had just said. his fingers tightened around the aluminum cans, his jaw setting into a rigid, hard line as he watched seungmin casually lean in close to hear you over the music.
heeseung materialised beside him instantly, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “oh, brother.”
“i’m literally fine,” martin said, his voice entirely flat, though his eyes didn’t leave your face for a single second.
“sure you are. you look like you’re about to write a critically acclaimed, ten-minute, best-selling indie breakup album.”
he looked away immediately, staring down at the grass as if it were the most fascinating thing on campus. “they’re just dancing, bro. it’s fine. she’s having fun.”
“yeah,” heeseung nodded, crossing his arms and tilting his head toward the dance floor. “and you’re staring at them like a tragic war veteran watching his entire hometown burn to the ground.”
“i am not.”
“martin, you’ve literally crushed your drink can.”
he looked down at his right hand. oh. he had. the metal can was completely mangled, liquid dripping slowly over his silver rings and onto his sneakers. “…oops,” he muttered, his face turning a dark, frustrated shade of red.
meanwhile, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent crisis happening. seungmin had somehow convinced you to join a completely ridiculous dance challenge with a group of random upperclassmen nearby, and the two of you were currently losing horribly.
“this is rigged,” you accused, pointing dramatically at the guy who had just executed a perfect backflip. “he’s a professional!”
“you’re just bad at coordination, yn,” seungmin teased, leaning back with a grin.
“i was an athlete!” you protested loudly.
“that actually makes this so much sadder.”
you gasped dramatically, clutching your chest before breaking out into another fit of laughter. but as you laughed, the world suddenly felt oddly, overwhelmingly warm. the cool night air didn’t feel cold anymore; instead, a sudden wave of heat flushed through your body, and the colorful fairy lights blurred sharply at the edges, spinning into bright, dizzying streaks of gold and orange. hm… weird.
“you okay?” seungmin asked, his teasing smile fading instantly as he noticed your expression shift, your eyes glazing over slightly.
“yeah,” you nodded automatically, trying to ground yourself, but the motion of nodding was a terrible idea. you immediately swayed heavily sideways, your balance completely deserting you. “oh,” you whispered. okay, maybe you were not okay.
the music suddenly sounded like it was playing underwater, the thumping bass echoing distantly in your ears. your stomach flipped unpleasantly, a sharp wave of nausea hitting you right before a massive wave of dizziness crashed over your head all at once, making the grass feel like it was tilting at a ninety-degree angle.
“oh shit,” seungmin muttered, his eyes widening in alarm as he reached his arms out slightly toward you. “yn? hey, stay upright—”
somewhere nearby, martin looked over instantly. his eyes had never really left you anyway, but the exact millisecond your shoulders slumped and your footing gave way, his internal alarm went off.
your vision blurred badly now, the bright colours of the campfire and the strings of fairy lights smearing together into a dizzying canvas of color. the heavy bass from the speakers faded into a muffled noise. your knees buckled beneath you before you could fully realise what was happening, the grass rushing up to meet you.
and then warm, solid arms caught you before you could even graze the ground. there was a strong, unyielding grip around your waist, pulling you up and anchoring you against a broad chest. a familiar, comforting scent washed over you—his cologne, and the winter wind.
and then, his voice followed. “hey, hey, hey—careful. i’ve got you, ynnie.” martin. of course it was martin.
your head lolled slightly against his chest, your forehead resting against the cool zipper of his jacket while he carefully shifted his weight to steady you both. he was holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to shield you from the entire world. the last clear thing you saw before your vision went completely fuzzy again was his face hovering directly over yours. his brows were deeply furrowed with worry, his usually guarded eyes turned soft and hyper-focused, and his lips were parted slightly as his gaze scanned your face, frantically checking to see if you were okay.
“…pretty,” you mumbled weakly, your voice thick and slurred as you reached up a heavy hand to vaguely touch his jawline. his intense, worried expression broke instantly. a helpless flush crept all the way up his neck, and his lips twitched, completely losing his battle against the effect of your words.
“oh my god,” heeseung whispered somewhere nearby, having jogged over right behind him. “he’s done for. he’s actually never recovering from that. put it on his tombstone, seriously.”
“shut up, heeseung,” martin hissed quietly, keeping his eyes locked entirely on you while trying not to smile, but ultimately failing, because how could he not smile at his girl? his hands smoothed over your back, keeping you pressed securely against him. you blinked slowly up at him, the darkness of the night sky framing his face like a halo.
“mars?” you whispered, using the old childhood nickname that always made his defenses completely crumble.
“yeah, pretty girl,” he answered softly, his voice dropping to a tender, private whisper meant only for you. he leaned down slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead with the gentlest touch. “i got you. i always got you.” wrapped up in his warmth, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart against your ear, that was more than enough.
by the time martin carried you back toward the freshman dorm buildings, the campus had gotten noticeably quieter. the heavy bass from the lawn faded into a dull hum in the background behind you both, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves as the cool night air drifted through the brick pathways. you were fully conscious now—the brief wave of blacking out had passed—you were just dramatically, dangerously drunk. which somehow made you even more of a menace.
martin had originally been carrying you piggyback-style because, according to you, your legs had ‘officially stopped cooperating.’ your cheek rested heavily against his shoulder while your arms hung loosely around his neck, your fingers casually playing with the collar of his jacket.
“you smell nice,” you informed him very seriously, your breath brushing right against his ear.
he laughed quietly under his breath, tilting his head slightly away from the tickle of your hair. “thanks.”
“you always smell nice. even when you look mean.”
“that’s slightly creepy, yn.”
“i’m not creepy, i’m observant.”
“you’re drunk.”
“both can coexist,” you argued logically, nodding against his neck. “it’s a spectrum.”
he smiled helplessly to himself, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip under your legs to hoist you a little higher. damn, you were actually gonna kill him someday. he could feel the steady warmth of your body pressed against his back, and every time you spoke, his heart did a stupid, erratic little jump.
“you know,” you mumbled after a moment of staring at the passing lampposts, “i think my internal organs completely dissolved back there. the strawberry battery acid got them.”
“that’s not medically possible.”
“you don’t know that, mars. you’re a music production major.”
“i literally do know that. i took high school biology.”
“...whatever. no.”
he snorted softly, the sound vibrating through his back against your chest. your building’s lights glowed warmly ahead, illuminating the empty concrete courtyard. your head tipped sleepily against his shoulder again, your eyes closing as the gentle motion of his walking rocked you.
after a quieter moment, your eyes snapped open and you suddenly gasped softly. “oh my god.”
“what?” he asked, his tone instantly sharpened with worry. “do you feel sick again? do i need to put you down?”
“…i never finished unpacking my belts,” you whispered in horror.
he paused and then laughed harder this time—a real, unsuppressed sound that echoed softly in the quiet courtyard. “your priorities are absolutely unbelievable.”
“no, because yunjin was helping me, and then you came into the room and you were being…” you lifted one hand from his shoulder to gesture vaguely in the air, “…all handsome and emotionally stressful. you ruined the workflow.”
he nearly tripped over the first step of the dorm entrance. “…emotionally stressful?” he repeated, his voice cracking just a fraction as he recovered his footing.
“yes.”
“that’s not a real medical condition, pretty girl.”
“it should be. they should put your picture next to it in the textbook.”
your voice had grown much softer now—thicker and sleepier as the wind caressed your face. martin slowed his pace slightly. when he reached the dorm entrance, he carefully lowered you back onto your feet.
“alright,” he said. “can you walk?”
“obviously.” you took one step. then another. then somehow managed to walk directly into a decorative concrete planter.
he grabbed your elbow before your face could meet the shrubbery. “yn.”
“mars,” you almost cried, eyes filling. “the bush moved!”
“the bush did not move.”
“that sounds exactly like something a moving bush would say,” you pouted sadly.
he pinched the bridge of his nose. “come on.”
you took another step. and immediately swayed. your balance vanished so fast it almost looked cartoonish—one second you were standing upright; the next, your body tilted dangerously sideways toward the concrete walkway.
he caught you instantly again. his arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall, pulling you back against his chest. “okay,” he said firmly.
“okay what?”
“okay, we’re done pretending you can walk.”
“i can absolutely walk. the bush moved last time, ‘twasn’t my fault.” to prove your point, you attempted another step, causing your ankle to roll in the wrong direction. he closed his eyes for one long second, then sighed deeply—the kind of sigh people let out when accepting a fate they can no longer avoid.
before you could protest, one arm slid behind your knees while the other wrapped securely around your back. the world tilted. you let out a surprised squeak as your feet left the ground entirely. “mars!”
“nope.”
“what do you mean ‘nope’?”
“i mean you’ve lost walking privileges.”
“that’s authoritarian.”
“and yet here we are.”
you stared up at him in outrage from where he was carrying you bridal-style. the anger lasted approximately four seconds, and then you got comfortable. “…this is actually kinda nice.”
“i know.”
“wow. so humble.”
“you almost fell into a bush. i’m not taking any chances.”
“the bush started it.”
he laughed under his breath again and continued toward the stairwell. he carried you up the stairs with deliberate, careful steps—apparently there were no elevators because your university wished suffering upon its students—making sure your shoes didn’t bump against the railings. after a minute, your head settled against his shoulder. “you know what your problem is, mars?” you murmured suddenly.
he smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on the step ahead. “what’s my problem, ynnie?”
“you keep looking at me all… all…”
“all what?”
you frowned against his shoulder, your eyebrows knitting together as your alcohol-addled brain tried desperately to find the right words to describe the heavy, suffocating feeling in your chest.
“…like you like me,” you whispered honestly.
his entire body went completely rigid for half a second. his feet froze on the concrete step. the stairwell suddenly felt suffocatingly quiet, the distant sounds of the campus completely cutting out. his grip on you tightened instinctively. he swallowed hard, his throat dry, before forcing his legs to start moving again, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.
“…you’re drunk, yn,” he said, his voice lower now, strained under the weight of the massive secret he’d been carrying for years.
“mm.”
“you should sleep. you’re filtering absolutely nothing right now.”
“…you’re still pretty though,” you mumbled into his jacket, your eyelids fluttering shut as you gave up the fight against sleep.
martin’s heart genuinely hurt now—a sharp ache right in the center of his chest. because you said things like that so easily, throwing around words that could completely ruin him, while having absolutely no idea what they did to his sanity. or maybe you did know. maybe you felt the shift too. and to him, as he finally reached your dorm door, that was the most terrifying part of all.
‘friendship’ feels like too small of a word to describe what you had together. the thing you share is more than friends, nearly lovers, but not quite. there’s no other way to explain it.
ONE YEAR AGO. FIRST YEAR OF UNI — about you ✫ the 1975 [wc. 17,082]
the acceptance emails arrived on a friday night. your families were gathered around the dinner table at martin’s house, half-finished plates pushed aside while your mothers argued over whether homemade kimchi tasted better after three days or five.
your friends spammed the group chat every thirty seconds with increasingly unhelpful encouragements.
juhoon: if either of you fail, im actually disowning you both
james: yn would survive
james: martin would become one of those tortured
underground soundcloud musicians living off ramen
martin: fuck you
yn: he already lives off ramen so he’s halfway there actually
wonhee: OPEN THE FUCKING EMAILS OFMG????
your laptop was open in front of you like it personally wanted to ruin your life. martin sat beside you on the floor, his knee pressed against yours while his fingers tapped anxiously against a soda can. he looked calmer than you, but only because he’d mastered the art of looking relaxed while internally panicking.
“why does the portal look so ominous?” you whispered.
“because universities enjoy psychological warfare,” he muttered back.
your father leaned over the couch dramatically. “just open it already.”
“easy for you to say,” you groaned. “you’re not the one whose uncertain future is sitting behind a loading screen.”
martin snorted softly beside you. “dramatic ass.”
“you literally threw up before your audition evaluation,” you reminded him.
“that was different.”
“you threw up on juhoon’s shoes.”
“okay, and? they were ugly shoes.”
“they were his new vans!”
“exactly.”
“open the emails!” your mothers yelled simultaneously from the dining table. you flinched so hard you accidentally clicked the email. for one horrible second, neither of you breathed.
‘congratulations.’
your eyes widened so quickly it hurt. martin made a strangled noise beside you. “holy shit.”
“holy shit,” you echoed breathlessly.
fashion major and music production major. same university. same campus in busan.
“we got in?” you shouted.
“we got in!” martin repeated louder.
suddenly everybody was yelling. your mom started crying instantly, like you’d won a nobel prize. martin’s mother cried harder. your fathers high-fived so aggressively that one of the glasses on the table between them nearly tipped over. wonhee spam-called you five times in a row while juhoon sent fifteen voice messages screaming incoherently.
martin grabbed your face with both hands so suddenly you barely processed it before he pulled you into him in the tightest hug imaginable.“we actually did it,” he laughed breathlessly into your neck.
you smiled instantly, because he sounded really happy. you hugged him back just as tightly. “we’re moving to busan,” you whispered disbelievingly.
“together.”
“together.”
the word settled dangerously deep inside your chest, and you hated how much you loved that word when it came from him.
soon, moving day arrived far too quickly for your liking.
seoul station looked unbearably and annoyingly crowded at six in the morning, filled with rushing people dragging luggage behind them while train announcements echoed overhead every few minutes. you stood beside martin near the platform entrance looking half-dead with a drink from a nearby cafe in one hand, and your suitcase threatening to collapse beside you.
“why do you own these many clothes?” martin complained while dragging two of your suitcases at once.
“fashion major,” you replied immediately. “it’s academic dedication.”
“you packed six jackets.”
“what if i need options?”
“you’re insane.”
“yet you carried them anyway,” you grinned sleepily.
he rolled his eyes, but adjusted his grip on your luggage without complaining further. your parents hovered nearby acting like you were being shipped off to war instead of university.
“call me every night,” your mom sniffled dramatically.
“don’t eat convenience store food every day,” martin’s father warned.
“don’t get married in busan without telling us first,” your father added.
you and martin looked at each other instantly before bursting into laughter.
“we’re skipping taxes, remember? we’ll be fine!” you called back.
martin nearly choked laughing while your mothers groaned in unison, muttering something about how ‘these kids will never change’.
eventually, after approximately five hundred warnings and emotional speeches later, you boarded the train together. the moment your seats came into view, you immediately claimed the window seat.
“i get motion sickness,” martin argued.
“skill issue. i want to look at the beautiful world outside.”
“yn.”
“martin,” you smiled threateningly.
he stared at you flatly for a second before sighing dramatically and sitting beside you anyway. “if i throw up on you, that’s on you. literally.”
“you’re the least threatening person alive, bro.”
“i microwaved crayons once.”
“and nearly died.”
“exactly.”
the train began moving slowly after that, seoul gradually blurring into passing buildings outside the windows. you stared outside quietly for a moment… busan. university. a completely different life. and you had martin right by your side.
in the seat beside yours, he leaned back with his hood pulled over his messy hair slightly, eyes half-lidded from the exhaustion of carrying your suitcases and having to wake up early that morning.
“you nervous?” he asked softly.
you thought about it honestly before nodding. “…a little.”
he looked at you immediately. and then, naturally, like it was instinct, his hand found yours between your seats. just for a second; just enough to give you a reassuring squeeze before pulling away again, but your stupid heart nearly exploded anyway.
“we’ll be okay,” he said quietly. you believed him immediately because he had such a way with words, that you always ended up believing him.
busan felt louder and saltier than seoul somehow. the air smelled faintly like the ocean mixed with traffic and hot food from nearby street vendors. your university campus was enormous, spread across hills that overlooked the harbor. students dragged suitcases through pathways while orientation banners hung between buildings.
“who designed this campus?” you complained while dragging your suitcase uphill. “the devil?”
martin laughed breathlessly beside you. “you’ve complained ten times in the last five minutes.”
“because my shoulders are collapsing into themselves. even james didn’t run me into the ground so hard during practice in high school,” you complained.
eventually, you both reached the dormitory buildings.
the music majors’ dorms sat directly opposite the arts and fashion majors’ dorms, connected by one long hallway in the newer shared wing.
you stared at the room numbers in disbelief. “no way,” you said slowly.
martin looked between the doors twice before laughing. “you’re kidding.”
room 520.
room 521.
right beside each other.
“that feels spiritually concerning,” you muttered.
“our parents are gonna think this is fate.”
“our mothers are gonna start planning grandchildren immediately.”
“horrifying sentence. never say that again.”
you grinned tiredly while fishing your dorm keycard that you were given on entry, from your pocket. the doors opened almost simultaneously.
your dorm rooms were painfully small, but cozy in a way that felt exciting instead of sad—single beds shoved against walls, tiny desks near wide windows overlooking parts of the city below, unpacked boxes stacked everywhere. you immediately flopped face-first onto your mattress.
“…i live here now,” you mumbled into the sheets.
martin leaned against your doorway with his arms crossed loosely. “you sound like your puppy died.”
“i think my spine dissolved during that train ride.”
he smiled softly for a second before glancing toward your unpacked boxes. “need help?”
“with what? emotional recovery?”
“unpacking, idiot.”
you lifted your head slightly to look at him. “…maybe.”
three hours later, your room somehow looked worse—clothes covered half the floor. one of your desk drawers refused to close properly. martin sat cross-legged near your bed untangling fairy lights while you aggressively fought with hangers.
“why the fuck is all this taking so long?” you complained.
“because you packed your closet like a wild animal.”
“fashion is a difficult art form.”
“this isn’t fashion anymore,” he held up one of your tangled necklaces. “this is archaeological excavation.”
before you could defend yourself, your stomach growled violently. martin looked up immediately. “…beautiful timing. very cinematic.”
“shut up.”
you walked out of your room together, heading downstairs. before either of you could decide where to eat, an older street vendor outside the dorm area spotted you both immediately. his eyes lit up.
“ahhh! young couple!” he grinned, waving you over excitedly. “special discount for pretty students today!” you blinked. martin blinked harder.
“…we’re not—” he started immediately.
“fifty percent off,” the vendor added casually. you froze. slowly, you turned toward martin. he already looked horrified because he knew that expression on your face.
“yn,” he warned quietly.
you grabbed his sleeve instantly. “play along.”
“what?”
“we’re about to become broke university students drowning in debt,” you hissed. “this is survival.”
“you can’t just fake-date for dumplings.”
“watch me. i’m saving us from poverty.”
before he could argue further, you kicked his shin lightly. he looked deeply betrayed. “ow?!”
“babe,” you said through gritted teeth with the fakest smile imaginable. “stop embarrassing me in front of the nice man.”
martin stared at you like you’d become possessed.
the vendor laughed loudly. “ahhh, young love!”
“i hate you,” martin muttered under his breath, so only you could hear.
“no, you don’t,” you replied automatically, smiling. his expression shifted for one dangerous second because that sentence had followed you both your entire lives. you hated how your heart still reacted to it.
the vendor handed over your dwaeji gukbap afterward with a delighted smile and a ridiculous amount of extra side dishes.
“take care of your girlfriend!” he told martin seriously. martin nearly inhaled wrong. you kicked him again before he could deny it.
“he will,” you answered brightly.
eventually, you both sat outside the dorm building near the campus, eating discounted busan food, while the evening sunlight reflected gold against the distant harbor.
“you’re actually evil,” martin informed you between bites.
“and yet,” you pointed your chopsticks at him accusingly, “you’re eating the fake-couple discount food.”
“…it is really good.”
“exactly.”
he laughed softly after that, shaking his head while the sea breeze moved through his hair. you looked at him quietly for a second too long. busan looked good on him already… dangerously good. the sunlight softened the edges of his face while he sat beside you in an oversized hoodie and tired eyes and that same familiar expression you’d spent your whole life memorising without meaning to. and suddenly, horribly, your chest hurt again because nothing had changed—new city. new university. new beginning. same boy. same unbearable love.
he glanced toward you mid-bite. “why are you staring at me now?” your heart nearly stopped.
“you’ve got sauce on your face,” you lied instantly, scoffing.
his eyes widened slightly. “where?”
you leaned forward automatically before thinking properly, thumb brushing lightly against the corner of his mouth. everything went still as your breath caught, and he froze too. the harbor sounds blurred softly around you. crashing waves, zooming cars, distant voices—none of it mattered in that moment, because he was looking at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe for one terrifying second. then you pulled away too quickly.
“…there,” you muttered.
he blinked quickly, throat bobbing once. “oh.”
you looked down at your food immediately because eye contact felt life-threatening. beside you, he stayed unusually quiet afterward, and neither of you noticed the street vendor smiling knowingly from across the road.
somehow, martin’s room took only nineteen minutes to unpack. you stood in the middle of room 520 with your hands on your hips while he finished shoving the last few hoodies into his closet.
“…i hate you,” you said flatly.
martin looked up from where he sat cross-legged beside an almost-empty suitcase. “because i’m efficient?”
“because you own, like, four shirts.”
“they’re good shirts.”
“they’re all just solid colours.”
“exactly,” he nodded seriously. “versatile.”
you stared at his closet in disbelief—three oversized zip-up hoodies, three black shirts, two white ones, four coloured shirts with literally no design on them, cargos folded with suspicious neatness, and one leather jacket hanging carefully near the corner. that was literally it.
“martin edwards park,” you said slowly, “this is psychotic behavior.”
“i’m a music major. we dress like divorced indie dads.”
“you’re nearly twenty.”
“artistically divorced.”
you snorted despite yourself before turning toward the rest of his room. unfortunately, his room looked annoyingly cool already. his desk sat near the window with speakers stacked carefully beside his laptop. vinyl records leaned against the wall near the shelf. a silver pair of headphones rested around the neck of a desk lamp like decoration. even his bed somehow looked aesthetic.
you hated men.
“your room looks like a pinterest board,” you accused.
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“still taking it as one.”
you wandered toward the small rack beside his desk where a few accessories already hung neatly—chains, rings, a pair of wired earphones, beanies, his stupid black skull necklace.
“you packed accessories before basic survival necessities?” you turned toward him in disbelief.
he shrugged once. “priorities.”
“you brought one towel.”
“and?”
“you live like a cryptid.”
“you own ten lip glosses.”
“those are emotionally important.”
“my chains are emotionally important too.”
you narrowed your eyes at him before opening another drawer—more rings, more chains, suspicious amounts of silver jewelry for someone who owned only six-ish shirts. “oh my god,” you laughed. “you’re actually one of those boys.”
“what boys?” his nose scrunched in genuine curiosity.
“the ‘i wear one outfit every day but accessorise differently, so people think i’m fashionable’ boys.”
he gasped dramatically. “slander. take that back, yn!”
“martin, your entire wardrobe is literally if dark academia had a child with an underground soundcloud producer, and then they got divorced.”
“and your wardrobe looks like a futuristic bratz doll exploded.”
“…that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
he laughed quietly while standing up from the floor. today, he wore oversized faded black jeans with silver chains hanging from the belt loops, a washed-out light grey thermal shirt layered beneath a loose zip hoodie, and rings decorating nearly every finger. his hair fell messily over his eyes because he refused to cut it again. he looked unfairly pretty and annoyingly cool. you hated how well he fit beside you aesthetically now. because you matched; you always matched.
“stop staring at me weirdly,” he said suddenly.
your eyes widened. “i wasn’t.”
“you were.”
“prove it.”
“your eyes were literally pointed at my face. again.”
“i was zoning out because your room smells like ugliness and matcha.”
“it’s not that bad,” he said dryly.
“it so is,” you grinned.
he smiled helplessly at you before grabbing the last empty suitcase. “okay, come on. let’s go unpack your apocalypse bunker now.”
three hours later, he deeply regretted offering help. your room looked catastrophic—clothes covered nearly every visible surface, even after so many hours of trying to organise them. open suitcases spilled fabric across the floor, and jewelry tangled across your desk like tiny metal casualties of war.
martin stood frozen in the middle of the destruction holding up a tiny rhinestone baby tee between two fingers. “…what is this supposed to be?”
you looked up from your closet and shrugged. “a shirt.”
“for a small mouse?”
“it’s supposed to fit like that.”
he stared at it again. “i think i could use this as an eyepatch.”
“you have no vision.”
“i have too much vision actually. this room is hurting my eyes.”
you ignored him, scoffing, while hanging up another outfit carefully. unlike his mostly monochrome wardrobe, yours looked like a cyber-slash-neo-y2k fever dream—baby tees with glitter text, off-shoulder tops, oversized fur-lined jackets, mini skirts layered over ripped tights and flared jeans, low-rise cargos with dangling straps, track jackets in silver and gorgeous blue, platform boots, doc martens, and mary janes lined beneath your bed, arm warmers, mesh tops, decorated cross-body bags with charms hanging off the zippers. and belts. so many belts.
martin sat cross-legged beside one suitcase after a while, silently watching you pull out outfit after outfit like a magician performing increasingly concerning tricks. “why do your pants have nine unnecessary buckles?” he asked eventually.
“because they’re cute.”
“they look like they could survive a natural disaster.”
“that’s the goal.”
he held up another item. “is this even a shirt?”
“yes.”
“where’s the rest of it?”
“martin, you dress like a widowed underground bassist. don’t piss me off.”
he burst out laughing immediately. “widowed?”
“you look like your wife died mysteriously in 1990 and now you only communicate through unreleased mixtapes.”
he physically bent forward laughing this time. “that is genuinely insanely creative.”
“am i wrong?”
“...only a little.”
you grinned triumphantly before tossing another jacket onto the bed. he watched quietly while you continued unpacking. and honestly? your clothes looked cool to him—very you—messy, expressive, and dramatic in the same way your sketchbooks looked.
he picked up a black-and-pink jersey top with airbrushed graphics across the front. “wait, this one’s good-good.”
you looked over instantly. “right?” you grinned.
“you’d look good in that.” his words slipped out naturally, but your heart still reacted violently anyway.
you turned away quickly before he noticed your expression. “…i know,” you answered weakly.
he didn’t notice the effect he had on you… or maybe he did. that was the terrifying thing sometimes—you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
eventually, he wandered toward the clothing rack beside your desk while you fought with your favourite tangled necklaces nearby.
“why do you own so many clothes?” he asked again.
“fashion major,” you repeated automatically.
“this feels less like fashion and more like archival research.”
you gasped. “oh my god, shut your damn mouth.”
he laughed softly before pulling one jacket carefully from the rack.
a black cropped leather jacket with silver studs and spikes that you’d worked on yourself, a few nights back.
“…this one’s cool,” he said.
“don’t touch her with your greasy musician hands.”
“greasy musician—wow.”
you grinned before finally looking over at him properly, and then you paused, because he had absentmindedly thrown the jacket over his shoulder while looking through your rack. it suited him disgustingly well.
your stupid stylish best friend. “wait,” you narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “try it on.”
he blinked once. “what?”
“put it on once.”
“yn.”
“martin.”
he sighed dramatically before sliding the jacket on anyway. your heart betrayed you instantly, because damn. the cropped fit sat perfectly against his frame over the loose shirt he wore, silver jewelry glinting under the dorm lights while his hair fell into his eyes messily. he looked like he belonged on the cover of some underground fashion magazine titled ‘emotionally unavailable boys with guitars’. you hated it so much. you loved him so much.
“…wow,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
he looked down at the jacket sleeves. “it’s kinda nice.”
“kinda?” you repeated incredulously, eyes widening in faux annoyance.
he looked back up at you then, and froze slightly, because you were staring again. not teasingly this time; just staring. your eyes moved over him slowly before snapping away too late. his throat bobbed once.
“…why are you looking at me like that?” he asked quietly. your heart nearly exploded inside your ribcage.
“because,” you answered quickly, turning back toward your closet, “you look stupid as fuck.”
“liar,” he murmured softly behind you. your hands stopped moving immediately, just for one second, but martin noticed anyway.
silence stretched strangely. you could practically feel his eyes on your back now, warm and steady and entirely too aware. your heart beat annoyingly harder while you aggressively untangled a necklace that honestly did not need that much concentration.
“you say ‘liar’ like you’re in some netflix mafia drama,” you muttered finally, aiming for casual, but landing somewhere near emotionally unstable.
he snorted softly behind you. “what does that even mean?”
“you know exactly what i mean.”
“i really don’t.”
you turned around finally, narrowing your eyes at him while pointing accusingly toward his face. “that voice.”
“…my normal voice?”
“yeah. your suspiciously deep, weirdly calm voice.”
he blinked innocently. “sorry for having vocal cords, i guess?”
“don’t piss me off, edwards.”
“you’re acting like i transformed into batman,” he choked out.
“close enough honestly.”
he laughed quietly, shoulders shaking slightly beneath your jacket—your jacket that still looked disgustingly good on him, unfortunately. you hated how aware you were of every little thing… the rings on his fingers, the chain resting perfectly against his collarbone, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms.
god. men should be illegal.
“you’re staring again,” he pointed out casually.
“i’m literally not.”
“you literally are.”
“prove it in a court of law.”
“for the hundredth time, yn, your eyes are pointed directly at me.”
“maybe i’m looking at the wall behind you.”
“there is no wall behind me,” he looked back at the empty space.
“okay, well. maybe… spiritually there is,” you tried helplessly.
martin burst into laughter immediately. “spiritually?” he repeated. “what the hell does that even mean?”
“don’t worry about it.”
“no, explain yourself.”
“i don’t owe you explanations,” you rolled your eyes.
“you absolutely do after saying crazy shit like that,” he grinned.
you scoffed dramatically before turning back toward your closet again. “whatever. give me my jacket back.”
instead of answering, you heard him shuffle closer behind you—too close. your stupid nervous system reacted instantly.
“hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “i don’t know.”
you looked over your shoulder suspiciously. “martin.”
“it’s kinda comfortable.”
“martin.”
“and i think,” he continued calmly, adjusting the collar slightly, “i pull it off better.”
you gasped so violently it was almost theatrical. “you bitch.”
he looked extremely delighted with himself now. “language.”
“don’t ‘language’ me in my own dorm room!”
“make me.”
“oh my god,” you laughed loudly. “you move to busan for one day and actually think you’re tough.”
“i’ve always been tough,” he shrugged nonchalantly.
you stared at him flatly. “you cried during toy story 3.”
“everybody cried during toy story 3.”
“you cried during kung fu panda too.”
“…emotional depth.”
“you cried because the turtle died.”
“master oogway mattered to me!”
you physically bent over laughing.
he pointed accusingly at you immediately. “don’t laugh! you cried because your tamagotchi died in fifth grade!”
“that was different!.”
“you held a funeral.”
“because she had hopes! and dreams!”
“it was a pixel.”
“she was a mother.”
he laughed so hard he nearly stumbled backward into your desk. “oh my god,” he wheezed, clutching his stomach slightly. “you’re actually really weird.”
“you literally helped me bury it.”
“because you were crying too hard to dig properly!”
you both laughed together again after that—the kind that hurt your stomach after a while and made breathing difficult. he leaned against the side of your closet trying unsuccessfully to regain composure while you sat half-collapsed on the floor beside your bed wiping tears from under your eyes.
“i hate you,” he laughed breathlessly.
“you’re the one who attended the funeral.”
“you made a playlist.”
“because even mourning requires ambiance.”
he made the most offended noise imaginable before grabbing one of your throw pillows and throwing it directly at your face.
you gasped. “violence?!”
“self-defense.”
“i didn’t even attack!” you immediately launched the pillow back at him. unfortunately, he caught it easily.
“oh, you’re done for now,” he said calmly, standing up straight.
your eyes widened instantly. “don’t.”
“you started this.”
“martin.”
he took a step toward you.
you scrambled backward across the bed immediately. “martin edwards park.”
“government name, huh? serious situation.”
“don’t you dare.”
his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “why are you scared?”
“i’m not scared.”
“then why are you retreating like a medieval peasant avoiding the plague?”
“because you fight dirty!”
“that sounds like fear.”
“that sounds like shut the fuck up.”
he grinned dangerously. oh no. you recognised that grin.
“martin,” you warned.
“hm?”
“don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“you know exactly what.”
he lunged, and you shrieked instantly.
“oh my god—” he grabbed your ankle before you could escape properly, dragging you back toward him while laughing so hard his voice cracked slightly. “martin!” you wheezed. “martin! stop—!”
“you called me a widowed bassist!”
“i wasn’t wrong!”
“rude.”
his hands found your sides immediately, making you fold in on yourself so fast you nearly fell off the bed. because unfortunately, tragically, your biggest weakness in life was tickling.
“no—!” you gasped between helpless laughter. “martin, i swear to god—”
“swear to god what?” he laughed, leaning over you slightly while continuing his attack. “you gonna spiritually fight me, pretty girl?” you hated that you physically could not breathe properly right now.
“i hate you!” you cried dramatically, trying unsuccessfully to shove him away.
“liar.”
“martin—stop—i can’t breathe—”
“sounds fake.”
“you sound fake!”
he laughed harder at that, hands finally easing slightly while you tried desperately to recover your dignity. unfortunately, in your attempt to push him away, your legs tangled together weirdly. he lost balance immediately. “wait—” you grabbed his sleeve instinctively: big mistake.
the next second, both of you toppled sideways onto the mattress messily. your breath left your lungs in a startled laugh. he caught himself at the last second with one hand pressed into the bed beside your head. everything went still way too quickly afterward.
your laughter faded slowly first, and then his, because suddenly he was hovering over you close—way too close.
his hair fell into his eyes messily from laughing too hard moments earlier. your jacket still hung loosely from his shoulders. one of his rings brushed lightly against your wrist where his hand rested near yours against the sheets. your chest rose too fast beneath him, and his breathing wasn’t exactly steady either.
hallway noise echoed faintly somewhere beyond your door, but right now, it was just you. and him. and the terrifying awareness of how close his face was to yours right now.
he looked at you for one dangerous second too long. your eyes dropped instinctively toward his mouth, then immediately back up. unfortunately, he noticed.
he swallowed. “…hi,” he said quietly.
your heart nearly killed you. “…hi.”
neither of you moved, which honestly felt worse, because every second stretched tighter and tighter between you both like something fragile about to snap. his gaze flickered slowly across your face—to your lips, and then back to your eyes again—like he was thinking too much again. or maybe… like he was trying not to think at all. you could feel his breath against your skin, and your pulse felt genuinely humiliating.
“…you have really long eyelashes,” you blurted out. he blinked once in confusion, and laughed softly under his breath, cracking the tension just slightly.
“that’s your observation?” he murmured.
“i panic when i’m nervous.”
“i noticed.”
“shut up, mars.”
his smile softened at the familiar nickname in a dangerously affectionate way, and somehow that expression hurt worse than anything else, because nobody should look at their best friend like that. right?
the room had gone completely quiet after that. not awkward-quiet, but worse—the kind where every tiny thing suddenly became noticeable all at once: the sound of your breathing, the way his hand had instinctively braced itself beside your head against the mattress, the warmth of his body hovering over yours, the fact that your laughter had faded into something softer without either of you realising when it happened.
his hair had fallen into his eyes from laughing too hard earlier—soft dark strands hanging over his forehead—while his cheeks still stayed faintly flushed from literally wrestling you over something stupid you couldn’t even remember anymore.
“you’re insane,” he breathed out quietly, though he sounded more affected than annoyed.
“you started it,” you whispered back automatically.
“no, actually, you started it when you threatened to put some leopard print scarf on me.”
“because it would elevate your aura.”
“my aura does not need elevating.”
“yes it does. your outfit looked like a divorced rockstar.”
“that is literally the coolest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
you snorted softly despite yourself, but neither of you moved, which was the problem. because now? you were suddenly very aware that martin edwards park was bracing himself over you on your dorm bed while your faces were way too close, and his eyes kept flickering down toward your lips before darting away again like he hated himself for it.
his expression softened slowly. “…your eyeliner smudged,” he murmured quietly.
“oh.”
neither of you moved to fix it. god damn.
the late afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through your window, warm against the side of his face, while city noise drifted faintly from somewhere outside campus. one of your unpacked chrome belts dug painfully into your side, but honestly? you could’ve been getting stabbed and still not moved.
he swallowed again.
“so,” you said weakly, because your brain stopped functioning properly around him sometimes, “you’re, like… really heavy.”
his jaw dropped slightly in disbelief. “wow.”
“i’m just saying.”
“i’m literally holding myself up.”
“barely.”
“yn.”
“what?”
“you’re evil.”
“you’ve been saying that since we were six.”
“because it’s always been true since we were six.”
you grinned faintly, and he stared at your smile. and there it was again—that uncertain shift in the air; because suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty he looked this close. or how easy it would be to—
the dorm room door suddenly swung open. “oh my god?!” you both jerked violently apart like criminals caught committing tax fraud.
a girl stood frozen in the doorway with two massive tote bags hanging off her shoulders and a suitcase beside her. she had long dark hair and really pretty eyes you could get lost in. she was wearing an oversized zip-up hoodie and pink headphones rested around her neck. she blinked at the situation in front of her, and then her expression transformed into pure delight.
“…no because, this is crazy,” she said immediately. your soul left your body.
“wait—”
“hi!” she grinned brightly, looking between both of you like she’d just walked into free entertainment. “i’m yunjin. your dormmate apparently. and wow. first day too? you guys move fast.”
“we weren’t—”
“she attacked me,” martin said at the exact same time.
you turned toward him in betrayal. “excuse me?”
“you literally tackled me onto the bed.”
“you were tickling me!”
“because you called my jeans emotionally unemployed.”
“that’s because they are emotionally unemployed!”
yunjin stared at both of you for a long second before slowly setting her bags down. “so… are you guys dating already or are you doing that thing where you act married for seven years before realising you’re in love with each other?”
you and martin froze. “we’re not in love with each other,” you both said at the same time.
yunjin’s smile widened dangerously. “oh, you’re that kind of duo.”
“please don’t psychoanalyze us,” martin groaned, dragging a hand down his face while sitting up properly from the bed.
“i’m literally a fashion major,” yunjin said. “psychoanalysing people is part of the curriculum.”
“it is not,” you muttered weakly. she ignored you completely.
“you,” she pointed directly at martin, “look at her like she invented music.”
martin choked on air. “i do not.”
“you literally folded her tiny sparkly tank tops like they were historical artifacts.”
“they wrinkle easily!” he defended weakly.
“and you,” she pointed dramatically at you, “look at him like you’d forgive him for arson.”
you opened your mouth, then closed it again. “…depends on the circumstances,” you admitted.
martin made the most offended noise imaginable while yunjin doubled over laughing. “oh my god, you guys are insane.”
the knock that sounded against the still-open doorframe wasn't particularly loud, but it was enough to cut through the chaos that had completely consumed the room. all three of you looked up at once.
a tall guy stood awkwardly in the doorway, balancing a cardboard box against his hip as though he’d already begun regretting every decision that had led him here. written across the side of the box in thick black marker were the words ‘vinyl collection: do not touch’, which somehow felt like a warning and a personality trait at the same time. he had on a dark hoodie, and had messy hair, paired with the sort of perpetually sleepy expression that made it look like he’d been dragged out of bed against his will and still hadn't fully recovered from the traumatic experience.
for a second, he simply stared. his gaze swept slowly across the room, taking in the half-unpacked suitcases that seemed to have exploded across every available surface, martin sitting on the edge of your bed looking deeply offended by circumstances entirely of his own making, you still gripping a fuzzy leopard-print scarf like you were seconds away from committing a crime, and yunjin, who appeared to be experiencing the strongest laughing fit of her life.
the guy blinked. then blinked again. “...uh.” his voice carried the careful caution of someone approaching an unfamiliar animal. “before i make assumptions here, is one of you martin?”
martin immediately looked up. “yeah?”
the relief that crossed the stranger’s face was almost embarrassing to witness. “oh, thank god.” he shifted the box higher in his arms before exhaling dramatically. “no, seriously. thank god.”
martin frowned. “what?”
“i'm heeseung—your roommate.” he pointed vaguely toward the neighboring dorm room. “i’ve been standing outside the room for, like, fifteen minutes trying to figure out whether you got lost during move-in, got kidnapped, or somehow died or switched majors before classes even started.”
a horrified gasp escaped yunjin. “no, because, he almost did die.”
martin’s expression immediately twisted. “i absolutely did not almost die.”
“he did,” yunjin insisted. “emotionally.”
“i don’t think that’s a thing.”
“it became a thing the second she started unpacking.”
you stared at her. “we met ten minutes ago.”
“and yet,” she replied without hesitation, “i’ve somehow managed to be correct about every situation i’ve encountered.” the confidence in her voice was genuinely concerning.
heeseung’s eyes moved slowly between all three of you, long enough for him to begin understanding dynamics he absolutely should not have understood this quickly. finally, he nodded to himself. “...right.” nobody liked the way he said that.
“what?” martin asked suspiciously. heeseung looked at him. then at you. then at yunjin. then back at martin.
“this floor is going to be a complete nightmare.”
martin let out a long suffering sigh. “yeah.”
“absolutely,” yunjin agreed immediately.
“cool,” you strung along.
for a moment, heeseung looked prepared to leave. then something seemed to click. his eyes narrowed slightly. “...wait.”
martin visibly regretted whatever was about to happen. “what?”
“you’re that music guy.”
“what music guy?”
“the guitar account.”
martin blinked. for a second, genuine confusion crossed his face before realisation followed. “oh.”
“oh?” you echoed curiously. he immediately looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“yeah. i guess.” he rubbed the back of his neck slowly.
“no way.” heeseung laughed so suddenly it startled all of you. yunjin looked at him like she was ready to book him into a hospital. “dude, my sister listens to your covers all the time!”
your head snapped toward martin so fast it almost hurt. he looked horrified, while you looked delighted.
“you never told me you already had campus clout,” you nudged his shoulder.
“i don’t have ‘campus clout’.”
“you have followers.”
“i posted, like, five videos.”
“exactly.” heeseung nodded with complete seriousness. “five too many.”
martin groaned loudly. “can everybody stop humiliating me for one day?”
“no,” the answer left you and yunjin at exactly the same time. the boys stared at you both.
the betrayal on martin’s face was immediate. “you switched sides that fast?”
yunjin shrugged.
“she’s funny.”
“i’m funny,” you echoed.
“you got folded into a bed frame ten minutes ago,” he recalled.
“that was tactical weakness.”
“that’s not even a thing, dude,” heeseung chimed in, shaking his head.
before you could stop yourself, laughter escaped you again. the sound came easier this time, and the worst part was that martin's attention found you immediately—like it always did; like it had been doing for years. his eyes moved toward you automatically, drawn there without thought, and for one very very stupid second the rest of the room seemed to blur around the edges. you hated how familiar that felt… hated how your chest still reacted to it… hated how every year that passed somehow made it worse instead of better.
“you are never living this day down,” martin informed you, pointing accusingly in your direction.
“correct,” yunjin said before you could answer. the traitor.
heeseung shifted the box in his arms, nearly losing his grip on one corner before catching it at the last second, and then jerked his head toward the hallway as though suddenly remembering that there were actual responsibilities waiting for them beyond whatever strange social experiment had apparently unfolded inside your dorm room. “anyway,” he said, glancing between the three of you, “orientation starts in, like, thirty minutes, and our RA gave an informal speech earlier that sounded suspiciously close to a threat. apparently anyone who shows up late is getting spiritually destroyed.”
martin let out a long groan that sounded like he was already exhausted by university despite having been a student for less than a day. “you say that like it’s a joke.”
“he wasn’t joking.”
“that’s worse.” with another dramatic sigh, he pushed himself up from the edge of your bed. immediately and very annoyingly, your stomach decided to betray you. it wasn’t even for a good reason, or at least that was what you told yourself. he was just standing up. people stood up all the time. there was absolutely no reason your brain should suddenly become hyperaware of the fact that his hair had gotten somehow messier during all the chaos, a few strands falling slightly into his eyes in a way that looked effortless despite the amount of effort it took other people to achieve that exact look. there was no reason you should notice that his hoodie sleeves had been pushed up sometime during the wrestling match he’d disguised as unpacking, exposing familiar forearms and familiar hands that you’d seen your entire life and somehow still couldn’t stop looking at. and there was definitely no reason you should notice the faint trace of pink still lingering across his cheeks from laughing earlier. that part felt particularly unfair because he looked happy; because you’d always liked the way he looked when he was happy; because some small, embarrassing part of you had spent years collecting moments like that without permission.
as though sensing your attention, he glanced down, and because apparently your body had given up pretending to cooperate with your dignity, you looked up at exactly the same moment. the eye contact happened naturally, like it always did, like neither of you had ever learned how not to find each other in a room. for a second, the noise around you seemed to blur into the background, and there it was again: that feeling. that horrible, impossible, unnamed thing that seemed to appear every time your eyes met and lingered a fraction too long—not enough to mean anything, but too much to mean nothing. the worst kind of almost.
yunjin noticed immediately, of course. her eyes widened ever so slightly before darting between the two of you, and the expression that crossed her face looked disturbingly similar to someone finally fitting the last piece into a puzzle.
“oh.” the word was barely louder than a whisper, more to herself than anyone else.
martin’s reaction was immediate. without even looking away from you, he grabbed one of the plushies scattered across your bed and launched it directly at her face. it hit her shoulder. “don’t start.”
yunjin looked deeply offended. “you say that like i said something.”
“you were about to,” he finally looked at her.
“i wasn’t.”
“you absolutely were.”
the grin spreading across her face suggested otherwise. thankfully, heeseung chose that moment to rescue everyone from whatever conversation was about to happen. “c’mon,” he called, backing toward the hallway. “if we miss orientation because of whatever this is, i’m blaming all three of you weirdos.”
martin pointed at yunjin one last time. “this conversation isn’t over.”
“it absolutely is.”
“it isn’t.”
“it is.”
“it isn’t.” then he disappeared into the hallway with heeseung. and somehow, the room felt quieter, which was actually ridiculous. he’d been gone for maybe ten seconds; maybe less. you’d spent entire summers without seeing him sometimes—entire school breaks, entire vacations. so there was absolutely no logical reason for his absence to feel noticeable, and yet, the empty space he left behind seemed larger than it should have been, like the room had shifted around him without your permission.
“bro,” heeseung’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere in the hallway. “you literally had her pinned to the bed.” your entire body froze.
a beat later, martin’s horrified voice followed. “i was being assaulted.”
“you looked pretty happy about it.”
“shut up.”
the conversation dissolved into distant laughter before fading entirely. meanwhile, your face felt approximately nine hundred degrees. slowly, very slowly, yunjin turned toward you.
you pointed at her immediately. “don’t.”
“i haven’t even said anything.”
“your face is saying enough.”
her grin widened. “your face is saying significantly more.”
a groan escaped you before you could stop it. you threw yourself backward onto the mattress and buried your face into the nearest pillow. “i hate this university already.”
“no, you don’t.”
your voice came out muffled. “…maybe not entirely.”
“exactly.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke. you watched her from beneath the edge of the pillow as she crouched beside one of the suitcases she’d dragged in earlier and began unpacking with the confidence of somebody moving into a place she’d lived her entire life instead of somewhere she’d arrived less than an hour ago. and somehow, despite the fact that you’d only known her for ten minutes, the room already felt different—less temporary; less awkward; less like two strangers sharing a space. maybe it was because she behaved as though friendship was a foregone conclusion rather than something that needed to be carefully negotiated. or maybe it was because there was something familiar about her energy—the way she filled silence without overwhelming it, the way her teasing never felt cruel, the way she made conversation feel easy instead of exhausting. she seemed like the kind of person who could sit beside you for hours without making you feel responsible for entertaining them; the kind of person who made spaces feel lived in.
“are you planning on helping me unpack?” you looked up. she was holding an aggressively fluffy cardigan. “or,” she continued, entirely too casually, “are you planning on mourning your fake-boyfriend situationship for the rest of the evening?”
a horrified gasp escaped into the pillow from your mouth. “that wording was evil.”
“so that’s a yes?”
you considered pretending to be unconscious. unfortunately, she already knew you were alive. “...fine. yes.”
“excellent!”
with all the grace and dignity of a fallen soldier, you rolled off the bed and onto your feet before making your way toward her side of the room, already regretting every life choice that had somehow led to a complete stranger diagnosing your emotional problems within the first hour of meeting you.
the second you started helping yunjin unpack, everything about her suddenly began making sense, not in some life-altering revelation way, just in the quiet way people sometimes clicked into place once you saw the things they surrounded themselves with. her side of the room looked exactly how she felt: like somebody had taken the aesthetic of a clean-girl influencer, thrown it into a blender with an overenthusiastic theatre kid, and somehow ended up with something that just worked. lace tops spilled from one suitcase in soft pastel piles. oversized hoodies were tangled together like they'd been stuffed in at three in the morning with absolutely no concern for organisation. tiny silver rings and necklaces appeared every time she opened another pouch. chunky boots sat beside delicate camisoles. at least three different shades of pink existed within arm’s reach at all times.
and then there was the makeup bag, or rather, the makeup explosion. you watched in silence as what looked like approximately thirty lip products immediately attempted to escape the second she unzipped it.
your eyebrows climbed higher. “you own an unreasonable amount of pink.”
she didn’t even look up. she was too busy wrestling a cardigan off a hanger. “and you own enough belts to survive an apocalypse.”
you glanced toward your own side of the room. fair observation. “fashion is survival.”
“that sounds concerning.”
“that’s because you’re uncultured.”
“that’s because i think normal people don’t prepare for the collapse of civilisation through accessories.”
“normal people are boring.”
a laugh escaped before you both could stop it. the sound lingered comfortably between you for a moment, and the strange thing was that it shouldn’t have felt comfortable. somehow the awkwardness that usually accompanied meeting new people had already disappeared. maybe it was because yunjin seemed physically incapable of behaving like a stranger, or maybe it was because she’d walked into your life with the confidence of somebody who had already decided friendship was inevitable. either way, the room felt warmer now, less like two people assigned to share a space, and more like the beginning of something.
you reached for another hanger and slid a graphic tee onto it while yunjin continued unpacking at an almost alarming speed. for a few minutes, conversation drifted harmlessly between you.
“so,” she started.
the word immediately made you suspicious. not because of the word itself, because of the way she said it—slow. deliberate. dangerously casual.
you didn’t even bother looking at her. “no.”
“you haven’t even heard the question.”
“i don’t need to.”
“oh?”
you hung a sweater inside the wardrobe. “i already know where this is going.”
“and?”
“and no.”
the smile in her voice was audible, which meant she was absolutely going to ignore you. “how long have you and martin been in love with each other?”
the hanger slipped, not dramatically enough to hit the floor, just enough that you had to catch it again before it fell. across the room, yunjin looked deeply satisfied with herself. you looked horrified.
“we are not—”
“oh my god.” she dropped her head back immediately. “stop lying to me.”
“i’m not lying!”
“you absolutely are.”
“yunjin.”
“yn. i literally watched that entire k-drama scene unfold in front of me.”
“there was no scene.”
“there absolutely was.”
you groaned loudly. the problem wasn’t that she was asking, but that you knew exactly what she was talking about—every glance, every accidental touch, every stupid moment that had happened since move-in. and somehow hearing it out loud made everything feel worse. “it’s not like that.”
“then explain the eye contact.”
you immediately regretted engaging. “what eye contact?”
she stared at you. the look on her face suggested she was seconds away from filing a formal complaint against your intelligence. “the eye contact.”
“that explains nothing.”
“the eye contact where both of you looked approximately one second away from kissing.”
your soul wanted to leave your body immediately. “we were not—”
“you were.”
“we weren't.”
“you literally looked at each other like divorced lovers reuniting during wartime.”
you paused, and then blinked. “…that’s weirdly specific.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“answer the question.”
the sigh that escaped you felt old. you abandoned the hangers entirely before lowering yourself onto the floor beside her suitcase. the carpet scratched lightly against your legs. sunlight spilled through the dorm window, stretching golden across the room and catching on the silver jewelry scattered around yunjin’s side. for some reason, the domesticity of it all made this conversation worse, like you’d known her longer than a single afternoon.
“…we’ve known each other forever.”
the teasing expression on her face softened slightly. “how forever?”
you stared down at the sweater in your lap, at the loose thread hanging from one sleeve, at literally anything except her. “like…” the answer sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud. “...toddler forever.”
everything stopped. the tee she’d been folding froze halfway through the process. “oh.”
“yeah.”
“oh, this is serious serious.”
you immediately groaned. “it is not.”
“it absolutely is.”
“no.”
“yes.”
you grabbed one of her sweaters and began folding it with far more aggression than necessary. “it’s not serious.” the weakness of the argument was obvious, even to you.
she looked unconvinced. actually, she looked concerned, which somehow felt weirder. “it’s giving… soulmatism.”
you looked up at her with narrowed eyes. “that’s not a word.”
“it is now.”
“that’s not how language works.”
“language is fake.”
you hated that you laughed. you hated it even more because she looked unbearably pleased afterward. and somehow, after that, talking became dangerously easier. maybe it was because yunjin actually listened when people spoke, or maybe it was because she never treated emotions like inconveniences… or maybe it was because she had a way of making confessions feel casual, like you weren’t handing somebody pieces of yourself, but like you were simply continuing a conversation.
whatever the reason was, one story became another, and then another, and another, until you found yourself talking without really meaning to—about paper rings exchanged under warm lights, about strawberry milk cartons saved during lunch, about middle school dances, about train rides, about birthdays spent together, about aquariums, about all the tiny moments that shouldn’t have mattered so much but somehow did. the stories piled up around you—years and years of them—every single one somehow leading back to martin edwards park.
by the time you finished talking, yunjin was sitting motionless on the floor surrounded by half-unpacked skincare products and jewelry organisers. she looked like somebody attempting to process a particularly devastating tv show finale.
“…no because if this ends badly, i’m suing somebody.”
you immediately buried your face in your hands. “see?” your voice came out muffled. “this is exactly why i can’t tell him.”
“but he literally loves you.”
the words hit harder than they should have, making you shake your head immediately. “not like that.”
“yn.” the way she said your name made you nervous, like somebody preparing evidence. “that man learned your favorite anime opening on guitar in middle school.”
the memory surfaced immediately—martin sitting on the edge of his bed, frowning at sheet music, playing the same section over and over until he got it right. just because you’d mentioned liking it once. “…yeah.”
“he waits through your track practices.”
another memory—summer heat, bleachers, martin sitting through three straight hours of training with a bottle of water and absolutely no reason to be there. “…yeah.”
“he remembered the exact jellyfish exhibit you cried at when you were a kid.”
your chest hurt just a little because suddenly you weren’t in your dorm room anymore. you were ten years old again, standing in front of dark blue glass while jellyfish drifted through water like floating ghosts. you’d forgotten when exactly that had happened, what you’d eaten afterward, and almost everything else. but he remembered—of course he remembered. he remembered things the way other people collected photographs: carefully, quietly, keeping them safe until years later when he’d hand them back to you. “…yeah.”
“and today,” yunjin continued, sounding increasingly exasperated, “he looked ready to square up with god knows who because your eyeliner smudged.”
you let your head fall against the side of her suitcase. “that’s just his personality.”
a long silence stretched out, the kind that made you look up eventually. she was staring at you, just… staring. the look on her face suggested she’d reached a conclusion, and unfortunately for you, it wasn’t a flattering one. “you are actually the dumbest smart person i’ve ever met.”
you smiled weakly. “thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
before you could defend yourself, a sharp knock echoed through the room making both of you look toward the door.
“orientation in five!” heeseung’s voice carried through the hallway. then, after a brief pause, he added, “also martin walked into a wall literally thirty seconds ago.”
a horrified voice immediately followed. “heeseung, shut up.”
yunjin’s jaw dropped in amusement as she got ready to bully him about it for the next few years. “oh my god.”
you bit down on the inside of your cheek. unfortunately, that did absolutely nothing to stop the smile spreading across your face.
campus orientation was genuinely hellish: too many people, too much noise, and way too many overly cheerful upperclassmen wearing matching university hoodies while yelling directions through microphones like literal military commanders. the four of you ended up squeezed together near the back of the massive auditorium after barely finding seats beside each other. the air was thick with humidity and freshman anxiety.
you sat directly between yunjin and martin, while heeseung slouched on martin’s other side looking exhausted already. “i think i blacked out during the third speech,” he admitted, his head tilted back against the plastic seat.
“there were seven speeches,” you informed him helpfully.
“exactly.”
martin leaned closer toward you slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. “did you eat anything today besides pocky?”
you looked offended. “i had iced coffee too.”
“that’s not food.”
“it has calories.”
“that’s not how nutrition works.”
“you sound thirty,” you rolled your eyes.
“you sound malnourished.”
yunjin watched both of you from your left like she was witnessing live theatre, her eyes darting back and forth between your faces. heeseung noticed her expression immediately.
“…oh, you clocked them too?” heeseung muttered across the seats.
“immediately,” she whispered back.
you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward slightly to glare past martin. “i can hear both of you.”
“good,” they answered together, completely unfazed.
martin looked between all three of you suspiciously, his brow furrowing. “…why do i feel like i’m being cyberbullied in real life?”
“because you are,” heeseung nodded solemnly.
a loud cheer erupted somewhere near the front of the auditorium as one of the orientation leaders announced club sign-ups, the sound echoing sharply through the sound system. the sudden noise startled you enough that you instinctively flinched slightly toward martin. without even looking, his hand moved automatically to steady your knee. just for a second—just instinct. his fingers were warm through your jeans, grounding you instantly before he pulled his hand back into his pockets.
yunjin slowly looked at heeseung. he slowly looked back at her. simultaneously, their lips moved in a silent, terrifying synchronisation: ‘they’re doomed.’
orientation dissolved into absolute chaos pretty quickly after that. the auditorium emptied into the campus courtyard in huge, noisy waves of students while upperclassmen practically hunted freshmen down with club flyers. music blasted somewhere near the student union building, where somebody was already performing an acoustic cover of a k-pop ballad with a guitar near the fountain, while fashion majors were taking photos literally everywhere, and the engineering students looked universally terrified.
“why does everybody here dress like they’re in a pinterest board?” heeseung muttered, looking around the area with a slight frown.
“because we’re art and music students,” yunjin replied, adjusting her tote bag. “half this campus survives entirely on aesthetics and caffeine.”
“that explains the emotional instability in the air,” you snorted softly while adjusting the straps of your bag. your outfit definitely wasn’t helping the pinterest allegations either—low-rise dark washed jeans with silver chain details hanging against your thigh, a pink graphic tee layered over white thermals, chunky headphones resting around your neck, and rings decorating almost every finger. your eyeliner was slightly smudged from earlier, giving your makeup an accidentally messy look. beside you, martin somehow looked equally unfair: he wore an oversized black hoodie layered beneath a faded leather jacket despite the warm weather, a long silver necklace resting against his shirt, baggy jeans, and black headphones hanging around his neck, rings, bracelets, and that wavy, annoyingly pretty hair that fell slightly into his eyes.
“okay,” yunjin clapped suddenly, snapping everyone out of their daze. “campus exploration mission.”
“i thought this was orientation.”
“it is orientation,” she nodded. “we’re orienting ourselves toward good food and attractive people.”
“those are two very different things,” heeseung frowned.
“not to me. let’s go!”
the four of you began wandering through the crowded campus pathways afterward, occasionally stopping whenever some extra hyper club member aggressively shoved ugly neon flyers into your hands. at one point, martin ended up arguing with a music production senior for nearly ten minutes about analog recording frequencies, his hands gesturing wildly while the rest of you sat at a nearby concrete table pretending to care.
“he’s kinda nerdy,” yunjin whispered to you quietly, leaning her chin on her palm.
“you noticed that now?”
“he tried explaining microphone frequencies to me earlier with the passion of a divorced rockstar.”
“those are literally the same words i used today!” you burst into laughter, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the courtyard. martin shot both of you a suspicious look from across the table, pausing mid-sentence with the senior.
“what are you laughing at?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“nothing,” you replied without missing a beat.
“that sounded fake.”
“your face sounds fake,” you rolled your eyes.
“…what does that even mean?”
“exactly. shut up.”
heeseung looked genuinely emotional watching you both, shaking his head. “you guys argue like an old married couple. it’s exhausting as fuck to listen to.”
eventually, the four of you split apart slightly while exploring one of the outdoor student booths lining the main courtyard. martin got completely distracted by some vintage vinyl display, his inner music nerd taking over, and heeseung followed him because apparently they shared the same exact soul of a forty-year-old man. which left you and yunjin wandering between the art booths together.
“you know,” she started carefully, her voice dropping into that specific matchmaker tone, “i still think he likes you.”
you sighed dramatically, examining a handmade ceramic pins display. “yunjin, you’ve known us for, like, four hours.”
“and i’m already deeply invested.”
“you need hobbies.”
“this is my hobby now.”
before you could respond, someone stepped beside you suddenly, blocking the sunlight. “hey.”
you turned and came face-to-face with a guy who stood there holding two iced americanos in one hand, while his other hand rested casually in the pocket of his varsity jacket. sharp eyes, a pretty smile, and orange-ish hair pushed back slightly. he had a very confident, effortless aura about him. he tilted his head slightly, his eyes crinkling as he recognised you from the auditorium earlier. “you’re one of the fashion majors from orientation, right?”
“oh,” you blinked, caught off guard. “yeah.”
“i’m jeongin.”
“yn.”
“pretty name for a pretty woman,” he smiled, offering a casual nod. yunjin physically perked up beside you like a shark smelling blood in the water. you ignored her, keeping your eyes on him. he took a sip of his coffee, his smile widening slightly. “you looked deeply miserable during the speeches earlier.”
“that’s because i was.”
“that’s fair. i almost fell asleep during the dean’s speech.”
“you and half the campus,” you smiled back. he laughed softly. okay… he was actually kind of charming. yunjin noticed your expression immediately, a tiny, knowing smirk spreading across her face.
“so,” he glanced toward the flyer in your hand, a tiny smirk playing on his lips, “you joining any clubs or are you just pretending to listen like the rest of us?”
“mostly pretending,” you hummed.
“you’re surviving university well already.”
“thank you,” you nodded solemnly. he laughed again—that same low, nice sound from before. unfortunately, you were actually a little funny, which meant conversations like this happened relatively often. yunjin slowly looked over your shoulder toward something behind you. then her eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows shooting up.
before you could even turn around, a familiar voice cut right through the conversation. “yn.” your stomach betrayed you instantly, doing a violent flip. martin stood there holding two cans of redbull and a plastic bag of snacks, while heeseung lingered beside him looking way too entertained already. martin’s expression looked neutral—too neutral, which was usually dangerous.
“hi,” you said carefully. his eyes flickered briefly toward jeongin, taking in the varsity jacket and the two americanos, before landing back on you. jeongin looked back casually, tilting his head, and suddenly the atmosphere became weird. not openly hostile or aggressive, just… boy weird.
“this is jeongin,” yunjin introduced immediately, jumping into the silence like the shit stirrer she truly was. “he was just talking to yn.”
“i gathered that,” martin replied too calmly.
jeongin smiled politely, totally unfazed by the sudden drop in temperature. “you guys friends?”
before you could even open your mouth to answer, yunjin cut in. “she’s basically his wife.”
“yunjin!” you choked, your face heating up instantly.
martin nearly inhaled his own oxygen wrong, clearing his throat aggressively as his ears went a furious shade of pink. beside him, heeseung physically turned away because he started laughing too hard, burying his face in his hand.
jeongin blinked once, looking between you. “…oh.”
“we are not married,” you said immediately, looking at yunjin with an expression that clearly said ‘i am going to murder you in your sleep’. you wanted to actualise a black hole and die right there on the pavement.
“she proposed first, actually,” martin added dryly, recovering his composure remarkably fast.
you stared at him in pure betrayal. “why would you bring up the paper rings right now?!”
“because you started the marriage allegations.”
“you literally agreed to it!” you said, exasperatedly.
“i was a kid!”
“you said yes immediately!” you threw your hands up.
jeongin watched the entire exchange slowly, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. then he looked at yunjin. then heeseung, who was still silently shaking with laughter. then back at you and martin. “…so you’re not dating.”
“no,” both of you answered instantly, your voices overlapping in perfect, frantic synchronisation. another heavy pause stretched over the yard. “…right,” jeongin nodded, his tone suggesting he believed absolutely zero percent of that. he offered a polite, somewhat amused, smile. “well, i should probably head to the design building. see you around, yn.” he still lingered, though.
“yeah, see you,” you muttered. martin stepped up, handing you one of the redbulls a little abruptly. your fingers brushed briefly while taking the cold metal can from him. it was a tiny moment. a tiny, stupid, completely insignificant moment. but he looked down at your hand for half a second too long afterward, his thumb twitching slightly against his jacket pocket as his expression softened almost unconsciously.
yunjin saw it. heeseung saw it. unfortunately, both of them were thoroughly evil.
“so,” heeseung said casually to martin, a knowing smirk stretching across his face, “you looked ready to kill him just now.”
martin looked genuinely horrified, his head snapping toward him. “what?”
“you walked over here like a divorced husband discovering his wife on a dating app,” yunjin nodded seriously, her arms crossed over her chest.
“i did not.”
“you literally interrupted their flirting.”
“we weren’t flirting,” you defended weakly, your face feeling warm as you gripped your canned drink a little tighter.
jeongin, who hadn’t actually walked away yet, tilted his head with a lazy, amused smile. “… i kinda was.”
absolute silence. oh. oh no. martin froze completely, his entire posture locking up. beside him, heeseung made a choked noise so sudden and violent it sounded medically concerning. yunjin grabbed your arm immediately, her fingers digging into your jacket sleeve like she was about to witness front-row live entertainment. meanwhile, martin stared at jeongin with the exact expression of someone trying very hard to remain normal. “…cool,” he said finally. not normally at all.
jeongin either didn’t notice the sudden drop in atmosphere or he chose violence intentionally. “you’re pretty,” he told you casually, his tone incredibly effortless. “i wanted to talk to you earlier in the auditorium, but you were always with him.”
the silence afterward was catastrophic because martin visibly stiffened, his shoulders squaring beneath his leather jacket. your own brain completely stopped functioning, the words echoing in your ears. yunjin physically folded into herself, trying not to scream out loud, while heeseung just whispered, “oh my god,” under his breath like he’d just witnessed a historic geopolitical event.
you looked at martin instinctively. big mistake. because his jaw had tightened slightly, a sharp line forming along his throat, and his pretty eyes were darkened slightly under his bangs. and suddenly he looked… jealous? your chest hurt immediately, your heart nearly exploding on impact from the sheer ridiculousness of it.
“you should come hang with us later tonight,” jeongin continued easily, totally ignoring the tension radiating off martin. “some freshmen are exploring the night market nearby.”
before you could even open your mouth to answer, martin chimed in, “she’s busy.” everyone turned toward him. including himself, apparently, because he looked deeply startled right after the words left his mouth.
you blinked, looking up at him. “i am?”
he stared at you for one painfully long second, his eyes wide and slightly panicked before he recovered his composure. “…we’re unpacking stuff later,” he said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. yunjin almost started convulsing from trying not to laugh, her shoulders shaking violently against yours.
jeongin looked between both of you once again, his sharp eyes taking in your flushed face and martin’s absolute rigidity, and then he suddenly grinned. “oh,” he said softly, like he’d just figured out a very amusing secret.
martin’s expression darkened instantly. “we’re not dating,” he said, not for the first time that day, his voice dropping an octave.
“sure,” jeongin nodded politely, which somehow felt ten times worse than him actually arguing back. he eventually actually left after exchanging socials with yunjin instead of you, which honestly felt entirely intentional. “see you guys around,” he smiled casually, walking backward a few steps into the yard. then he looked at you specifically, his eyes crinkling. “and yn? don’t let him scare every guy away before the semester even starts.”
martin looked genuinely offended. “i didn’t scare anybody.”
jeongin only grinned, turning around and disappearing back into the buzzing crowd of students. the exact second he was fully out of hearing range, yunjin exploded. “oh, you are sick,” she let out the scream she’d been holding in.
“i actually need this documented academically for future research purposes,” heeseung added, clutching his chest dramatically.
martin frowned immediately, his ears still burning pink. “what are you both even talking about?”
“you got jealous.”
“i did not.”
“you interrupted a man mid-flirt like an overprotective victorian husband,” yunjin cackled.
“he was annoying.”
“he was hot,” yunjin corrected smoothly.
martin visibly recoiled, his eyebrows shooting up. “okay, now you’re just saying things to upset me.” the words slipped out so naturally, so entirely without thought, that nobody reacted for half a second. then the realisation hit, and silence slammed into the group. martin froze. you froze.. heeseung’s mouth fell completely open, and yunjin dramatically grabbed onto his shoulder to steady herself because her knees were actually giving out.
martin recovered first, clearing his throat aggressively as he looked anywhere but at you. “…not upset me,” he corrected weakly, his voice cracking slightly. “like—like, generally. as a person.”
“right,” heeseung nodded solemnly, his face deadpan. “you sounded very normal and convincing there, bro.”
“shut up.”
unfortunately for martin, his ears had already gone a furious shade of red, which made everything so much worse. you rolled your eyes to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips, but inside, your heart was still hammering against your ribs, helpless against the look he had given you just moments before.
by nighttime, the entire campus had transformed—fairy lights glowed in long, tangled strings around the main lawn while students gathered in messy circles across picnic blankets and foldable chairs. someone had set up huge speakers nearby, the bass thumping low against the ground. somebody else was definitely grilling food illegally behind one of the dorm buildings because the smell of charcoal drifted over the grass all the way till your group. a massive campfire burned near the center of the field, warm orange light flickering across hundreds of faces while music drifted softly through the cool night air. the atmosphere felt… nice. too nice. maybe even dangerously nice.
“this is kinda cute,” you admitted quietly, tucking your legs under you as you sat down beside yunjin on one of the plaid blankets.
“kinda?” she looked around dramatically, gesturing with her hands. “this is peak university movie montage. if a guitar guy shows up, i’m gonna go feral.”
heeseung dropped down nearby a second later, holding a ridiculous assortment of drinks and snacks balanced dangerously in his arms. “i stole these from a business major,” he announced, dumping them in the center of the blanket.
“you can’t just confess crimes casually,” martin frowned, sitting down right beside you.
“it’s orientation week. laws don’t exist yet.”
“that’s not how society works.”
“you sound like you pay taxes willingly, dude.”
“yn and i already planned to skip taxes, actually,” martin said while looking personally insulted, his mouth parting slightly in offense. you laughed quietly at his face, accepting one of the brightly colored canned drinks heeseung confusedly tossed into your lap.
“what even is this?” you asked, tilting the can to read the blurry label.
“something fruity.”
“that sounds dangerous coming from your mouth, hee.”
“exactly.”
you took a sip anyway, because why not. immediately, you grimaced. “oh my god.”
yunjin snorted, leaning closer. “you hate it?”
“it tastes like… if battery acid and artificial strawberries had a baby,” you shuddered.
“…you’re drinking more though.”
“unfortunately,” you muttered, taking another long sip.
the night blurred softer after that—music, laughter, and the distant sound of people shouting lyrics badly around the fire. you watched yunjin aggressively force an exhausted heeseung into some random group game against his will a few blankets over. beside you, martin was sitting close. close enough that your shoulders kept brushing accidentally every time either of you shifted. or maybe not accidentally. you honestly couldn’t tell anymore.
the fruity battery-acid drink turned out to be way stronger than expected, too. you weren’t blackout drunk—not even close—but just enough to make your chest feel fuzzy and warm, your thoughts a little softer, and your self-control significantly worse than usual.
that was a massive problem when martin existed nearby looking like… martin. his sleeves were pushed up slightly now, and his hair was entirely messy from the night wind. his silver rings glinted sharply under the orange firelight as he laughed quietly at something heeseung was yelling from across the lawn, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm against his knee. you stared too long. again.
yunjin noticed immediately. “oh, she’s gone,” she whispered loudly toward heeseung, pointing a finger at you.
“what?”
“she’s doing the yearning stare again.”
you nearly choked on your drink, your eyes widening. “i am not!”
“you look at him like he personally hung the moon, yn.”
“that doesn’t even make sense.”
“it does, actually,” she insisted.
martin looked over finally, drawing his eyes away from the fire. “what are you guys talking about?”
“nothing,” you answered way too quickly, your voice hitting a higher octave.
“yn’s in love with—ow!” yunjin yelped, clutching her shin after you kicked her violently across the blanket. martin blinked slowly, looking between the two of you in mild confusion.
“…yn, you just assaulted her.”
“she lied.”
“i literally didn’t even finish the sentence,” yunjin complained, rubbing her leg.
“you didn’t need to.”
heeseung looked between all of you before letting out a deeply exhausted, long-suffering sigh. “this friend group is gonna kill me before the first semester even starts.”
the campfire crackled loudly nearby, a shower of sparks flying up into the dark sky while the music shifted into something slower and softer. students started pairing off slowly around the lawn—some dancing badly near the speakers, others wandering toward the dark food stalls, or just sitting closer together beneath shared blankets. the air grew noticeably colder, the wind biting through your thin zip-up. without thinking much about it—blame the alcohol, blame the temperature—you leaned slightly closer toward martin’s side for warmth.
he noticed instantly. “you cold?”
“a little,” you muttered, looking down at your drink. without saying another word, he tugged off his heavy flannel overshirt, his movements effortless as he draped it gently over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through the sleeves. your heart beat much faster because the fabric was still warm from his skin, and it smelled entirely like him—the specific laundry detergent his mom had been using since you were kids, faint cologne, and something else that was just painfully, distinctly martin.
“you’re gonna freeze,” you muttered quietly, burying your chin into the high collar of the shirt.
“i’m fine.”
“you say that every time.”
“because you steal my clothes every time,” he pointed out dryly.
“that sounds like a you problem.”
he laughed softly under his breath, his head tipping back slightly against the cool night air. your heart nearly folded in on itself. god, this was genuinely humiliating. the alcohol made everything ten times worse because suddenly all your carefully hidden feelings sat way too close to the surface—raw and exposed. every glance he threw your way felt incredibly heavy. every accidental touch lingered a second too long. at some point, yunjin and heeseung completely disappeared to go bully another freshman group into sharing their marshmallows, leaving you and martin sitting near the dark edge of the firelight dangerously alone.
the music softened again nearby, the acoustic guitar chords floating over the lawn. martin leaned back against the grass, propping himself up on his elbows with a quiet sigh as he looked up at the sky. you didn’t look at the sky. you watched him instead.
“you’re staring again,” he murmured without looking over.
drunk bravery was a disease. “so what if i am?”
that got his attention immediately. his head turned toward you slowly as the firelight flickered across his face while surprise flashed briefly through his expression.
“…you okay?” he asked, still balanced on his elbows to look up at you, his eyes dark under his bangs.
“no.”
his brows furrowed instantly and his entire posture shifted as he sat up a bit straighter on the blanket. “what’s wrong? did you drink too much of that battery acid stuff? i kept warning you to slow down.”
“maybe.”
“you absolute lightweight,” he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, fondly exasperated tone that always made your chest feel tight. “i knew i shouldn’t have let heeseung give you that.”
“you’re literally prettier tonight,” you suddenly informed him. the words tumbled out of your mouth before your brain could even initiate a broadcast. what followed was absolute, catastrophic silence. oh no. your internal filter had arrived around twenty fucking thousand business days too late.
martin blinked once, his hand freezing mid-motion where he had been about to run it through his hair. “…what did you just say?”
“you heard me,” you said, stubbornly refusing to back down now that the damage was already done, even though your face was burning so hot, it felt like the campfire was under your skin.
his ears turned a furious shade of pink almost instantly, the color creeping up from the collar of his shirt. you wanted to desperately disappear into thin air right then and there. “yn—”
“no, because actually,” you interrupted aggressively, pointing a slightly shaky finger vaguely at his face to stop him from speaking, “it’s genuinely, incredibly annoying. you have no idea.”
“what is?” he asked, his voice sounding a little breathless now as he watched your finger.
“you.”
“…me?”
“yes. your whole…” you gestured helplessly between his face and his shoulders, completely losing your grip on vocabulary, “your whole everything. it’s unfair.”
he stared at you in complete disbelief now, his mouth slightly parted. you kept going anyway, because apparently the artificial strawberry alcohol had taken away your survival instincts and replaced them with pure, unfiltered honesty.
“you keep doing this thing where you look all…” your hands moved vaguely in the air again, trying to map out the exact way the firelight caught his jawline, “…all soft and nice and stupidly handsome all the time. in that ugly uniform back then, in that leather jacket right now. it’s ridiculous.”
he looked like his soul had temporarily left his body. he just sat there, the orange light flickering across his wide eyes. “handsome?” he repeated weakly, his voice cracking just a fraction. “you think i look… handsome?”
“oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face entirely into your hands immediately, the rough denim of his flannel overshirt pressing against your cheeks. “forget i said that. delete it from your memory, actually. i’m insane. don’t let me touch alcohol ever again.”
unfortunately for you, he started laughing softly. it wasn’t a mocking laugh, or a teasing one, which would have been so much easier to handle. it was worse—it was that deep, quiet, devastatingly fond sound that always made your knees weak. “you’re so drunk right now,” he murmured, his voice practically vibrating against the space between you.
“i’m not drunk, i’m emotionally suffering,” you mumbled into your palms.
“that too,” he chuckled softly.
you peeked at him through the small gaps between your fingers. big mistake. huge mistake, actually, because now he was looking at you in that way again. that soft, weird, focused way that always made your heart beat too fast.
“you’re pretty too, you know,” he said quietly, his eyes locked onto yours as you lowered your hands. “especially when you’re tired and your eyeliner is all smudged like that.”
your heart stopped completely. the air in your lungs went entirely cold. “…don’t joke right now, martin. i will actually throw this drink at your head.”
his expression shifted immediately, the teasing softness hardening into something intense, something real, something that made your stomach drop. “i’m not joking,” he said, his voice incredibly steady.
the air changed again, the heavy humidity of the night suddenly compressing into that terrifying almost-feeling that had been hovering over the two of you for years. the fire crackled loudly somewhere nearby, and the distant, buzzed laughter of other freshmen echoed across the lawn, but suddenly everything felt completely muted around the two of you. he looked at you for a second too long, his gaze dropping from your eyes. you looked back, unable to move, unable to breathe. and suddenly your chest hurt so badly you wanted to scream because this was the ultimate problem. always this. too much feeling. too much history. too much almost.
his eyes flickered downward briefly—pointed directly, unmistakably, toward your lips. your breath caught instantly in your throat. he noticed, and you noticed him noticing. and somehow, despite the rules and the allegations and the fear, neither of you moved away. the distance between you suddenly felt very small.
his leather jacket brushed against the flannel on your shoulders. “yn,” he said softly. you almost cried at the way he said your name—gentle, careful, like it was something sacred that only he could worship correctly. he didn’t say it as a warning, or an insult, or even as a question. it was just your name, but it sounded like something dangerous and precious in his mouth. your eyes locked onto his, leaning slightly closer.
“oh my god, heeseung, look! they’re doing the eye contact thing again. i told you they were doomed as fuck!” the loud, cackling whisper shattered the silence like bricks through glass.
you both jumped apart like actual convicted criminals caught in the act, martin clearing his throat aggressively as he violently turned his head to stare at the grass, his entire face flashing a bright, brilliant red under the firelight. heeseung nearly collapsed laughing, bending over with his hands on his knees, while yunjin pointed a sticky marshmallow stick at both of you accusatorily.
“you guys are embarrassing!” she yelled over the bass, her voice carrying across at least three neighboring blankets. “the tension is literally radioactive! i can see the waves, like the ones from spiderman’s spidey tingles!”
martin grabbed a nearby, half-empty marshmallow packet from the grass and threw it directly at her face. it was a remarkably accurate shot. somehow—the plastic bag hit yunjin squarely in the forehead with a soft thud before dropping into her lap. she gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “domestic violence! i am calling campus security! i am reporting a hate crime!”
“you deserved that,” he informed her, his voice tight as he tried—and failed—to control the dark blush still burning across his cheekbones.
“you almost kissed her!” yunjin shrieked, totally unfazed.
“literally nothing happened!”
heeseung stepped up, pointing aggressively between both of you like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “bro, don’t lie to the court. your faces were literally moving closer. we saw the physical trajectory. it was a closing gap.”
“we were talking,” martin defended, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms over his chest. “the music is loud. i was leaning in so I could hear her.”
“your eyes were closed halfway, bro.”
he froze. his arms slowly uncrossed. “…they were not.” you, unfortunately, remembered that they absolutely, one hundred percent, were. your memory might have been a little fuzzy around the edges from the weird alcohol, but you distinctly remembered the heavy, dark sweep of his eyelashes just inches from your own, which meant your entire body immediately overheated again, a hot wave of panic rushing straight to your ears.
“okay!” you announced loudly, standing up way too quickly from the plaid blanket. “i’m choosing peace and pretending you both said absolutely nothing. goodbye!”
“you’re walking crooked,” yunjin noted, watching you sway.
“the earth is tilted,” you argued, staring straight ahead.
“that’s not how gravity works, yn.”
“not with that attitude it doesn’t, yunjin,” you glared drunkenly at her.
heeseung started laughing all over again while martin instinctively reached out, his reflexes kicking in the exact second you almost tripped over the raised edge of the picnic blanket. his hands wrapped around your waist briefly to steady you. his palms were incredibly warm through the fabric of your shirt and his flannel on top, spanning the sides of your ribs, holding you entirely still against the pull of gravity. for a second, everything felt perfectly balanced and safe. your brain short-circuited instantly, the remaining alcohol turning into pure static.
“there,” he muttered quietly, his breath brushing the side of your neck as he helped you find your footing again. his hands lingered on your waist for just a beat too long before he slowly pulled them back, his fingers twitching slightly. “careful. i don’t need you cracking your skull open on orientation night.”
you looked up at him through your messy bangs. another massive, fatal mistake… because now he was standing too close, looking down at you with some intense, protective gaze that made your stupid alcohol-filled heart immediately start malfunctioning again.
“i wouldn’t have cracked it,” you whispered, your voice suddenly losing all its previous defensive bite. “you caught me.”
his eyes softened, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked back up, his voice dropping an octave. “i’m always gonna catch you, yn. you know that.”
thankfully, before your brain could completely spiral into a puddle of mush, loud, explosive music suddenly blasted through the main campus speakers. the beat dropped hard, and a massive, roaring cheer erupted across the entire lawn.
“oh hell yes,” yunjin gasped, her eyes lighting up. students immediately started abandoning their blankets, rushing toward the large open space near the roaring campfire where a group of upperclassmen had apparently decided orientation night required a massive, chaotic dance floor now.
“you guys are coming,” heeseung announced, already bouncing on his heels.
“i don’t dance,” martin said instantly, taking a step back.
“that’s crazy because our entire major literally revolves around rhythm,” heeseung pointed out, grabbing his shoulder.
“music and dancing are not the same thing.”
“you’re literally lying to yourself.”
yunjin grabbed your wrist dramatically, her grip tight and unyielding. “come on, yn! don’t let the resident loser ruin the vibe!” you honestly didn’t need much convincing.
maybe it was the heavy buzz of the alcohol, or maybe it was the infectious energy of the music pulsing through the grass. or maybe, honestly, it was just the overwhelming rush of being independent, finally away from home, with your best friends beside you under the glowing campus lights while the night still felt entirely endless and full of potential. either way, you let yourself get dragged straight into the center of the crowd.
the atmosphere became chaotic immediately—hundreds of students were yelling lyrics at the top of their lungs, people jumping around horribly off-beat, and someone had already fallen face-first onto the grass nearby, laughing too hard to get back up. the playlist shifted wildly between trendy pop songs and old, nostalgic throwback hits, but everybody screamed along regardless, throwing their hands in the air.
yunjin danced like rent was due, throwing her hair around and aggressively pointing at people in the crowd to blow kisses to. heeseung somehow danced even worse, doing ironical 80s disco moves that had you clutching your stomach from laughing so hard. martin mostly stood nearby on the perimeter of your little circle, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, laughing quietly at all of you. he looked so separate from the chaos, so steady and grounded, that you couldn’t take it.
you stepped forward and grabbed both his wrists dramatically, pulling his hands out of his pockets.
“oh no,” he said immediately, his lips twitching into a smile even as he tried to pull back.
“oh yes.”
“yn, please. have mercy.”
“dance, loser!” you yelled over the chorus of a pop song, tugging on his arms.
“i physically can’t, like, i genuinely lack the coordination for whatever heeseung is doing over there.”
“you’re literally a musician! your whole life is tempo!”
“that’s discrimination,” he protested, but the resistance in his arms was already fading.
you snorted before trying to pull him closer into the dense crowd anyway, moving your shoulders to the beat. he resisted for a whole two seconds before giving up completely. mostly because you looked too happy to say no to. your laugh echoed loudly through the music, bright and unfiltered, while the warm firelight flickered beautifully across your face.
he watched you, and he suddenly felt that familiar, terrifying, heavy ache in his chest again. god, he loved you so much. it was honestly becoming a liability, and medically concerning how much space you took up in his head, how a single look from you could completely dictate the rest of his day.
you caught him staring and pulled him a little closer, your hands shifting from his wrists to rest lightly against his chest. “see? it’s not that hard,” you laughed, looking up at him. “just move a little.”
he let out a soft, defeated breath, his hands coming up to rest gently on your hips to keep people from bumping into you as the crowd surged. “i’m only doing this because you’re drunk,” he lied softly, his thumb absentmindedly drawing a small circle against your waist.
“liar,” you teased, leaning into his space. “you’re doing it because you love me.”
his heart did a violent, dangerous backflip. he looked down at your face, his expression turning incredibly serious for a split second despite the screaming crowd around you. “yeah,” he murmured, the word swallowed by the loud bass, though his eyes said it clearly enough—‘yeah, i do’.
eventually, the crowd shifted around again as another wave of students joined the circle, pushing people around. somewhere in the sudden chaos, yunjin completely disappeared toward the snack tables to hunt down more food, and heeseung and martin got aggressively dragged into an intense dance-battle circle against their will, leaving you tucked away in a corner of the moving crowd.
suddenly you found yourself beside an unfamiliar guy—dark hair, sharp smile, performatively fake glasses slightly crooked from dancing.
“oh,” he laughed when you nearly bumped into him. “sorry.”
“my bad,” you grinned tipsily.
“i’m seungmin,” he introduced himself over the loud music.
“yn.”
recognition flashed across his face immediately. “ohhh. jeongin told me you’re that martin guy’s—”
“best friend,” you interrupted automatically.
seungmin looked deeply unconvinced. “…right.”
the music switched again with a massive, heavy bass drop, and the crowd collectively screamed in recognition. “oh my god, i love this song!” you gasped, your eyes lighting up as you threw your hands in the air, completely giving in to the rhythm.
seungmin laughed immediately, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head at you. “you’re definitely drunk.”
“i’m not drunk, seungmo,” you yelled back over the blaring speakers, spinning around on your heel. “i’m experiencing life!”
“that sounded deeply philosophical.”
“thank you! i try!” you grinned.
unlike martin, who always tended to watch you carefully and protectively whenever you drank—guarding your space and counting your sips—seungmin just matched your chaotic energy instantly. within minutes, the two of you were yelling lyrics completely out of key, jumping hysterically, and dancing stupidly among the sweaty crowd like you’d known each other for an entire lifetime instead of just a few minutes. to you, this was just pure, unadulterated excitement. new friend, fun person, cool vibes, the university experience you had always read about.
unfortunately, martin noticed from across the lawn, and he immediately looked like somebody had shot him.
he stood near the edge of the dense crowd, holding two fresh drinks he’d gone to get for the two of you, staring directly through the moving bodies to where you were laughing brightly at something seungmin had just said. his fingers tightened around the aluminum cans, his jaw setting into a rigid, hard line as he watched seungmin casually lean in close to hear you over the music.
heeseung materialised beside him instantly, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “oh, brother.”
“i’m literally fine,” martin said, his voice entirely flat, though his eyes didn’t leave your face for a single second.
“sure you are. you look like you’re about to write a critically acclaimed, ten-minute, best-selling indie breakup album.”
he looked away immediately, staring down at the grass as if it were the most fascinating thing on campus. “they’re just dancing, bro. it’s fine. she’s having fun.”
“yeah,” heeseung nodded, crossing his arms and tilting his head toward the dance floor. “and you’re staring at them like a tragic war veteran watching his entire hometown burn to the ground.”
“i am not.”
“martin, you’ve literally crushed your drink can.”
he looked down at his right hand. oh. he had. the metal can was completely mangled, liquid dripping slowly over his silver rings and onto his sneakers. “…oops,” he muttered, his face turning a dark, frustrated shade of red.
meanwhile, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent crisis happening. seungmin had somehow convinced you to join a completely ridiculous dance challenge with a group of random upperclassmen nearby, and the two of you were currently losing horribly.
“this is rigged,” you accused, pointing dramatically at the guy who had just executed a perfect backflip. “he’s a professional!”
“you’re just bad at coordination, yn,” seungmin teased, leaning back with a grin.
“i was an athlete!” you protested loudly.
“that actually makes this so much sadder.”
you gasped dramatically, clutching your chest before breaking out into another fit of laughter. but as you laughed, the world suddenly felt oddly, overwhelmingly warm. the cool night air didn’t feel cold anymore; instead, a sudden wave of heat flushed through your body, and the colorful fairy lights blurred sharply at the edges, spinning into bright, dizzying streaks of gold and orange. hm… weird.
“you okay?” seungmin asked, his teasing smile fading instantly as he noticed your expression shift, your eyes glazing over slightly.
“yeah,” you nodded automatically, trying to ground yourself, but the motion of nodding was a terrible idea. you immediately swayed heavily sideways, your balance completely deserting you. “oh,” you whispered. okay, maybe you were not okay.
the music suddenly sounded like it was playing underwater, the thumping bass echoing distantly in your ears. your stomach flipped unpleasantly, a sharp wave of nausea hitting you right before a massive wave of dizziness crashed over your head all at once, making the grass feel like it was tilting at a ninety-degree angle.
“oh shit,” seungmin muttered, his eyes widening in alarm as he reached his arms out slightly toward you. “yn? hey, stay upright—”
somewhere nearby, martin looked over instantly. his eyes had never really left you anyway, but the exact millisecond your shoulders slumped and your footing gave way, his internal alarm went off.
your vision blurred badly now, the bright colours of the campfire and the strings of fairy lights smearing together into a dizzying canvas of color. the heavy bass from the speakers faded into a muffled noise. your knees buckled beneath you before you could fully realise what was happening, the grass rushing up to meet you.
and then warm, solid arms caught you before you could even graze the ground. there was a strong, unyielding grip around your waist, pulling you up and anchoring you against a broad chest. a familiar, comforting scent washed over you—his cologne, and the winter wind.
and then, his voice followed. “hey, hey, hey—careful. i’ve got you, ynnie.” martin. of course it was martin.
your head lolled slightly against his chest, your forehead resting against the cool zipper of his jacket while he carefully shifted his weight to steady you both. he was holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to shield you from the entire world. the last clear thing you saw before your vision went completely fuzzy again was his face hovering directly over yours. his brows were deeply furrowed with worry, his usually guarded eyes turned soft and hyper-focused, and his lips were parted slightly as his gaze scanned your face, frantically checking to see if you were okay.
“…pretty,” you mumbled weakly, your voice thick and slurred as you reached up a heavy hand to vaguely touch his jawline. his intense, worried expression broke instantly. a helpless flush crept all the way up his neck, and his lips twitched, completely losing his battle against the effect of your words.
“oh my god,” heeseung whispered somewhere nearby, having jogged over right behind him. “he’s done for. he’s actually never recovering from that. put it on his tombstone, seriously.”
“shut up, heeseung,” martin hissed quietly, keeping his eyes locked entirely on you while trying not to smile, but ultimately failing, because how could he not smile at his girl? his hands smoothed over your back, keeping you pressed securely against him. you blinked slowly up at him, the darkness of the night sky framing his face like a halo.
“mars?” you whispered, using the old childhood nickname that always made his defenses completely crumble.
“yeah, pretty girl,” he answered softly, his voice dropping to a tender, private whisper meant only for you. he leaned down slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead with the gentlest touch. “i got you. i always got you.” wrapped up in his warmth, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart against your ear, that was more than enough.
by the time martin carried you back toward the freshman dorm buildings, the campus had gotten noticeably quieter. the heavy bass from the lawn faded into a dull hum in the background behind you both, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves as the cool night air drifted through the brick pathways. you were fully conscious now—the brief wave of blacking out had passed—you were just dramatically, dangerously drunk. which somehow made you even more of a menace.
martin had originally been carrying you piggyback-style because, according to you, your legs had ‘officially stopped cooperating.’ your cheek rested heavily against his shoulder while your arms hung loosely around his neck, your fingers casually playing with the collar of his jacket.
“you smell nice,” you informed him very seriously, your breath brushing right against his ear.
he laughed quietly under his breath, tilting his head slightly away from the tickle of your hair. “thanks.”
“you always smell nice. even when you look mean.”
“that’s slightly creepy, yn.”
“i’m not creepy, i’m observant.”
“you’re drunk.”
“both can coexist,” you argued logically, nodding against his neck. “it’s a spectrum.”
he smiled helplessly to himself, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip under your legs to hoist you a little higher. damn, you were actually gonna kill him someday. he could feel the steady warmth of your body pressed against his back, and every time you spoke, his heart did a stupid, erratic little jump.
“you know,” you mumbled after a moment of staring at the passing lampposts, “i think my internal organs completely dissolved back there. the strawberry battery acid got them.”
“that’s not medically possible.”
“you don’t know that, mars. you’re a music production major.”
“i literally do know that. i took high school biology.”
“...whatever. no.”
he snorted softly, the sound vibrating through his back against your chest. your building’s lights glowed warmly ahead, illuminating the empty concrete courtyard. your head tipped sleepily against his shoulder again, your eyes closing as the gentle motion of his walking rocked you.
after a quieter moment, your eyes snapped open and you suddenly gasped softly. “oh my god.”
“what?” he asked, his tone instantly sharpened with worry. “do you feel sick again? do i need to put you down?”
“…i never finished unpacking my belts,” you whispered in horror.
he paused and then laughed harder this time—a real, unsuppressed sound that echoed softly in the quiet courtyard. “your priorities are absolutely unbelievable.”
“no, because yunjin was helping me, and then you came into the room and you were being…” you lifted one hand from his shoulder to gesture vaguely in the air, “…all handsome and emotionally stressful. you ruined the workflow.”
he nearly tripped over the first step of the dorm entrance. “…emotionally stressful?” he repeated, his voice cracking just a fraction as he recovered his footing.
“yes.”
“that’s not a real medical condition, pretty girl.”
“it should be. they should put your picture next to it in the textbook.”
your voice had grown much softer now—thicker and sleepier as the wind caressed your face. martin slowed his pace slightly. when he reached the dorm entrance, he carefully lowered you back onto your feet.
“alright,” he said. “can you walk?”
“obviously.” you took one step. then another. then somehow managed to walk directly into a decorative concrete planter.
he grabbed your elbow before your face could meet the shrubbery. “yn.”
“mars,” you almost cried, eyes filling. “the bush moved!”
“the bush did not move.”
“that sounds exactly like something a moving bush would say,” you pouted sadly.
he pinched the bridge of his nose. “come on.”
you took another step. and immediately swayed. your balance vanished so fast it almost looked cartoonish—one second you were standing upright; the next, your body tilted dangerously sideways toward the concrete walkway.
he caught you instantly again. his arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall, pulling you back against his chest. “okay,” he said firmly.
“okay what?”
“okay, we’re done pretending you can walk.”
“i can absolutely walk. the bush moved last time, ‘twasn’t my fault.” to prove your point, you attempted another step, causing your ankle to roll in the wrong direction. he closed his eyes for one long second, then sighed deeply—the kind of sigh people let out when accepting a fate they can no longer avoid.
before you could protest, one arm slid behind your knees while the other wrapped securely around your back. the world tilted. you let out a surprised squeak as your feet left the ground entirely. “mars!”
“nope.”
“what do you mean ‘nope’?”
“i mean you’ve lost walking privileges.”
“that’s authoritarian.”
“and yet here we are.”
you stared up at him in outrage from where he was carrying you bridal-style. the anger lasted approximately four seconds, and then you got comfortable. “…this is actually kinda nice.”
“i know.”
“wow. so humble.”
“you almost fell into a bush. i’m not taking any chances.”
“the bush started it.”
he laughed under his breath again and continued toward the stairwell. he carried you up the stairs with deliberate, careful steps—apparently there were no elevators because your university wished suffering upon its students—making sure your shoes didn’t bump against the railings. after a minute, your head settled against his shoulder. “you know what your problem is, mars?” you murmured suddenly.
he smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on the step ahead. “what’s my problem, ynnie?”
“you keep looking at me all… all…”
“all what?”
you frowned against his shoulder, your eyebrows knitting together as your alcohol-addled brain tried desperately to find the right words to describe the heavy, suffocating feeling in your chest.
“…like you like me,” you whispered honestly.
his entire body went completely rigid for half a second. his feet froze on the concrete step. the stairwell suddenly felt suffocatingly quiet, the distant sounds of the campus completely cutting out. his grip on you tightened instinctively. he swallowed hard, his throat dry, before forcing his legs to start moving again, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.
“…you’re drunk, yn,” he said, his voice lower now, strained under the weight of the massive secret he’d been carrying for years.
“mm.”
“you should sleep. you’re filtering absolutely nothing right now.”
“…you’re still pretty though,” you mumbled into his jacket, your eyelids fluttering shut as you gave up the fight against sleep.
martin’s heart genuinely hurt now—a sharp ache right in the center of his chest. because you said things like that so easily, throwing around words that could completely ruin him, while having absolutely no idea what they did to his sanity. or maybe you did know. maybe you felt the shift too. and to him, as he finally reached your dorm door, that was the most terrifying part of all.
‘friendship’ feels like too small of a word to describe what you had together. the thing you share is more than friends, nearly lovers, but not quite. there’s no other way to explain it.
📬 ❤︎ keonho 𝔁 f!reader ─── ৻ꪆ two matchmakers fall in love while trying to matchmake their stubborn best friends.
❤︎ warnings+tags ─── ৻ꪆ high school au · non-idol au · kissing · ft. seonghyeon x oc (valerie)
💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ happiest bday ever to my lovely second-born @cortismoon mer 🥹💞 my favourite chud 😭😭 i can’t believe you turn 2 years old today! 🎉 ok but no seriouslyyy happy bday my babyyy 🥹 ik we’ve barely known each other for js a few months (?) but i alr feel so close w you (i think it’s mainly bc of our shared love language being bullying each other tbh) ⭐️ i hope you giggle as you read this fic <3 ILYSMMM LIL CHUD #summerkeonagenda4eva
❤︎ wc ─── ৻ꪆ 7k
𝄞 𓏸 my cortispilledmasterlist »﹙合﹚
❝ tracklist ❞ ─── casual—chappell roan ❦ space girl—the francescas ❦ line without a hook—ricky montgomery ❦ cupid—fifty fifty ❦ talk too much—coin ❦ about you—the 1975 ❦ lover of mine—5sos ❦ softly—clairo ❦ sundress—a$ap rocky ❦ magnetic—illit ❦ look at me—twice ❦ lovelee—vividz ❦ bad boy—red velvet ❦ i wanna be your dog—the stooges ❦ ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn’t’ve)—buzzcocks ❦ fell in love with a girl—the white stripes ❦ just what i needed—the cars ❦ teenage kicks—the undertones
it was actually painful to watch. like, physically painful.
you stood by the vending machines, pretending to be deeply invested in the ingredients of a strawberry milk carton, but your eyes were entirely glued to the courtyard. a few yards away, valerie and seonghyeon were standing next to each other. standing. not talking, not moving—just vibrating with an absurd, ridiculous amount of sheer pining.
val was doing that thing where she adjusted her backpack strap every three seconds, her cheeks a bright, stupid shade of pink, while seonghyeon stared at a spot just past her left ear like it held the secrets to the universe. he cleared his throat. she dropped her pen. they both bent down to grab it, bumped foreheads, scrambled backward like they’d just touched live wires, and immediately started apologising to the floor.
oh my god, you thought, pinching the bridge of your nose. someone put them out of their misery. please.
“if they keep this up, they’re going to single-handedly lower the average iq of this entire school.”
you jumped, nearly dropping your strawberry milk. you whipped around to find ahn keonho—seonghyeon’s best friend—leaning against the locker next to you. he had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his dark eyes fixed on the exact same trainwreck in the courtyard. his face was a picture of exhaustion.
“keonho,” you breathed, clutching your chest. “don’t sneak up on me like that! and also—yes. thank you. it’s a literal crime against humanity. do they not realise how loud they’re being without even speaking?”
“it’s deafening,” keonho agreed, a slow, sarcastic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked down at you. “hyeon has been sighing into his textbook for three days straight. i can’t study. my grades are suffering. it’s a tragedy.”
“val spent forty minutes yesterday asking me if ‘hey’ with one y meant he hated her,” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “we’re living in a literal psychological horror film.”
keonho chuckled, a low, quiet sound that did something weirdly fluttery to your stomach—not that you had time to analyse that disaster right now. he tilted his head toward the courtyard, where valerie and seonghyeon were currently walking in opposite directions, both looking thoroughly miserable.
“so,” keonho said, his eyes dropping to yours, holding your gaze with a sudden, sharp intensity that made your breath hitch. “are we just gonna stand here and watch them suffer, or are we actually going to do something about it?”
you grinned, your eyes lighting up with dangerous, chaotic energy. “oh, keonho. i thought you’d never ask.”
☆
the blueprint for operation: true love was officially drawn up the very next day in the back corner of a cramped, neon-lit convenience store.
you slammed a notebook down on the plastic table, right next to keonho’s banana milk. “if we’re doing this, we need ground rules. methodical, airtight rules. we cannot afford to mess this up.”
keonho picked up his milk, taking a slow sip while browsing your hastily scribbled list with raised eyebrows. “rule number one: no k-drama tropes? you’re killing my vibe, yn! i was looking forward to orchestrating a dramatic rainstorm.”
“man, i’m serious!” you hissed, leaning over the table. “and rule number two is the most important: absolute secrecy. if val finds out i’m meddling, she will literally migrate to antarctica out of pure embarrassment. and if seonghyeon finds out…”
“he’ll lock himself in his room and study calculus until graduation,” keonho finished dryly, spinning a pen between his fingers. he leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a lazy, challenging tilt. “alright. partner. what’s step one?”
☆
step one, as it turned out, was a catastrophic failure.
you had meticulously engineered a ‘casual hangout’ at a trendy cafe near school. the pitch was simple: val and you were going, keonho and seonghyeon just happened to be there, and oh wow, look at that, let’s just grab a booth together!
it took exactly four minutes for the plan to crash and burn.
instead of hitting it off, val and seonghyeon had apparently lost the ability to function as human beings. they sat directly across from each other, radiating an aura of awkwardness so thick it was practically tangible. val was aggressively tearing her paper napkin into microscopic shreds, her eyes glued to her lap. across from her, seonghyeon was holding his iced americano with both hands, staring into the dark liquid like it held the secrets to the universe, occasionally clearing his throat but saying absolutely nothing.
the silence stretching across the table was deafening.
you kicked keonho under the table. do something, you screamed with your eyes. he winced slightly, shooting you a sharp look before clearing his own throat. “so, seonghyeon. you… like coffee. right?”
val suddenly squeaked, her head snapping up. “i like bitter things too! i mean—not that bitter. like, dark chocolate. but coffee is good. the beans. you know?” she immediately looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
seonghyeon nodded solemnly. “beans are essential to coffee.”
you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper. under the table, keonho’s foot nudged yours. when you looked at him, he was biting his lower lip, his shoulders faintly shaking as he desperately tried to suppress a laugh.
“right, great, wonderful! beans!” you practically shouted, trying to salvage the wreckage. “speaking of essentials, keonho, didn’t you say you wanted to try that… new strawberry tart? let’s go look at the display counter, c’mon.”
before he could object, you grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the booth, leaving the two pining statues behind.
the second you reached the safety of the ordering counter, you slumped against the glass display, letting out a massive, exhausted groan. “oh my god. i can’t do this. i’m going to have a stroke before the semester ends.”
keonho let out the laugh he’d been holding back, a low, rich sound that vibrated right through you. he leaned against the counter next to you, crossing his arms. “i told you. ‘beans are essential’? that’s peak romance right there. we should just let them walk down the aisle now.”
“shut up,” you groaned, buried your face in your hands. “they’re literally painful to watch. why are they like this?”
“because they’re idiots,” keonho said softly. you dropped your hands to look at him, finding him already looking down at you. his usual sarcastic smirk was softened by a genuine, amused warmth. “but hey, you’re not doing too bad. your beans transition was flawless.”
“you’re making fun of me.”
“a little bit,” he admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he nudged his shoulder against yours, a casual gesture that suddenly made the crowded cafe feel very small and very warm. “but seriously. we’re in this together now. we just have to be smarter than them. which, judging by the current situation, isn’t a very high bar…”
you laughed, the frustration melting away, replaced by a strange, fluttering warmth in your chest. as you both stood there, looking back at the booth where val and seonghyeon were still sitting in absolute, agonising silence, you realised something terrifying.
carrying this double date was exhausting—but standing here, sharing the panic with keonho? it was the most fun you’d had all week.
☆
the ‘strategising’ sessions quickly became a daily necessity, though if anyone asked, you’d swear it was purely for the sake of the mission.
it started with a shared google document, which keonho immediately vandalised with sarcastic comments, and quickly escalated to meeting up outside of school. at first, it was just the library after school. then, it was the convenience store. by week three, you had a designated corner booth at a late-night diner three blocks from your house, surrounded by scattered notebooks, half-eaten fries, and a ridiculous amount of mutual brain rot.
“okay, hear me out,” you whispered, leaning so far across the booth’s sticky table that your collarbone was practically touching your cold milkshake. “next friday is the school festival. we slip a note into seonghyeon’s locker telling him to meet a ‘secret admirer’ behind the gym. but—plot twist—we slip the exact same note into val’s locker. they show up, and boom, trapped in an enclosed space. they have to talk.”
keonho, who was currently balancing a fry on his index finger, looked up at you with flat, unimpressed eyes. “yn, that’s a parent-teacher association lawsuit waiting to happen. what if they get locked in? what if the gym teacher finds them and thinks they’re skipping class to make out?”
“then the mission is accomplished!” you insisted, tapping your pen against his knuckles to make him pay attention. “focus, keonho. we are losing momentum. yesterday, val literally ran away from him because he offered her a piece of gum. fuckass gum. she thought it was a declaration of war.”
keonho laughed, his shoulders dropping as he leaned forward, mirroring your posture. he rested his chin in his hand, his dark eyes glittering with that lazy, teasing warmth that you were slowly—and dangerously—becoming addicted to.
“she’s dramatic. just like her best friend,” he murmured.
“excuse me? i’m highly pragmatic,” you shot back, though your cheeks warmed up under his steady gaze.
“sure you are. that’s why you have a colour-coded excel sheet for our best friends’ love lives.” he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the pen from your hand, spinning it lazily. “but seriously. we can’t do the locker thing. seonghyeon is too smart. he’ll recognise the handwriting, or worse, he’ll think it’s a prank and won’t go.”
“fine. what’s your brilliant idea, genius?”
he tapped the pen against his chin, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second before darting back to your eyes. “we do a group study session. at my place. my parents are out next weekend.”
your heart did a sudden, violent flip-flop. “your place?”
“yeah. we invite both of them. then, twenty minutes before they arrive, you and i conveniently get ‘stuck’ at the grocery store buying snacks. we leave them alone in the apartment. seonghyeon’s awkward, but he’s a gentleman, so he’ll have to host her. they’ll have to talk!”
it was actually a really good plan. simple, low-risk, and highly effective. but your brain was currently stuck on a completely different detail.
“wait,” you said, your voice dropping a fraction. “so… we’d be hanging out? just the two of us? at the grocery store?”
he paused. the lazy smirk on his face faltered, just for a second, replaced by a subtle, sudden tension. he cleared his throat, his fingers tightening slightly around your pen.
“i mean. yeah. if we want the excuse to be believable, we have to actually go buy the snacks,” he said, his voice a little lower than usual. he looked down at the table, drawing mindless circles on the napkin with the pen. “unless… you don’t want to spend that much time with me outside of this…”
“no!” you said a little too quickly, a little too loud. a couple of juniors at the counter turned to look at you, and you immediately shrunk back into the booth, your face burning. “i mean—no, that’s fine. i don’t mind. i like… strategising with you.”
keonho looked back up, a slow, incredibly soft smile spreading across his face. it wasn’t his usual sarcastic smirk. it was genuine, quiet, and it made your chest ache in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with anything else in that moment—except ahn keonho.
“good,” he murmured, sliding the pen back across the table until it brushed against your knuckles. “because i’m starting to think the strategy sessions are the best part of my week.”
your breath caught, the cool plastic of the pen pressing against your skin feeling suddenly electric. before you could fumble for a response, keonho tapped the notebook, his classic, lazy smirk sliding back into place as if he hadn’t just thrown your entire internal monologue into a tailspin. “back to work, partner. next weekend is the big day.”
☆
the day of the study session arrived with a torrential downpour, which you chose to interpret as a brilliant atmospheric blessing for the mission.
operation: trapped in the apartment was officially a go.
keonho and you had arrived at his place early under the pretense of ‘setting up’, but the second the clock hit 1:40 PM—exactly twenty minutes before valerie and seonghyeon were scheduled to arrive—keonho threw his keys onto the counter and looked at you.
“right,” he said, checking his watch. “time to execute the snack heist. text them now.”
your fingers flew across your screen, sending a highly calculated, slightly frantic text to the group chat.
hey guys!! keonho and i realised we have literally zero food at his place 😭😭 so we’re sprinting to the grocery store down the street! the door is unlocked, so js go on in and make yourselves at home, alr?
“sent,” you breathed, looking up at him and pocketing yiur phone. “let’s go.”
the walk to the neighborhood grocery store was a chaotic scramble under a single, violently shaking umbrella. keonho had naturally taken the handle, his tall frame blocking the worst of the wind, but the sheer proximity meant your shoulders were glued together the entire three blocks. every time his arm brushed against yours to steady the umbrella, your heart did a stupid, nervous little stutter.
by the time you burst through the automatic glass doors of the store, you were laughing, shaking the raindrops from your hair.
“okay, we need to drag this out,” you whispered conspiratorially, grabbing a red plastic shopping basket and handing it to him. “we need to give them at least thirty minutes of pure, uninterrupted awkwardness so they’re forced to converse. walk slow. evaluate the snacks with extreme scrutiny, soldier.”
keonho snorted, following you into the chip aisle. “extreme scrutiny. right. let me check the structural integrity of these potato chips.”
for the next twenty minutes, the grocery store became your own personal playground. you dragged keonho from aisle to aisle, holding up random items and demanding his opinion.
“do you think seonghyeon is a sour cream and onion guy, or does he radiate standard salted energy?” you asked, holding up two bags.
keonho paused, leaning against the handle of the shopping basket, his eyes fixed on you with a look of amusement. “he’s definitely standard salted. completely predictable. unlike someone else i know who tries to buy literal seaweed snacks for a high-stakes romance intervention.”
“hey! seaweed is an elite study snack,” you pouted, tossing a pack into the basket anyway.
as you walked toward the beverage section, you checked your phone. no texts from val. no texts from seonghyeon.
“silence on the front,” you reported, turning back to him. “either they’re finally talking, or they’ve mutually decided to pretend the other doesn’t exist. do you think we should go back?”
keonho didn’t answer right away. he was standing near the glass drink coolers, the cool, fluorescent light catching the sharp angle of his jaw. he reached out, taking a bottle of banana milk from the shelf, but instead of putting it in the basket, he just held it, his dark eyes dropping to look at you.
“let’s give them ten more minutes,” he said softly. the teasing tone was gone, replaced by a quiet, deliberate slowness. “no need to rush back to the awkward chaos.”
“yeah?” you murmured, suddenly feeling very warm despite the air-conditioned aisle.
“yeah,” he said, a gentle smile touching his lips. he took a step closer, his shoulder lightly brushing yours as he placed the milk in the basket. “besides, i’m enjoying the grocery store hangout. it’s… nice. just us.”
your stomach did a violent, dizzying flip. you quickly turned your head toward the display case, pretending to be intensely fascinated by the rows of soda cans just to hide the raging blush creeping up your neck. you nodded quickly. “yeah. just us. it’s nice.”
by the time you finally walked back into keonho’s apartment, the air in the living room was thick with tension. val and seonghyeon were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, both staring at the textbook on the coffee table like it was a live bomb. val’s face was bright red, and seonghyeon looked like he had forgotten how to breathe through his nose.
keonho and you exchanged a quick, victorious glance behind their backs. the mission had been a success. they had survived thirty minutes alone.
but as you went to the kitchen to unpack the snacks, you weren’t thinking about either of your friends at all. you were still thinking about the way keonho’s voice had sounded in the drink aisle, low and private, completely shifting the gravity of the room.
☆
the ‘demonstration’ was entirely your idea. at least, that was the lie you kept telling yourself to ignore the frantic, drum-like beating of your heart.
it started on a tuesday afternoon. the four of you had been studying in the library, and val had spent twenty minutes staring at seonghyeon’s hands as he wrote down math formulas. later, when the two of them had left to get water, valerie had practically collapsed against your shoulder, whispering in a panicked rush, “yn, his hands are so nice. what if he held my hand? how do people even do that casually? what if my hands are sweaty? what if i ruin everything?”
so, naturally, during your late-night strategy session at the playground near your house, you brought it up.
“she’s overthinking the physical stuff,” you sighed, swinging lazily on the swingset. “she’s terrified of how a guy would actually initiate anything. she needs to see that it’s not some big, terrifying event.”
keonho, who was leaning against the metal chain of the swing next to yours, let out a soft huff. “it’s literally just holding hands. it’s not rocket science.”
“to val, it is!” you defended, turning in your swing to face him. “she needs an example. like… how a guy would actually do it. casually. so she knows what to expect. and i can’t really help ber because it’s not like i’ve held a guy’s hand before either.” you huffed.
keonho stared at you for a long moment, the cool night breeze rustling his dark hair. he let out a slow, quiet breath, his gaze dropping to your hands resting on the swing chains.
“fine,” he murmured, stepping off his swing. he walked over and stopped right in front of you, his tall frame casting a long shadow over yours. “i’ll show you. for… educational purposes.”
“right. educational,” you swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was standing. you stood up, and you both began walking around the park.
“okay. say you’re walking next to her,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, calm register. “you don’t just grab her hand out of nowhere. that’s weird. you wait for a transition. like, your shoulders brush.” he leaned in slightly, his shoulder gently bumping yours. a tiny jolt of electricity shot down your spine.
“and then?” your voice sounded breathy, even to your own ears.
“and then, you look at her. you check if she’s comfortable.” he looked down at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the rest of the playground completely fade away. he reached out slowly. his fingers, warm and slightly calloused, brushed against the back of your hand. “if she doesn’t pull away… you just… slide your fingers in.”
slowly, deliberately, keonho slipped his fingers between yours, his palm pressing warm and firm against your own. his hand was large, wrapping completely around yours, holding it with a gentle but protective pressure.
you forgot how to breathe. your eyes darted down to your joined hands, then back up to his face.
he wasn’t smirking. the sarcastic, teasing boy you thought you knew was entirely gone. instead, he was staring at you with a quiet, almost vulnerable focus, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle over the back of your knuckles.
“like that,” he whispered, his voice incredibly soft. “that’s how a guy would do it. gently. so she knows he’s actually paying attention to her.”
“ah, i… see,” you managed to squeak out. you should have pulled your hand away. the demonstration was over. but you didn’t move, and neither did he. for a long, suspended second, you just stood there in the quiet night, hands tightly locked, the boundaries of your ‘partnership’ dissolving into nothing.
☆
after that night, the shift was impossible to ignore. the lines weren’t blurred; they were completely erased.
keonho started looking at you differently. he no longer looked past you or lazy-eyed during your planning sessions. when a plan succeeded—like the time you fully engineered a scenario where seonghyeon had to walk valerie to her bus stop—you had let out a triumphant squeal, grabbing keonho’s shoulders and shaking him.
instead of teasing you, keonho had just stood there, his hands coming up to gently rest on your waist to steady you. he had watched the bright, victorious grin on your face, with a look of absolute, breathtaking fondness crossing his features. he realised, right then, that your fierce loyalty and the passionate, chaotic way you cared for your friends was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. he didn’t care about the mission anymore. he just wanted to be the one who made you laugh like that.
and you were realising things, too.
you realised keonho wasn’t just a sarcastic jerk who got dragged into your schemes. he was the guy who remembered exactly how you liked your acai. he was the one who, when a sudden draft hit the library, silently draped his uniform jacket over your shoulders without you even having to ask, his fingers lingering on your collarbone for just a second too long.
he was reliable. he was attentive. and every single time he looked up from his notebook, caught your eye, and gave you that private, slow smile meant only for you, your stomach flipped and your heart beat faster.
you were supposed to be playing cupid. but looking at him now, you realised you had accidentally walked right into your own trap.
☆
the problem with succeeding at a mission is that, eventually, the mission… ends.
it started when val stopped texting you 911 flashes over a single-letter text message. then, during a tuesday lunch break, you watched in utter disbelief as seonghyeon casually reached across the table and slid his bag of chips over to her without a single foreheaded-collision or stammered apology. she took them, smiled, and her cheeks turned a very normal, incredibly soft shade of pink.
they were doing it. they were functioning like normal human beings.
and it was absolutely devastating.
because suddenly, the shared google document lay untouched for three days straight. the frantic, late-night phone calls detailing ‘tactical romantic interventions’ completely ceased. you sat at your desk at home, staring at your phone, waiting for it to buzz with a dry, sarcastic comment from keonho about how seonghyeon had accidentally breathed in val’s direction again… but the phone stayed dark.
when you did see keonho at school, the air between you felt thick, heavy with a strange, unspoken panic. one afternoon, you ran into him by the lockers. you gripped the strap of your backpack, trying to sound casual. “so… no emergencies today? i guess the locker plan is officially retired.”
keonho leaned against the locker, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. he looked exhausted, his dark eyes scanning your face with a restless, intense focus that made your lungs feel tight. he let out a low, rough breath. “yeah. looks like they’ve got it covered. seonghyeon didn’t sigh once during study hall today. it’s a miracle.”
“a miracle,” you repeated, the word tasting like ash. you forced a small smile. “we did it, partner. mission accomplished.”
he didn’t smile back. his jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to your lips for a agonisingly long second before he looked away, clearing his throat. “right. mission accomplished. guess i’ll… see you around, then.”
he walked away, and you stood there, your chest aching with a hollow, crushing realisation. you had spent so much time orchestrating a love story for your best friends that you hadn’t realised you were completely dependent on the boy who was helping you build it. you didn’t want the operation to end. you wanted an excuse.
you wanted him.
but you were too terrified to say it out loud, and judging by the cold distance he was suddenly keeping, you figured he was just relieved to finally have his free time back.
☆
the breaking point arrived on a thursday after school, and it didn’t involve valerie or seonghyeon at all.
you were waiting by the school gates for val, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, when louis, a popular junior who was your age (and a year younger than keonho) from the soccer team, walked up to you. he was tall, confidently leaning one arm against the brick wall right above your head, flashing a charming, practiced smile.
“hey,” louis said, his voice smooth. “you’re yn, right? friends with valerie? i’ve seen you around a lot lately. you’re pretty funny.”
you blinked, completely caught off guard. “oh. uh, thanks?”
“i was wondering,” he continued, tilting his head closer, his eyes scanning your face in a way that made you feel incredibly weird. wrong-weird. “are you doing anything this weekend?”
“i’m… busy, actually.”
“there’s this new arcade opening downtown. i thought maybe we could go together. just the two of us.” i heard you liked arcades…”
your brain short-circuited. you opened your mouth to stammer out a polite rejection again, but before a single syllable could leave your lips, a heavy, suffocating shadow fell over both of you.
“she’s busy,” a cold, lethal voice cut through the air.
you whipped your head around. keonho was standing there. you had never seen him look like this. the lazy, sarcastic, easygoing boy was completely gone. his face was set in a hard, dangerous mask, his eyes flashing with an icy, unbridled fury that actually made you step back. he didn’t even look at louis; his gaze was entirely fixed on the junior’s arm against the wall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick.
louis frowned, dropping his arm and stepping back, annoyed. “excuse me? who are you?”
keonho stepped directly into louis’s personal space, effectively cutting him off from you. he was slightly taller, his broad shoulders completely blocking your view of the senior. the aura radiating off keonho was so fiercely protective, so heavy with territorial jealousy, that the entire courtyard seemed to go dead silent.
“i’m the guy telling you to back off,” keonho said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a quiet threat that made louis’ confidence visibly evaporate. keonho reached back, his hand blindly finding your wrist, his fingers gripping you with a tight, unyielding pressure. “she said she’s busy, didn’t she? move along.”
louis looked between keonho’s expression and his tight grip on your wrist, raised his hands in defeat, and muttered a hurried, “whatever, man,” before turning on his heel and walking away.
the second he was gone, the silence rushed back in. your heart was pounding so hard against your ribs it felt physical. your brain was entirely fried.
ahn keonho. protective. jealous. what?
keonho didn’t let go of your wrist. he finally turned around to look at you, his chest heaving slightly as he breathed. the fury in his eyes was rapidly melting into a raw, panicked vulnerability. he looked down at where his hand was tightly gripping your wrist, his fingers trembling slightly before he abruptly let go, stepping back as if he’d just been burned.
“keon—” you started, your voice shaking.
“don’t,” he muttered, rubbing a hand violently over his face, refusing to meet your eyes. “just… don’t, yn.”
without another word, he turned and stormed out of the school gates, leaving you standing there in the middle of the courtyard, your skin still burning where his fingers had been, your mind completely, utterly shattered.
the confrontation happened that very same evening, and the universe, in all its dramatic glory, decided to finally break the sky open.
a sudden, violent downpour had trapped you inside the municipal library down the street from the school. it was past 8:00 PM, and the building was practically empty, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights mixing with the heavy, rhythmic thrum of rain against the large glass windows.
you walked out of the study aisles, swinging your umbrella in your hand, when you saw him.
keonho was sitting at a lone table near the back windows, staring out into the dark, rain-slicked streets. a textbook lay open in front of him, but he hadn’t turned a page in hours.
your breath caught in your throat. you gripped your umbrella tighter, your legs moving before your brain could talk you out of it. you walked over, the squeak of your sneakers on the floor cutting through the quiet. you stopped right at the edge of his table.
he slowly looked up. seeing you, his expression guarded over, that exhausting, distant mask sliding back into place. “yn. it’s late. you should be home.”
“you ran away,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. you stepped closer, slamming your hands flat onto the wooden table, leaning in. the frustration, the panic, the weeks of tension finally snapped inside you. “you literally lost your mind this afternoon, acted like you wanted to murder a guy for just talking to me, and then you ran away. you’ve been avoiding me for a week, keonho. what is your problem?”
he stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floor, the loud screech echoing through the empty library as you stepped back. he skirted around the table, cornering you against the bookshelf, his tall frame looming over yours, trapping you in his space just like he had at the playground. but this time, there was no gentle demonstration.
“my problem?” he echoed, his voice a low, furious hiss that vibrated right through your chest. his dark eyes were wild, completely stripping away every single ounce of his usual sarcastic armor. he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. “you want to know what my problem is, yn? my problem is that i can’t think straight anymore. my problem is that i spent the last month pretending to care about seonghyeon’s love life just so i could have an excuse to hold your hand in the middle of the night.”
your eyes widened as you stared up at him, your heart hammering a frantic, drum-like beat against your ribs.
“we won, yn. they’re fine. the operation is over,” keonho whispered, his voice cracking slightly with a raw honesty that made your throat tight. he stepped even closer, his hand coming up to rest on the bookshelf right next to your head, his fingers trembling. he looked down at you, his eyes filled with a desperate, terrifying vulnerability.
“so tell me right now,” he said, his voice dropping into a breathless plea that completely shattered what was left of your sanity. “are we still doing this for them… or is this about us?”
the silence that followed was suffocating, heavy enough to drown out the relentless downpour slamming against the glass windows behind him.
you stared up at him, your lips parted, your brain entirely jammed on the echo of his voice. ‘just so i could have an excuse to hold your hand’. the words played on a loop, short-circuiting every logical defense you had spent weeks building.
keonho was still leaning over you, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the bookshelf. he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling just inches from yours, his gaze locked onto your eyes like he was drowning and waiting for you to throw him a lifeline. the terrifying honesty bleeding out of him was completely uncharacteristic of the boy who usually hid behind dry remarks and a cynical smirk. he looked completely undone. by you.
“keonho…” you breathed, the sound barely escaping your throat.
your hand, acting entirely on its own accord, reached up. your fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against the damp fabric of his school uniform jacket, right over his chest. underneath your palm, you could feel it—the frantic, violent thudding of his heart, racing just as dangerously fast as yours.
“i don’t think it was ever about them,” you whispered, the truth finally breaking through the panic. you looked up into his dark eyes, your own vision blurring slightly with the sheer intensity of the moment. “at least… not for a long time. i was just too terrified to admit it because i thought you were only doing this out of obligation. i thought you wanted your free time back.”
he let out a low, ragged breath, the tension in his shoulders visibly fracturing. a sudden, breathless laugh escaped his lips—a sound of pure, desperate relief.
“you’re an idiot,” he murmured, but his voice was incredibly thick, completely devoid of any actual bite.
before you could react, his hand left the bookshelf. his warm, large palm slid up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jawline, tilting your face up. the touch was so tender, so desperately attentive, that it made your knees feel weak. he leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours, closing the final, unbearable distance between you.
“i don’t care about my free time,” he whispered against your skin, his breath hitching. “i just want you. i’ve wanted you since the first day you dragged me into that convenience store.”
you didn’t answer with words. you couldn’t. instead, you reached up, your fingers tangling into the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down that last fraction of an inch.
the kiss was everything you had imagined it to be—intense, breathless, and heavy with the pent-up frustration of the last month. keonho’s grip on your jaw tightened slightly, pulling you flush against his chest as he kissed you with a deep, consuming fervor that made the rest of the world completely cease to exist. there were no plans, no tactical interventions, and no meticulously engineered scenarios. it was just him, his lips warm and desperate against yours, completely rewriting the rules of the operation you had built together.
when he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes were bright, a slow, genuinely happy smile breaking across his face—the kind of smile he had never given anyone else.
“so,” he murmured, his thumb lazily tracing your lower lip, his voice dropping back into that familiar, teasing cadence you loved. “does this mean operation: true love is officially a success?”
you let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, pulling him right back in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “mission accomplished, partner.”
☆
the problem with officially becoming a couple after weeks of playing top-secret masterminds was that the habit of secrecy didn’t just disappear.
in fact, it became an entirely new game.
“if val finds out we’re together before she and seonghyeon actually figure their lives out, she’ll think we were distracted,” you whispered fiercely, your back pressed against the brick wall of the old equipment shed behind the gym.
keonho was standing right in front of you, his hands resting on either side of your waist, trapping you in his shadow with that lazy, familiar tilt of his head. he looked thoroughly unbothered by the high stakes of your ongoing secrecy. “distracted? yn, i’m highly focused. look at me. i’m the definition of dedicated.”
“keonho, i’m serious,” you gasped, your hands flat against his chest as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “if they catch us—”
“they won’t, angel,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, distracting circle into the fabric of your shirt. “seonghyeon is currently staring at a vending machine trying to decide if buying valerie a green tea is too ‘forward’. we have at least ten minutes.”
you let out a helpless laugh, tilting your head up to catch his lips in a quick kiss. it was chaotic, thrilling, and completely ridiculous. you were hiding in plain sight, sitting at opposite ends of the lunch table during the day, only to exchange lingering glances when no one was looking, or sliding your feet together under the desk during study hall.
but the final push for the original targets couldn’t wait any longer.
☆
the ‘push’ happened on a friday afternoon.
keonho and you had quite literally engineered a situation involving a malfunctioning classroom door, a misplaced key, and a very deliberate ‘accidental’ lock-in during cleanup duty. you had shoved valerie into the room, keonho had pushed seonghyeon right after her, and you had clicked the lock into place from the outside with a triumphant snap.
through the small glass window of the door, you watched valerie panic and seonghyeon freeze.
“you have one hour!” you yelled through the door. “talk about your feelings or you’re sleeping here!”
“yn! open the door!” val shrieked, her face turning a bright scarlet.
keonho leaned against the wall next to you, crossing his arms and checking his watch. “don’t bother knocking, seonghyeon. i took the spare key from the faculty office. it’s a flawless trap.”
it took exactly forty-two minutes of agonising silence, followed by ten minutes of muffled, tearful shouting, before the window revealed a sight that made you squeal in victory. seonghyeon had his jacket wrapped around valerie’s shoulders, and her hand was firmly, properly tucked into his. they were finally, officially, talking.
the celebration hangout took place at the same late-night diner keonho and you had frequented during your spy missions. the mood was insane, fries were piled high, and val was practically glowing, her hand not leaving seonghyeon’s for a single second.
you were practically radiating pride, leaning back in the booth. “i’m just saying, the locked-door strategy was a stroke of absolute genius. we deserve a medal.”
keonho chuckled, sipping his banana milk. “a medal is standard. i was thinking a monument in the school courtyard.”
val suddenly stopped chewing her fry. she exchanged a long, incredibly knowing look with seonghyeon. seonghyeon cleared his throat, setting his drink down with a slow, deliberate slowness that felt eerily familiar.
“right,” val said, leaning across the table, her eyes darting between you and keonho. "so, are you guys going to stop acting like you’re in a low-budget spy movie now, or do we have to keep pretending we haven’t seen you kissing behind the equipment shed for the last two weeks?”
you froze, your strawberry milk freezing halfway to your mouth. “what?”
“you guys do know everyone knows you’re together, right?” seonghyeon added dryly, a rare, amused smirk touching his face. 0keonho, you literally wore her hair tie on your wrist during gym class last tuesday. you don’t even have long hair.”
your brain completely short-circuited. you whipped your head to look at keonho, whose ears were suddenly turning a very distinct, bright shade of pink. the masterminds had been compromised. you had played yourselves so hard.
“we were… we were being subtle!” you protested, burying your face in your hands as val burst out laughing.
“you really weren’t,” val beamed, reaching over to pat your arm. “but we appreciate the effort. and the locked door.”
an hour later, as the diner started to clear out, keonho caught your wrist under the table, tugging you gently. “come with me for a second.”
he led you down the narrow hallway toward the back exit of the diner, away from the noise of the main room, stopping in the quiet, dimly lit alleyway just outside. the cool night air hit your face, a stark contrast to the warm, fry-scented air inside.
keonho let go of your wrist, but he didn’t step back. he let out a long, slightly breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at you. the cocky, tactical mastermind facade was completely gone, replaced by that raw, honest vulnerability that always made your heart do backflips.
“so,” he started, his voice a little rough, a little nervous. “we’re terrible spies.”
“abysmal,” you agreed, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. “the worst in history.”
keonho smiled, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs gently brushing over your cheekbones. he stared into your eyes, his gaze so intense and steady that it felt like he was looking straight into your soul.
“i wanted to do this right,” he whispered, his breath warm against your forehead. “no more operations. no more schemes. no more using them as an excuse… to be near you.” he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against yours. for a guy who always had a sarcastic comeback ready, he suddenly looked completely struck dumb by how much he cared about you. “even though we’ve been… whatever this is… for the last few weeks,” keonho murmured, his voice dropping into something soft that made your knees instantly melt. “i never actually asked you. properly.”
he leaned down a fraction, his dark eyes searching yours with a quiet, desperate hope.
“yn. will you be my girlfriend? for real. no secrets, no undercover hangouts. just… you and me.”
you smiled, the absolute certainty of the moment washing over you like a warm wave. you reached up, tangling your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.
“oh, keonho,” you whispered right against his lips. “i thought you’d never ask.”
📬 ❤︎ keonho 𝔁 f!reader ─── ৻ꪆ two matchmakers fall in love while trying to matchmake their stubborn best friends.
❤︎ warnings+tags ─── ৻ꪆ high school au · non-idol au · kissing · ft. seonghyeon x oc (valerie)
💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ happiest bday ever to my lovely second-born @cortismoon mer 🥹💞 my favourite chud 😭😭 i can’t believe you turn 2 years old today! 🎉 ok but no seriouslyyy happy bday my babyyy 🥹 ik we’ve barely known each other for js a few months (?) but i alr feel so close w you (i think it’s mainly bc of our shared love language being bullying each other tbh) ⭐️ i hope you giggle as you read this fic <3 ILYSMMM LIL CHUD #summerkeonagenda4eva
❤︎ wc ─── ৻ꪆ 7k
𝄞 𓏸 my cortispilledmasterlist »﹙合﹚
❝ tracklist ❞ ─── casual—chappell roan ❦ space girl—the francescas ❦ line without a hook—ricky montgomery ❦ cupid—fifty fifty ❦ talk too much—coin ❦ about you—the 1975 ❦ lover of mine—5sos ❦ softly—clairo ❦ sundress—a$ap rocky ❦ magnetic—illit ❦ look at me—twice ❦ lovelee—vividz ❦ bad boy—red velvet ❦ i wanna be your dog—the stooges ❦ ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn’t’ve)—buzzcocks ❦ fell in love with a girl—the white stripes ❦ just what i needed—the cars ❦ teenage kicks—the undertones
it was actually painful to watch. like, physically painful.
you stood by the vending machines, pretending to be deeply invested in the ingredients of a strawberry milk carton, but your eyes were entirely glued to the courtyard. a few yards away, valerie and seonghyeon were standing next to each other. standing. not talking, not moving—just vibrating with an absurd, ridiculous amount of sheer pining.
val was doing that thing where she adjusted her backpack strap every three seconds, her cheeks a bright, stupid shade of pink, while seonghyeon stared at a spot just past her left ear like it held the secrets to the universe. he cleared his throat. she dropped her pen. they both bent down to grab it, bumped foreheads, scrambled backward like they’d just touched live wires, and immediately started apologising to the floor.
oh my god, you thought, pinching the bridge of your nose. someone put them out of their misery. please.
“if they keep this up, they’re going to single-handedly lower the average iq of this entire school.”
you jumped, nearly dropping your strawberry milk. you whipped around to find ahn keonho—seonghyeon’s best friend—leaning against the locker next to you. he had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his dark eyes fixed on the exact same trainwreck in the courtyard. his face was a picture of exhaustion.
“keonho,” you breathed, clutching your chest. “don’t sneak up on me like that! and also—yes. thank you. it’s a literal crime against humanity. do they not realise how loud they’re being without even speaking?”
“it’s deafening,” keonho agreed, a slow, sarcastic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked down at you. “hyeon has been sighing into his textbook for three days straight. i can’t study. my grades are suffering. it’s a tragedy.”
“val spent forty minutes yesterday asking me if ‘hey’ with one y meant he hated her,” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “we’re living in a literal psychological horror film.”
keonho chuckled, a low, quiet sound that did something weirdly fluttery to your stomach—not that you had time to analyse that disaster right now. he tilted his head toward the courtyard, where valerie and seonghyeon were currently walking in opposite directions, both looking thoroughly miserable.
“so,” keonho said, his eyes dropping to yours, holding your gaze with a sudden, sharp intensity that made your breath hitch. “are we just gonna stand here and watch them suffer, or are we actually going to do something about it?”
you grinned, your eyes lighting up with dangerous, chaotic energy. “oh, keonho. i thought you’d never ask.”
☆
the blueprint for operation: true love was officially drawn up the very next day in the back corner of a cramped, neon-lit convenience store.
you slammed a notebook down on the plastic table, right next to keonho’s banana milk. “if we’re doing this, we need ground rules. methodical, airtight rules. we cannot afford to mess this up.”
keonho picked up his milk, taking a slow sip while browsing your hastily scribbled list with raised eyebrows. “rule number one: no k-drama tropes? you’re killing my vibe, yn! i was looking forward to orchestrating a dramatic rainstorm.”
“man, i’m serious!” you hissed, leaning over the table. “and rule number two is the most important: absolute secrecy. if val finds out i’m meddling, she will literally migrate to antarctica out of pure embarrassment. and if seonghyeon finds out…”
“he’ll lock himself in his room and study calculus until graduation,” keonho finished dryly, spinning a pen between his fingers. he leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a lazy, challenging tilt. “alright. partner. what’s step one?”
☆
step one, as it turned out, was a catastrophic failure.
you had meticulously engineered a ‘casual hangout’ at a trendy cafe near school. the pitch was simple: val and you were going, keonho and seonghyeon just happened to be there, and oh wow, look at that, let’s just grab a booth together!
it took exactly four minutes for the plan to crash and burn.
instead of hitting it off, val and seonghyeon had apparently lost the ability to function as human beings. they sat directly across from each other, radiating an aura of awkwardness so thick it was practically tangible. val was aggressively tearing her paper napkin into microscopic shreds, her eyes glued to her lap. across from her, seonghyeon was holding his iced americano with both hands, staring into the dark liquid like it held the secrets to the universe, occasionally clearing his throat but saying absolutely nothing.
the silence stretching across the table was deafening.
you kicked keonho under the table. do something, you screamed with your eyes. he winced slightly, shooting you a sharp look before clearing his own throat. “so, seonghyeon. you… like coffee. right?”
val suddenly squeaked, her head snapping up. “i like bitter things too! i mean—not that bitter. like, dark chocolate. but coffee is good. the beans. you know?” she immediately looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
seonghyeon nodded solemnly. “beans are essential to coffee.”
you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper. under the table, keonho’s foot nudged yours. when you looked at him, he was biting his lower lip, his shoulders faintly shaking as he desperately tried to suppress a laugh.
“right, great, wonderful! beans!” you practically shouted, trying to salvage the wreckage. “speaking of essentials, keonho, didn’t you say you wanted to try that… new strawberry tart? let’s go look at the display counter, c’mon.”
before he could object, you grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the booth, leaving the two pining statues behind.
the second you reached the safety of the ordering counter, you slumped against the glass display, letting out a massive, exhausted groan. “oh my god. i can’t do this. i’m going to have a stroke before the semester ends.”
keonho let out the laugh he’d been holding back, a low, rich sound that vibrated right through you. he leaned against the counter next to you, crossing his arms. “i told you. ‘beans are essential’? that’s peak romance right there. we should just let them walk down the aisle now.”
“shut up,” you groaned, buried your face in your hands. “they’re literally painful to watch. why are they like this?”
“because they’re idiots,” keonho said softly. you dropped your hands to look at him, finding him already looking down at you. his usual sarcastic smirk was softened by a genuine, amused warmth. “but hey, you’re not doing too bad. your beans transition was flawless.”
“you’re making fun of me.”
“a little bit,” he admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he nudged his shoulder against yours, a casual gesture that suddenly made the crowded cafe feel very small and very warm. “but seriously. we’re in this together now. we just have to be smarter than them. which, judging by the current situation, isn’t a very high bar…”
you laughed, the frustration melting away, replaced by a strange, fluttering warmth in your chest. as you both stood there, looking back at the booth where val and seonghyeon were still sitting in absolute, agonising silence, you realised something terrifying.
carrying this double date was exhausting—but standing here, sharing the panic with keonho? it was the most fun you’d had all week.
☆
the ‘strategising’ sessions quickly became a daily necessity, though if anyone asked, you’d swear it was purely for the sake of the mission.
it started with a shared google document, which keonho immediately vandalised with sarcastic comments, and quickly escalated to meeting up outside of school. at first, it was just the library after school. then, it was the convenience store. by week three, you had a designated corner booth at a late-night diner three blocks from your house, surrounded by scattered notebooks, half-eaten fries, and a ridiculous amount of mutual brain rot.
“okay, hear me out,” you whispered, leaning so far across the booth’s sticky table that your collarbone was practically touching your cold milkshake. “next friday is the school festival. we slip a note into seonghyeon’s locker telling him to meet a ‘secret admirer’ behind the gym. but—plot twist—we slip the exact same note into val’s locker. they show up, and boom, trapped in an enclosed space. they have to talk.”
keonho, who was currently balancing a fry on his index finger, looked up at you with flat, unimpressed eyes. “yn, that’s a parent-teacher association lawsuit waiting to happen. what if they get locked in? what if the gym teacher finds them and thinks they’re skipping class to make out?”
“then the mission is accomplished!” you insisted, tapping your pen against his knuckles to make him pay attention. “focus, keonho. we are losing momentum. yesterday, val literally ran away from him because he offered her a piece of gum. fuckass gum. she thought it was a declaration of war.”
keonho laughed, his shoulders dropping as he leaned forward, mirroring your posture. he rested his chin in his hand, his dark eyes glittering with that lazy, teasing warmth that you were slowly—and dangerously—becoming addicted to.
“she’s dramatic. just like her best friend,” he murmured.
“excuse me? i’m highly pragmatic,” you shot back, though your cheeks warmed up under his steady gaze.
“sure you are. that’s why you have a colour-coded excel sheet for our best friends’ love lives.” he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the pen from your hand, spinning it lazily. “but seriously. we can’t do the locker thing. seonghyeon is too smart. he’ll recognise the handwriting, or worse, he’ll think it’s a prank and won’t go.”
“fine. what’s your brilliant idea, genius?”
he tapped the pen against his chin, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second before darting back to your eyes. “we do a group study session. at my place. my parents are out next weekend.”
your heart did a sudden, violent flip-flop. “your place?”
“yeah. we invite both of them. then, twenty minutes before they arrive, you and i conveniently get ‘stuck’ at the grocery store buying snacks. we leave them alone in the apartment. seonghyeon’s awkward, but he’s a gentleman, so he’ll have to host her. they’ll have to talk!”
it was actually a really good plan. simple, low-risk, and highly effective. but your brain was currently stuck on a completely different detail.
“wait,” you said, your voice dropping a fraction. “so… we’d be hanging out? just the two of us? at the grocery store?”
he paused. the lazy smirk on his face faltered, just for a second, replaced by a subtle, sudden tension. he cleared his throat, his fingers tightening slightly around your pen.
“i mean. yeah. if we want the excuse to be believable, we have to actually go buy the snacks,” he said, his voice a little lower than usual. he looked down at the table, drawing mindless circles on the napkin with the pen. “unless… you don’t want to spend that much time with me outside of this…”
“no!” you said a little too quickly, a little too loud. a couple of juniors at the counter turned to look at you, and you immediately shrunk back into the booth, your face burning. “i mean—no, that’s fine. i don’t mind. i like… strategising with you.”
keonho looked back up, a slow, incredibly soft smile spreading across his face. it wasn’t his usual sarcastic smirk. it was genuine, quiet, and it made your chest ache in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with anything else in that moment—except ahn keonho.
“good,” he murmured, sliding the pen back across the table until it brushed against your knuckles. “because i’m starting to think the strategy sessions are the best part of my week.”
your breath caught, the cool plastic of the pen pressing against your skin feeling suddenly electric. before you could fumble for a response, keonho tapped the notebook, his classic, lazy smirk sliding back into place as if he hadn’t just thrown your entire internal monologue into a tailspin. “back to work, partner. next weekend is the big day.”
☆
the day of the study session arrived with a torrential downpour, which you chose to interpret as a brilliant atmospheric blessing for the mission.
operation: trapped in the apartment was officially a go.
keonho and you had arrived at his place early under the pretense of ‘setting up’, but the second the clock hit 1:40 PM—exactly twenty minutes before valerie and seonghyeon were scheduled to arrive—keonho threw his keys onto the counter and looked at you.
“right,” he said, checking his watch. “time to execute the snack heist. text them now.”
your fingers flew across your screen, sending a highly calculated, slightly frantic text to the group chat.
hey guys!! keonho and i realised we have literally zero food at his place 😭😭 so we’re sprinting to the grocery store down the street! the door is unlocked, so js go on in and make yourselves at home, alr?
“sent,” you breathed, looking up at him and pocketing yiur phone. “let’s go.”
the walk to the neighborhood grocery store was a chaotic scramble under a single, violently shaking umbrella. keonho had naturally taken the handle, his tall frame blocking the worst of the wind, but the sheer proximity meant your shoulders were glued together the entire three blocks. every time his arm brushed against yours to steady the umbrella, your heart did a stupid, nervous little stutter.
by the time you burst through the automatic glass doors of the store, you were laughing, shaking the raindrops from your hair.
“okay, we need to drag this out,” you whispered conspiratorially, grabbing a red plastic shopping basket and handing it to him. “we need to give them at least thirty minutes of pure, uninterrupted awkwardness so they’re forced to converse. walk slow. evaluate the snacks with extreme scrutiny, soldier.”
keonho snorted, following you into the chip aisle. “extreme scrutiny. right. let me check the structural integrity of these potato chips.”
for the next twenty minutes, the grocery store became your own personal playground. you dragged keonho from aisle to aisle, holding up random items and demanding his opinion.
“do you think seonghyeon is a sour cream and onion guy, or does he radiate standard salted energy?” you asked, holding up two bags.
keonho paused, leaning against the handle of the shopping basket, his eyes fixed on you with a look of amusement. “he’s definitely standard salted. completely predictable. unlike someone else i know who tries to buy literal seaweed snacks for a high-stakes romance intervention.”
“hey! seaweed is an elite study snack,” you pouted, tossing a pack into the basket anyway.
as you walked toward the beverage section, you checked your phone. no texts from val. no texts from seonghyeon.
“silence on the front,” you reported, turning back to him. “either they’re finally talking, or they’ve mutually decided to pretend the other doesn’t exist. do you think we should go back?”
keonho didn’t answer right away. he was standing near the glass drink coolers, the cool, fluorescent light catching the sharp angle of his jaw. he reached out, taking a bottle of banana milk from the shelf, but instead of putting it in the basket, he just held it, his dark eyes dropping to look at you.
“let’s give them ten more minutes,” he said softly. the teasing tone was gone, replaced by a quiet, deliberate slowness. “no need to rush back to the awkward chaos.”
“yeah?” you murmured, suddenly feeling very warm despite the air-conditioned aisle.
“yeah,” he said, a gentle smile touching his lips. he took a step closer, his shoulder lightly brushing yours as he placed the milk in the basket. “besides, i’m enjoying the grocery store hangout. it’s… nice. just us.”
your stomach did a violent, dizzying flip. you quickly turned your head toward the display case, pretending to be intensely fascinated by the rows of soda cans just to hide the raging blush creeping up your neck. you nodded quickly. “yeah. just us. it’s nice.”
by the time you finally walked back into keonho’s apartment, the air in the living room was thick with tension. val and seonghyeon were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, both staring at the textbook on the coffee table like it was a live bomb. val’s face was bright red, and seonghyeon looked like he had forgotten how to breathe through his nose.
keonho and you exchanged a quick, victorious glance behind their backs. the mission had been a success. they had survived thirty minutes alone.
but as you went to the kitchen to unpack the snacks, you weren’t thinking about either of your friends at all. you were still thinking about the way keonho’s voice had sounded in the drink aisle, low and private, completely shifting the gravity of the room.
☆
the ‘demonstration’ was entirely your idea. at least, that was the lie you kept telling yourself to ignore the frantic, drum-like beating of your heart.
it started on a tuesday afternoon. the four of you had been studying in the library, and val had spent twenty minutes staring at seonghyeon’s hands as he wrote down math formulas. later, when the two of them had left to get water, valerie had practically collapsed against your shoulder, whispering in a panicked rush, “yn, his hands are so nice. what if he held my hand? how do people even do that casually? what if my hands are sweaty? what if i ruin everything?”
so, naturally, during your late-night strategy session at the playground near your house, you brought it up.
“she’s overthinking the physical stuff,” you sighed, swinging lazily on the swingset. “she’s terrified of how a guy would actually initiate anything. she needs to see that it’s not some big, terrifying event.”
keonho, who was leaning against the metal chain of the swing next to yours, let out a soft huff. “it’s literally just holding hands. it’s not rocket science.”
“to val, it is!” you defended, turning in your swing to face him. “she needs an example. like… how a guy would actually do it. casually. so she knows what to expect. and i can’t really help ber because it’s not like i’ve held a guy’s hand before either.” you huffed.
keonho stared at you for a long moment, the cool night breeze rustling his dark hair. he let out a slow, quiet breath, his gaze dropping to your hands resting on the swing chains.
“fine,” he murmured, stepping off his swing. he walked over and stopped right in front of you, his tall frame casting a long shadow over yours. “i’ll show you. for… educational purposes.”
“right. educational,” you swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was standing. you stood up, and you both began walking around the park.
“okay. say you’re walking next to her,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, calm register. “you don’t just grab her hand out of nowhere. that’s weird. you wait for a transition. like, your shoulders brush.” he leaned in slightly, his shoulder gently bumping yours. a tiny jolt of electricity shot down your spine.
“and then?” your voice sounded breathy, even to your own ears.
“and then, you look at her. you check if she’s comfortable.” he looked down at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the rest of the playground completely fade away. he reached out slowly. his fingers, warm and slightly calloused, brushed against the back of your hand. “if she doesn’t pull away… you just… slide your fingers in.”
slowly, deliberately, keonho slipped his fingers between yours, his palm pressing warm and firm against your own. his hand was large, wrapping completely around yours, holding it with a gentle but protective pressure.
you forgot how to breathe. your eyes darted down to your joined hands, then back up to his face.
he wasn’t smirking. the sarcastic, teasing boy you thought you knew was entirely gone. instead, he was staring at you with a quiet, almost vulnerable focus, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle over the back of your knuckles.
“like that,” he whispered, his voice incredibly soft. “that’s how a guy would do it. gently. so she knows he’s actually paying attention to her.”
“ah, i… see,” you managed to squeak out. you should have pulled your hand away. the demonstration was over. but you didn’t move, and neither did he. for a long, suspended second, you just stood there in the quiet night, hands tightly locked, the boundaries of your ‘partnership’ dissolving into nothing.
☆
after that night, the shift was impossible to ignore. the lines weren’t blurred; they were completely erased.
keonho started looking at you differently. he no longer looked past you or lazy-eyed during your planning sessions. when a plan succeeded—like the time you fully engineered a scenario where seonghyeon had to walk valerie to her bus stop—you had let out a triumphant squeal, grabbing keonho’s shoulders and shaking him.
instead of teasing you, keonho had just stood there, his hands coming up to gently rest on your waist to steady you. he had watched the bright, victorious grin on your face, with a look of absolute, breathtaking fondness crossing his features. he realised, right then, that your fierce loyalty and the passionate, chaotic way you cared for your friends was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. he didn’t care about the mission anymore. he just wanted to be the one who made you laugh like that.
and you were realising things, too.
you realised keonho wasn’t just a sarcastic jerk who got dragged into your schemes. he was the guy who remembered exactly how you liked your acai. he was the one who, when a sudden draft hit the library, silently draped his uniform jacket over your shoulders without you even having to ask, his fingers lingering on your collarbone for just a second too long.
he was reliable. he was attentive. and every single time he looked up from his notebook, caught your eye, and gave you that private, slow smile meant only for you, your stomach flipped and your heart beat faster.
you were supposed to be playing cupid. but looking at him now, you realised you had accidentally walked right into your own trap.
☆
the problem with succeeding at a mission is that, eventually, the mission… ends.
it started when val stopped texting you 911 flashes over a single-letter text message. then, during a tuesday lunch break, you watched in utter disbelief as seonghyeon casually reached across the table and slid his bag of chips over to her without a single foreheaded-collision or stammered apology. she took them, smiled, and her cheeks turned a very normal, incredibly soft shade of pink.
they were doing it. they were functioning like normal human beings.
and it was absolutely devastating.
because suddenly, the shared google document lay untouched for three days straight. the frantic, late-night phone calls detailing ‘tactical romantic interventions’ completely ceased. you sat at your desk at home, staring at your phone, waiting for it to buzz with a dry, sarcastic comment from keonho about how seonghyeon had accidentally breathed in val’s direction again… but the phone stayed dark.
when you did see keonho at school, the air between you felt thick, heavy with a strange, unspoken panic. one afternoon, you ran into him by the lockers. you gripped the strap of your backpack, trying to sound casual. “so… no emergencies today? i guess the locker plan is officially retired.”
keonho leaned against the locker, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. he looked exhausted, his dark eyes scanning your face with a restless, intense focus that made your lungs feel tight. he let out a low, rough breath. “yeah. looks like they’ve got it covered. seonghyeon didn’t sigh once during study hall today. it’s a miracle.”
“a miracle,” you repeated, the word tasting like ash. you forced a small smile. “we did it, partner. mission accomplished.”
he didn’t smile back. his jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to your lips for a agonisingly long second before he looked away, clearing his throat. “right. mission accomplished. guess i’ll… see you around, then.”
he walked away, and you stood there, your chest aching with a hollow, crushing realisation. you had spent so much time orchestrating a love story for your best friends that you hadn’t realised you were completely dependent on the boy who was helping you build it. you didn’t want the operation to end. you wanted an excuse.
you wanted him.
but you were too terrified to say it out loud, and judging by the cold distance he was suddenly keeping, you figured he was just relieved to finally have his free time back.
☆
the breaking point arrived on a thursday after school, and it didn’t involve valerie or seonghyeon at all.
you were waiting by the school gates for val, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, when louis, a popular junior who was your age (and a year younger than keonho) from the soccer team, walked up to you. he was tall, confidently leaning one arm against the brick wall right above your head, flashing a charming, practiced smile.
“hey,” louis said, his voice smooth. “you’re yn, right? friends with valerie? i’ve seen you around a lot lately. you’re pretty funny.”
you blinked, completely caught off guard. “oh. uh, thanks?”
“i was wondering,” he continued, tilting his head closer, his eyes scanning your face in a way that made you feel incredibly weird. wrong-weird. “are you doing anything this weekend?”
“i’m… busy, actually.”
“there’s this new arcade opening downtown. i thought maybe we could go together. just the two of us.” i heard you liked arcades…”
your brain short-circuited. you opened your mouth to stammer out a polite rejection again, but before a single syllable could leave your lips, a heavy, suffocating shadow fell over both of you.
“she’s busy,” a cold, lethal voice cut through the air.
you whipped your head around. keonho was standing there. you had never seen him look like this. the lazy, sarcastic, easygoing boy was completely gone. his face was set in a hard, dangerous mask, his eyes flashing with an icy, unbridled fury that actually made you step back. he didn’t even look at louis; his gaze was entirely fixed on the junior’s arm against the wall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick.
louis frowned, dropping his arm and stepping back, annoyed. “excuse me? who are you?”
keonho stepped directly into louis’s personal space, effectively cutting him off from you. he was slightly taller, his broad shoulders completely blocking your view of the senior. the aura radiating off keonho was so fiercely protective, so heavy with territorial jealousy, that the entire courtyard seemed to go dead silent.
“i’m the guy telling you to back off,” keonho said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a quiet threat that made louis’ confidence visibly evaporate. keonho reached back, his hand blindly finding your wrist, his fingers gripping you with a tight, unyielding pressure. “she said she’s busy, didn’t she? move along.”
louis looked between keonho’s expression and his tight grip on your wrist, raised his hands in defeat, and muttered a hurried, “whatever, man,” before turning on his heel and walking away.
the second he was gone, the silence rushed back in. your heart was pounding so hard against your ribs it felt physical. your brain was entirely fried.
ahn keonho. protective. jealous. what?
keonho didn’t let go of your wrist. he finally turned around to look at you, his chest heaving slightly as he breathed. the fury in his eyes was rapidly melting into a raw, panicked vulnerability. he looked down at where his hand was tightly gripping your wrist, his fingers trembling slightly before he abruptly let go, stepping back as if he’d just been burned.
“keon—” you started, your voice shaking.
“don’t,” he muttered, rubbing a hand violently over his face, refusing to meet your eyes. “just… don’t, yn.”
without another word, he turned and stormed out of the school gates, leaving you standing there in the middle of the courtyard, your skin still burning where his fingers had been, your mind completely, utterly shattered.
the confrontation happened that very same evening, and the universe, in all its dramatic glory, decided to finally break the sky open.
a sudden, violent downpour had trapped you inside the municipal library down the street from the school. it was past 8:00 PM, and the building was practically empty, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights mixing with the heavy, rhythmic thrum of rain against the large glass windows.
you walked out of the study aisles, swinging your umbrella in your hand, when you saw him.
keonho was sitting at a lone table near the back windows, staring out into the dark, rain-slicked streets. a textbook lay open in front of him, but he hadn’t turned a page in hours.
your breath caught in your throat. you gripped your umbrella tighter, your legs moving before your brain could talk you out of it. you walked over, the squeak of your sneakers on the floor cutting through the quiet. you stopped right at the edge of his table.
he slowly looked up. seeing you, his expression guarded over, that exhausting, distant mask sliding back into place. “yn. it’s late. you should be home.”
“you ran away,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. you stepped closer, slamming your hands flat onto the wooden table, leaning in. the frustration, the panic, the weeks of tension finally snapped inside you. “you literally lost your mind this afternoon, acted like you wanted to murder a guy for just talking to me, and then you ran away. you’ve been avoiding me for a week, keonho. what is your problem?”
he stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floor, the loud screech echoing through the empty library as you stepped back. he skirted around the table, cornering you against the bookshelf, his tall frame looming over yours, trapping you in his space just like he had at the playground. but this time, there was no gentle demonstration.
“my problem?” he echoed, his voice a low, furious hiss that vibrated right through your chest. his dark eyes were wild, completely stripping away every single ounce of his usual sarcastic armor. he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. “you want to know what my problem is, yn? my problem is that i can’t think straight anymore. my problem is that i spent the last month pretending to care about seonghyeon’s love life just so i could have an excuse to hold your hand in the middle of the night.”
your eyes widened as you stared up at him, your heart hammering a frantic, drum-like beat against your ribs.
“we won, yn. they’re fine. the operation is over,” keonho whispered, his voice cracking slightly with a raw honesty that made your throat tight. he stepped even closer, his hand coming up to rest on the bookshelf right next to your head, his fingers trembling. he looked down at you, his eyes filled with a desperate, terrifying vulnerability.
“so tell me right now,” he said, his voice dropping into a breathless plea that completely shattered what was left of your sanity. “are we still doing this for them… or is this about us?”
the silence that followed was suffocating, heavy enough to drown out the relentless downpour slamming against the glass windows behind him.
you stared up at him, your lips parted, your brain entirely jammed on the echo of his voice. ‘just so i could have an excuse to hold your hand’. the words played on a loop, short-circuiting every logical defense you had spent weeks building.
keonho was still leaning over you, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the bookshelf. he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling just inches from yours, his gaze locked onto your eyes like he was drowning and waiting for you to throw him a lifeline. the terrifying honesty bleeding out of him was completely uncharacteristic of the boy who usually hid behind dry remarks and a cynical smirk. he looked completely undone. by you.
“keonho…” you breathed, the sound barely escaping your throat.
your hand, acting entirely on its own accord, reached up. your fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against the damp fabric of his school uniform jacket, right over his chest. underneath your palm, you could feel it—the frantic, violent thudding of his heart, racing just as dangerously fast as yours.
“i don’t think it was ever about them,” you whispered, the truth finally breaking through the panic. you looked up into his dark eyes, your own vision blurring slightly with the sheer intensity of the moment. “at least… not for a long time. i was just too terrified to admit it because i thought you were only doing this out of obligation. i thought you wanted your free time back.”
he let out a low, ragged breath, the tension in his shoulders visibly fracturing. a sudden, breathless laugh escaped his lips—a sound of pure, desperate relief.
“you’re an idiot,” he murmured, but his voice was incredibly thick, completely devoid of any actual bite.
before you could react, his hand left the bookshelf. his warm, large palm slid up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jawline, tilting your face up. the touch was so tender, so desperately attentive, that it made your knees feel weak. he leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours, closing the final, unbearable distance between you.
“i don’t care about my free time,” he whispered against your skin, his breath hitching. “i just want you. i’ve wanted you since the first day you dragged me into that convenience store.”
you didn’t answer with words. you couldn’t. instead, you reached up, your fingers tangling into the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down that last fraction of an inch.
the kiss was everything you had imagined it to be—intense, breathless, and heavy with the pent-up frustration of the last month. keonho’s grip on your jaw tightened slightly, pulling you flush against his chest as he kissed you with a deep, consuming fervor that made the rest of the world completely cease to exist. there were no plans, no tactical interventions, and no meticulously engineered scenarios. it was just him, his lips warm and desperate against yours, completely rewriting the rules of the operation you had built together.
when he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes were bright, a slow, genuinely happy smile breaking across his face—the kind of smile he had never given anyone else.
“so,” he murmured, his thumb lazily tracing your lower lip, his voice dropping back into that familiar, teasing cadence you loved. “does this mean operation: true love is officially a success?”
you let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, pulling him right back in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “mission accomplished, partner.”
☆
the problem with officially becoming a couple after weeks of playing top-secret masterminds was that the habit of secrecy didn’t just disappear.
in fact, it became an entirely new game.
“if val finds out we’re together before she and seonghyeon actually figure their lives out, she’ll think we were distracted,” you whispered fiercely, your back pressed against the brick wall of the old equipment shed behind the gym.
keonho was standing right in front of you, his hands resting on either side of your waist, trapping you in his shadow with that lazy, familiar tilt of his head. he looked thoroughly unbothered by the high stakes of your ongoing secrecy. “distracted? yn, i’m highly focused. look at me. i’m the definition of dedicated.”
“keonho, i’m serious,” you gasped, your hands flat against his chest as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “if they catch us—”
“they won’t, angel,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, distracting circle into the fabric of your shirt. “seonghyeon is currently staring at a vending machine trying to decide if buying valerie a green tea is too ‘forward’. we have at least ten minutes.”
you let out a helpless laugh, tilting your head up to catch his lips in a quick kiss. it was chaotic, thrilling, and completely ridiculous. you were hiding in plain sight, sitting at opposite ends of the lunch table during the day, only to exchange lingering glances when no one was looking, or sliding your feet together under the desk during study hall.
but the final push for the original targets couldn’t wait any longer.
☆
the ‘push’ happened on a friday afternoon.
keonho and you had quite literally engineered a situation involving a malfunctioning classroom door, a misplaced key, and a very deliberate ‘accidental’ lock-in during cleanup duty. you had shoved valerie into the room, keonho had pushed seonghyeon right after her, and you had clicked the lock into place from the outside with a triumphant snap.
through the small glass window of the door, you watched valerie panic and seonghyeon freeze.
“you have one hour!” you yelled through the door. “talk about your feelings or you’re sleeping here!”
“yn! open the door!” val shrieked, her face turning a bright scarlet.
keonho leaned against the wall next to you, crossing his arms and checking his watch. “don’t bother knocking, seonghyeon. i took the spare key from the faculty office. it’s a flawless trap.”
it took exactly forty-two minutes of agonising silence, followed by ten minutes of muffled, tearful shouting, before the window revealed a sight that made you squeal in victory. seonghyeon had his jacket wrapped around valerie’s shoulders, and her hand was firmly, properly tucked into his. they were finally, officially, talking.
the celebration hangout took place at the same late-night diner keonho and you had frequented during your spy missions. the mood was insane, fries were piled high, and val was practically glowing, her hand not leaving seonghyeon’s for a single second.
you were practically radiating pride, leaning back in the booth. “i’m just saying, the locked-door strategy was a stroke of absolute genius. we deserve a medal.”
keonho chuckled, sipping his banana milk. “a medal is standard. i was thinking a monument in the school courtyard.”
val suddenly stopped chewing her fry. she exchanged a long, incredibly knowing look with seonghyeon. seonghyeon cleared his throat, setting his drink down with a slow, deliberate slowness that felt eerily familiar.
“right,” val said, leaning across the table, her eyes darting between you and keonho. "so, are you guys going to stop acting like you’re in a low-budget spy movie now, or do we have to keep pretending we haven’t seen you kissing behind the equipment shed for the last two weeks?”
you froze, your strawberry milk freezing halfway to your mouth. “what?”
“you guys do know everyone knows you’re together, right?” seonghyeon added dryly, a rare, amused smirk touching his face. 0keonho, you literally wore her hair tie on your wrist during gym class last tuesday. you don’t even have long hair.”
your brain completely short-circuited. you whipped your head to look at keonho, whose ears were suddenly turning a very distinct, bright shade of pink. the masterminds had been compromised. you had played yourselves so hard.
“we were… we were being subtle!” you protested, burying your face in your hands as val burst out laughing.
“you really weren’t,” val beamed, reaching over to pat your arm. “but we appreciate the effort. and the locked door.”
an hour later, as the diner started to clear out, keonho caught your wrist under the table, tugging you gently. “come with me for a second.”
he led you down the narrow hallway toward the back exit of the diner, away from the noise of the main room, stopping in the quiet, dimly lit alleyway just outside. the cool night air hit your face, a stark contrast to the warm, fry-scented air inside.
keonho let go of your wrist, but he didn’t step back. he let out a long, slightly breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at you. the cocky, tactical mastermind facade was completely gone, replaced by that raw, honest vulnerability that always made your heart do backflips.
“so,” he started, his voice a little rough, a little nervous. “we’re terrible spies.”
“abysmal,” you agreed, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. “the worst in history.”
keonho smiled, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs gently brushing over your cheekbones. he stared into your eyes, his gaze so intense and steady that it felt like he was looking straight into your soul.
“i wanted to do this right,” he whispered, his breath warm against your forehead. “no more operations. no more schemes. no more using them as an excuse… to be near you.” he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against yours. for a guy who always had a sarcastic comeback ready, he suddenly looked completely struck dumb by how much he cared about you. “even though we’ve been… whatever this is… for the last few weeks,” keonho murmured, his voice dropping into something soft that made your knees instantly melt. “i never actually asked you. properly.”
he leaned down a fraction, his dark eyes searching yours with a quiet, desperate hope.
“yn. will you be my girlfriend? for real. no secrets, no undercover hangouts. just… you and me.”
you smiled, the absolute certainty of the moment washing over you like a warm wave. you reached up, tangling your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.
“oh, keonho,” you whispered right against his lips. “i thought you’d never ask.”
📬 ❤︎ cortis 𝔁 sixth member!f!reader , implied james 𝔁 gf!reader ─── ৻ꪆ drawing temporary tattoos on your arm pre-concert turns into the rest of the boys begging you to draw on their hands too.
💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ for all those underconfident artists out there, i gotchu 🥹
❤︎ wc ─── ৻ꪆ 2.9k
𝄞 𓏸 my cortispilledmasterlist »﹙合﹚
❝ tracklist ❞ ─── after dark—mr.kitty ❦ starboy—the weeknd ❦ glitch—taylor swift ❦ bad alive—wayv ❦ cyber_sigilism—vampire heart ❦ perfect blues—hannah bahng ❦ love & war—yend ❦ heavy metal—parisian ❦ halazia—atz ❦ shadow—svt ❦ wires—the nbhd
the backstage area of the arena was a chaotic storm of pre-show adrenaline and heavy mechanical noise. bass frequencies vibrated violently right through the soles of your heavy combat boots, and the air smelled like a suffocating mix of hairspray and the expensive cologne the boys had drowned themselves in. you were well-versed in the frantic ritual of getting stage-ready.
but tonight, the weight of the concept felt heavier. the theme was a high-concept, futuristic cyber-punk—sleek, metallic, and sharp. it required a level of effortless, dangerous confidence. and lately, you had been struggling to find that in yourself.
being the late addition to an already established, powerhouse boy group meant battling a silent, constant voice in the back of your head. a voice that whispered you were always a step behind. martin was the perfect leader, juhoon was a natural prodigy, seonghyeon’s presence was commanding, keonho’s energy was magnetic, and james... james was an absolute force on stage.
and then there was you. sometimes, you felt like a placeholder. a piece added to a puzzle that was already complete without you. the boys tried to make you feel less like that, but the doubts still crept up on you sometimes.
that deep-seated feeling of never being ‘enough’ naturally bled into everything you did, especially the one thing that was entirely yours: your art. secretly, you were a chronic, almost compulsive artist. back home, your bedroom drawers were a literal graveyard of billions of unfinished sketchbooks, crammed with intricate, breathtaking designs that you hid away like a dirty secret. you never finished them because the moment a drawing near-completed, you’d convince yourself it was messy, uninspired, and completely unworthy of being seen.
but tonight, the cyber theme had triggered a rare, persistent vision in your head. a desire to feel like you belonged to the concept. an hour before the show, while the venue was still running sound checks, you had quietly slipped away into a dimly lit corner of the dressing room. resting your left arm flat on the vanity table, you pulled out a pouch of ultra-fine, waterproof black liquid liners.
painstakingly, you began to trace sharp, razor-thin, neo-tribal cybersigilism lines starting right at the curve of your shoulder joint. you let the liquid ink weave down your bicep in aggressive, elegant geometric webs, wrapping tightly around your elbow, cascading down your forearm, and splitting into fine, thorn-like wires that tapered off perfectly at the very tip of your middle finger. to make sure it survived the intense choreography and your own sweat, you had completely drenched your entire arm in three heavy coats of industrial-strength makeup setting spray.
when you finally stepped out into the main styling lounge, your jacket draped loosely off your left shoulder, the head stylist stopped dead in her tracks. she gasped, dropping a pair of safety pins, and reached out to gently hover her fingers over your bicep.
“oh my god, yn-ssi,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “wah, look at this sleeve! where on earth did you buy it? the mesh matches your skin tone so perfectly, i can’t even see the seam at the shoulder. did you order it from that new techwear brand in japan?”
you let out a soft, slightly awkward laugh, instantly pulling the edge of your jacket up a fraction to dismiss the praise. “oh, uh... yeah, something like that. just found it online while scrolling through a random site. it’s actually kind of cheap up close.”
“it looks incredibly realistic,” she muttered, still inspecting it in awe before getting pulled away by a frantic assistant. “make sure it doesn't snag on your wardrobe!”
you stared at your arm in the mirror, a familiar twist of self-doubt hitting your stomach.
the lines on the forearm are a little shaky, you thought, instantly picking it apart. the stylist is just being polite. if it were actual art, it’d look cleaner.
to you, it was just a temporary distraction from the pre-show anxiety. you figured keeping the ‘mesh sleeve’ lie alive was just easier than admitting you’d spent an hour drawing something that wasn’t entirely perfect on yourself.
it didn’t take long for the boys to notice.
“whoa,” martin said, pausing mid-sentence as he adjusted the heavy straps on his utility vest. he walked over, his eyes locked on your arm. “honestly, that fits the concept so well. is that for the show?”
“yeah, it looks completely badass,” juhoon added, leaning in so close his nose was practically an inch from your forearm. “the graphic styling is insane. it makes you look like some sort of cyber-assassin. where did wardrobe find that? why didn’t we get those too?”
seonghyeon nodded in approval from the couch, sipping an iced americano. “it works. definitely elevates the silhouette. you look like you belong in a sci-fi film.”
belong. the word twinged in your chest.
“it’s just a cheap sleeve, guys,” you said softly, offering a tight, small smile. “it’ll probably look totally different under the harsh stage lights anyway. don’t look too closely.”
james, who had been sitting quietly while a stylist tamed his blond hair, caught your eye through the large vanity mirror. a slow, incredibly warm smile spread across his face, but his eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. he knew that tone—he knew the exact texture of your voice when you were trying to shrink yourself down. he didn’t say anything right away, but the intense, unwavering look in his eyes made your chest tighten with a different kind of heat.
then, the illusion shattered.
keonho was hurriedly downing a bottle of water, his mind clearly racing through the opening formation, when one of the stage managers accidentally bumped into his shoulder. keonho stumbled forward, a sudden, heavy splash of water flying straight out of his bottle and landing directly across your forearm.
“oh! shit, sorry! yn, i’m so sorry—” keonho panicked, immediately grabbing a rough paper towel from the table and lunging forward to wipe it dry.
“wait, don’t touch it! don’t wipe!” you gasped, your instincts entirely taking over.
before he could smear it into a giant black smudge, you snatched a soft tissue, slapping it onto your wet arm and rapidly, delicately dabbing at the skin, trying frantically to absorb the moisture without ruining the hour of fine-line work you had put in. but the setting spray could only do so much against a direct splash and panic. when you pulled the tissue away, a section of the razor-sharp lines near your wrist had visibly smudged, leaving a distinct, charcoal-grey streak across your skin and transferring a dark print onto the white tissue.
the dressing room went dramatically silent. keonho’s eyes went completely round, his jaw literally dropping. martin stopped pacing. juhoon physically bent over, staring at the blurred ink on your actual skin.
“wait a second…” seonghyeon blinked, putting his coffee down with a loud thud. he stood up and walked over, his sharp eyes scanning the edge of the design. “that’s... that’s actual ink. you’re not wearing a mesh fabric.”
“yn,” martin whispered, his voice laced with pure shock. “you drew that?”
“you didn’t buy a sleeve?!” keonho yelled, his voice cracking slightly as he looked from the smudged ink to your blushing face. “are you telling me you hand-painted an entire, highly detailed tattoo sleeve on yourself?! and i smudged it?”
your cheeks instantly flushed a deep, burning crimson. a wave of intense humiliation washed over you. you felt exposed, like they had just caught you trying too hard to be impressive. you stared down at your boots, your voice dropping into a defensive, hurried whisper.
“i mean... yeah. just with some liquid liners i had. it’s really not that great, seriously. look, the symmetry near the inner elbow is totally warped, and the lines are way too thick near the top. it’s kinda messy. i only did it because i felt like my stage outfit was missing something and i wanted to fit in better, but i ruined it anyway, so—”
“‘not that great’?” james’ voice cut through your frantic ramble like a knife. he had completely abandoned the styling chair, walking past the hair stylist to stand right in front of you. a disbelieving, breathless laugh escaped his lips, but his eyes were entirely serious. he reached down, his fingers warm and steady as he took your left hand, lifting your arm up into the vanity lights to inspect the sweeping, intricate cyber-vines.
“yn, look at this,” james said, his voice firm, forcing you to look at him. “the line weight, the shading, the tracing... this is breathtaking. you’re a literal genius.”
“seriously, the line work is completely insane,” juhoon whined, his voice a mix of awe and absolute betrayal. “why on earth have you been hiding this from us? you’re so talented! i didn’t even know you could draw like this!”
“i’ve seen professional tattoo artists with shakier hands than this,” seonghyeon murmured, leaning in to track a line that wrapped perfectly around your wrist bone. “this takes serious technical skill. to do this on your own arm? it’s amazing.”
“i’m sorry i splashed it,” keonho said, looking genuinely remorseful but completely amazed. “but oh my god, yn. you’re like... a master artist. why did you lie and say you bought it?”
you swallowed hard, looking at the floor. “because... it’s just a doodle. it’s not perfect yet. you guys are great at music, at dancing, at everything. i didn’t want to show off something that wasn’t actually good.”
martin stepped forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on your shoulder. “hey. look at me. stop that. this is beyond good. you are a part of this group, and your talent is insane. if anything, we should be bragging about you.”
the boys crowded around you in a tight circle, completely burying you in a wave of loud, genuine praise. they didn’t just think it was a cool gimmick; they genuinely loved it because it came from you. for the first time in months, the loud, critical voice in your head was drowned out by the voices of the five boys who genuinely cherished you.
suddenly, martin’s face lit up, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “wait. we have about twenty minutes before our final lineup. yn... can you draw on us?”
“oh my god, please!” keonho begged instantly, thrusting his left arm forward so fast he almost hit you. “we need to match! think about how insane it would look on stage if the whole group had matching custom tattoos on our left hands. it perfectly binds the whole concept together! it makes us look like a real unit!”
“yes! do mine first, please,” juhoon chanted, hopping from foot to foot.
you looked at their eager faces, your chest swelling with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. they wanted a piece of your art on them for a major concert. they wanted to wear your work on stage.
“okay, okay, sit down!” you laughed, the last remnants of your anxiety melting away. “stop crowding me! i can only do quick ones on your hands or wrists, we literally do not have time for full sleeves.”
the next fifteen minutes turned into a chaotic, incredibly sweet bonding session. you perched on the edge of the leather sofa, uncapping your fresh liners, while the boys practically formed an orderly queue. they watched you work in absolute, uncharacteristic silence, completely mesmerised by how steady and precise your movements were.
“don’t move, mars,” you murmured, anchoring his hand with your fingers as you drew sharp, geometric bands mimicking cybernetic rings around his knuckles.
“i’m not moving, i’m not even breathing,” he whispered back, staring intently at your hand. “this is an honour, honestly.”
next was juhoon, who got a sprawling, sharp digital starburst across the back of his hand. “this is so sick,” he whispered, turning his hand back and forth in the light the second you finished. “i’m never washing this hand again. it’s an official cortis artifact now.”
“you have to wash it tonight, juhoon, you have skin oils,” seonghyeon chided calmly, though he was already holding out his own wrist. you gave seonghyeon a sleek, minimalist cyber-bracer that looked incredibly elegant. for keonho, you drew aggressive, venom-like spikes creeping up from his palm to his forearm, which had him flexing in the mirror instantly.
“five minutes to stage, cortis! final wardrobe checks right now!” the head manager shouted, banging loudly on the open door.
the styling room erupted into motion. the backup dancers were lining up in the hallway, and the other four members were already hyped up, high-fiving each other and aggressively showing off their matching left hands to the wardrobe staff, who were all murmuring in disbelief.
you stood up, capping your pen, a small, genuine smile on your face. but a gentle, firm hand caught your wrist. james pulled you into the quiet, shadowed space behind the heavy wardrobe racks, away from the rushing coordinates and shouting managers. the soft smile on his lips had deepened, but his dark eyes were intensely focused on you, holding a depth that always made your breath hitch. he held out his left hand, turning it over to expose the clear, bare skin on the back of it.
“my turn,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that private, low register that was reserved solely for you. “can you draw something specific for me? something that reminds you of... us?”
your heart gave a violent, familiar thud against your ribs. you looked down at his bare hand, then up at his face, the old insecurity trying to rear its head. “james... we only have like two minutes. what if i mess it up? yours should look the best, and i don’t want to give you something ugly right before we go out—”
“hey,” he interrupted softly, stepping closer until his chest practically brushed your shoulder. his right hand came up, his long fingers gently cupping your jaw, forcing you to stop looking at his hand and look into his eyes. “look at me.”
you looked up, your breathing shallow.
“stop doing that,” he whispered, his thumb softly brushing over your cheekbone, careful not to ruin your makeup. his expression was a mix of intense adoration and a slight, protective frustration. “stop talking about your work like it’s a mistake, and stop acting like you’re lesser than anyone else in that room. do you have any idea how brilliant you are? you sat out there and completely transformed the group’s look in fifteen minutes because you’re incredibly talented. you are more than enough, pretty girl. on this stage, in this group... and with me. do you understand?”
a small, breathless lump formed in your throat, but the sheer sincerity in his voice washed over your insecurities like a wave, putting them to sleep. you nodded slowly, a genuine, tear-tinged smile breaking onto your face. “okay.”
“good,” he murmured, his eyes softening as he released your jaw and held his left hand out again. “now, be fast. i want a piece of your art on me before we walk out there.”
taking a steadying breath, you pulled out your finest brush pen. you held his hand securely in yours, your fingers interlocking slightly to steady his palm, and began to ink his skin. but instead of the purely sharp, aggressive cybernetic lines you had given the others, you let your hand flow into something far more intricate.
you drew a striking, stylised butterfly. its wings were composed of sharp, futuristic shards and dangerous, metallic spikes—fitting the concept perfectly—but right at the center, weaving the dangerous wings together, you hid a microscopic, delicate infinity loop.
it was a silent promise. a hidden symbol of the way the two of you had evolved together, growing wings but staying entirely bound to one another amidst the deafening, chaotic noise of your idol lives.
as you lifted the pen, finishing the final stroke, james looked down at his hand. the contrast of the edgy, futuristic art against the deeply tender meaning behind it made his expression soften completely. his breath hitched slightly, his fingers trembling just a fraction.
“it’s beautiful, love,” he whispered, his eyes lifting to lock onto yours, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. “truly. it’s my favorite thing i’ve ever worn.”
“cortis, let’s go! stage doors are closing!” coco, your manager’s, voice boomed from the hallway, followed by the deafening roar of the crowd through the monitors.
james didn’t care about the rush. his right hand slid back to the nape of your neck, pulling you in firmly as he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. the kiss was deep, lingering, and full of a quiet, possessive love mixed with adrenaline. it sent an electric jolt right down to your toes, completely wiping away any leftover traces of your doubt.
he pulled back slowly, a breathless, confident smirk playing on his lips. he slid his fingers down to your left hand, intertwining his fingers tightly with yours. your matching, hand-drawn cyber art aligned perfectly, skin against skin, ink against ink.
“come on,” james whispered, tugging you toward the roaring light of the stadium. “let’s go crush it, pretty girl.”
📬 ❤︎ cortis 𝔁 sixth member!f!reader , implied james 𝔁 gf!reader ─── ৻ꪆ drawing temporary tattoos on your arm pre-concert turns into the rest of the boys begging you to draw on their hands too.
💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ for all those underconfident artists out there, i gotchu 🥹
❤︎ wc ─── ৻ꪆ 2.9k
𝄞 𓏸 my cortispilledmasterlist »﹙合﹚
❝ tracklist ❞ ─── after dark—mr.kitty ❦ starboy—the weeknd ❦ glitch—taylor swift ❦ bad alive—wayv ❦ cyber_sigilism—vampire heart ❦ perfect blues—hannah bahng ❦ love & war—yend ❦ heavy metal—parisian ❦ halazia—atz ❦ shadow—svt ❦ wires—the nbhd
the backstage area of the arena was a chaotic storm of pre-show adrenaline and heavy mechanical noise. bass frequencies vibrated violently right through the soles of your heavy combat boots, and the air smelled like a suffocating mix of hairspray and the expensive cologne the boys had drowned themselves in. you were well-versed in the frantic ritual of getting stage-ready.
but tonight, the weight of the concept felt heavier. the theme was a high-concept, futuristic cyber-punk—sleek, metallic, and sharp. it required a level of effortless, dangerous confidence. and lately, you had been struggling to find that in yourself.
being the late addition to an already established, powerhouse boy group meant battling a silent, constant voice in the back of your head. a voice that whispered you were always a step behind. martin was the perfect leader, juhoon was a natural prodigy, seonghyeon’s presence was commanding, keonho’s energy was magnetic, and james... james was an absolute force on stage.
and then there was you. sometimes, you felt like a placeholder. a piece added to a puzzle that was already complete without you. the boys tried to make you feel less like that, but the doubts still crept up on you sometimes.
that deep-seated feeling of never being ‘enough’ naturally bled into everything you did, especially the one thing that was entirely yours: your art. secretly, you were a chronic, almost compulsive artist. back home, your bedroom drawers were a literal graveyard of billions of unfinished sketchbooks, crammed with intricate, breathtaking designs that you hid away like a dirty secret. you never finished them because the moment a drawing near-completed, you’d convince yourself it was messy, uninspired, and completely unworthy of being seen.
but tonight, the cyber theme had triggered a rare, persistent vision in your head. a desire to feel like you belonged to the concept. an hour before the show, while the venue was still running sound checks, you had quietly slipped away into a dimly lit corner of the dressing room. resting your left arm flat on the vanity table, you pulled out a pouch of ultra-fine, waterproof black liquid liners.
painstakingly, you began to trace sharp, razor-thin, neo-tribal cybersigilism lines starting right at the curve of your shoulder joint. you let the liquid ink weave down your bicep in aggressive, elegant geometric webs, wrapping tightly around your elbow, cascading down your forearm, and splitting into fine, thorn-like wires that tapered off perfectly at the very tip of your middle finger. to make sure it survived the intense choreography and your own sweat, you had completely drenched your entire arm in three heavy coats of industrial-strength makeup setting spray.
when you finally stepped out into the main styling lounge, your jacket draped loosely off your left shoulder, the head stylist stopped dead in her tracks. she gasped, dropping a pair of safety pins, and reached out to gently hover her fingers over your bicep.
“oh my god, yn-ssi,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “wah, look at this sleeve! where on earth did you buy it? the mesh matches your skin tone so perfectly, i can’t even see the seam at the shoulder. did you order it from that new techwear brand in japan?”
you let out a soft, slightly awkward laugh, instantly pulling the edge of your jacket up a fraction to dismiss the praise. “oh, uh... yeah, something like that. just found it online while scrolling through a random site. it’s actually kind of cheap up close.”
“it looks incredibly realistic,” she muttered, still inspecting it in awe before getting pulled away by a frantic assistant. “make sure it doesn't snag on your wardrobe!”
you stared at your arm in the mirror, a familiar twist of self-doubt hitting your stomach.
the lines on the forearm are a little shaky, you thought, instantly picking it apart. the stylist is just being polite. if it were actual art, it’d look cleaner.
to you, it was just a temporary distraction from the pre-show anxiety. you figured keeping the ‘mesh sleeve’ lie alive was just easier than admitting you’d spent an hour drawing something that wasn’t entirely perfect on yourself.
it didn’t take long for the boys to notice.
“whoa,” martin said, pausing mid-sentence as he adjusted the heavy straps on his utility vest. he walked over, his eyes locked on your arm. “honestly, that fits the concept so well. is that for the show?”
“yeah, it looks completely badass,” juhoon added, leaning in so close his nose was practically an inch from your forearm. “the graphic styling is insane. it makes you look like some sort of cyber-assassin. where did wardrobe find that? why didn’t we get those too?”
seonghyeon nodded in approval from the couch, sipping an iced americano. “it works. definitely elevates the silhouette. you look like you belong in a sci-fi film.”
belong. the word twinged in your chest.
“it’s just a cheap sleeve, guys,” you said softly, offering a tight, small smile. “it’ll probably look totally different under the harsh stage lights anyway. don’t look too closely.”
james, who had been sitting quietly while a stylist tamed his blond hair, caught your eye through the large vanity mirror. a slow, incredibly warm smile spread across his face, but his eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. he knew that tone—he knew the exact texture of your voice when you were trying to shrink yourself down. he didn’t say anything right away, but the intense, unwavering look in his eyes made your chest tighten with a different kind of heat.
then, the illusion shattered.
keonho was hurriedly downing a bottle of water, his mind clearly racing through the opening formation, when one of the stage managers accidentally bumped into his shoulder. keonho stumbled forward, a sudden, heavy splash of water flying straight out of his bottle and landing directly across your forearm.
“oh! shit, sorry! yn, i’m so sorry—” keonho panicked, immediately grabbing a rough paper towel from the table and lunging forward to wipe it dry.
“wait, don’t touch it! don’t wipe!” you gasped, your instincts entirely taking over.
before he could smear it into a giant black smudge, you snatched a soft tissue, slapping it onto your wet arm and rapidly, delicately dabbing at the skin, trying frantically to absorb the moisture without ruining the hour of fine-line work you had put in. but the setting spray could only do so much against a direct splash and panic. when you pulled the tissue away, a section of the razor-sharp lines near your wrist had visibly smudged, leaving a distinct, charcoal-grey streak across your skin and transferring a dark print onto the white tissue.
the dressing room went dramatically silent. keonho’s eyes went completely round, his jaw literally dropping. martin stopped pacing. juhoon physically bent over, staring at the blurred ink on your actual skin.
“wait a second…” seonghyeon blinked, putting his coffee down with a loud thud. he stood up and walked over, his sharp eyes scanning the edge of the design. “that’s... that’s actual ink. you’re not wearing a mesh fabric.”
“yn,” martin whispered, his voice laced with pure shock. “you drew that?”
“you didn’t buy a sleeve?!” keonho yelled, his voice cracking slightly as he looked from the smudged ink to your blushing face. “are you telling me you hand-painted an entire, highly detailed tattoo sleeve on yourself?! and i smudged it?”
your cheeks instantly flushed a deep, burning crimson. a wave of intense humiliation washed over you. you felt exposed, like they had just caught you trying too hard to be impressive. you stared down at your boots, your voice dropping into a defensive, hurried whisper.
“i mean... yeah. just with some liquid liners i had. it’s really not that great, seriously. look, the symmetry near the inner elbow is totally warped, and the lines are way too thick near the top. it’s kinda messy. i only did it because i felt like my stage outfit was missing something and i wanted to fit in better, but i ruined it anyway, so—”
“‘not that great’?” james’ voice cut through your frantic ramble like a knife. he had completely abandoned the styling chair, walking past the hair stylist to stand right in front of you. a disbelieving, breathless laugh escaped his lips, but his eyes were entirely serious. he reached down, his fingers warm and steady as he took your left hand, lifting your arm up into the vanity lights to inspect the sweeping, intricate cyber-vines.
“yn, look at this,” james said, his voice firm, forcing you to look at him. “the line weight, the shading, the tracing... this is breathtaking. you’re a literal genius.”
“seriously, the line work is completely insane,” juhoon whined, his voice a mix of awe and absolute betrayal. “why on earth have you been hiding this from us? you’re so talented! i didn’t even know you could draw like this!”
“i’ve seen professional tattoo artists with shakier hands than this,” seonghyeon murmured, leaning in to track a line that wrapped perfectly around your wrist bone. “this takes serious technical skill. to do this on your own arm? it’s amazing.”
“i’m sorry i splashed it,” keonho said, looking genuinely remorseful but completely amazed. “but oh my god, yn. you’re like... a master artist. why did you lie and say you bought it?”
you swallowed hard, looking at the floor. “because... it’s just a doodle. it’s not perfect yet. you guys are great at music, at dancing, at everything. i didn’t want to show off something that wasn’t actually good.”
martin stepped forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on your shoulder. “hey. look at me. stop that. this is beyond good. you are a part of this group, and your talent is insane. if anything, we should be bragging about you.”
the boys crowded around you in a tight circle, completely burying you in a wave of loud, genuine praise. they didn’t just think it was a cool gimmick; they genuinely loved it because it came from you. for the first time in months, the loud, critical voice in your head was drowned out by the voices of the five boys who genuinely cherished you.
suddenly, martin’s face lit up, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “wait. we have about twenty minutes before our final lineup. yn... can you draw on us?”
“oh my god, please!” keonho begged instantly, thrusting his left arm forward so fast he almost hit you. “we need to match! think about how insane it would look on stage if the whole group had matching custom tattoos on our left hands. it perfectly binds the whole concept together! it makes us look like a real unit!”
“yes! do mine first, please,” juhoon chanted, hopping from foot to foot.
you looked at their eager faces, your chest swelling with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. they wanted a piece of your art on them for a major concert. they wanted to wear your work on stage.
“okay, okay, sit down!” you laughed, the last remnants of your anxiety melting away. “stop crowding me! i can only do quick ones on your hands or wrists, we literally do not have time for full sleeves.”
the next fifteen minutes turned into a chaotic, incredibly sweet bonding session. you perched on the edge of the leather sofa, uncapping your fresh liners, while the boys practically formed an orderly queue. they watched you work in absolute, uncharacteristic silence, completely mesmerised by how steady and precise your movements were.
“don’t move, mars,” you murmured, anchoring his hand with your fingers as you drew sharp, geometric bands mimicking cybernetic rings around his knuckles.
“i’m not moving, i’m not even breathing,” he whispered back, staring intently at your hand. “this is an honour, honestly.”
next was juhoon, who got a sprawling, sharp digital starburst across the back of his hand. “this is so sick,” he whispered, turning his hand back and forth in the light the second you finished. “i’m never washing this hand again. it’s an official cortis artifact now.”
“you have to wash it tonight, juhoon, you have skin oils,” seonghyeon chided calmly, though he was already holding out his own wrist. you gave seonghyeon a sleek, minimalist cyber-bracer that looked incredibly elegant. for keonho, you drew aggressive, venom-like spikes creeping up from his palm to his forearm, which had him flexing in the mirror instantly.
“five minutes to stage, cortis! final wardrobe checks right now!” the head manager shouted, banging loudly on the open door.
the styling room erupted into motion. the backup dancers were lining up in the hallway, and the other four members were already hyped up, high-fiving each other and aggressively showing off their matching left hands to the wardrobe staff, who were all murmuring in disbelief.
you stood up, capping your pen, a small, genuine smile on your face. but a gentle, firm hand caught your wrist. james pulled you into the quiet, shadowed space behind the heavy wardrobe racks, away from the rushing coordinates and shouting managers. the soft smile on his lips had deepened, but his dark eyes were intensely focused on you, holding a depth that always made your breath hitch. he held out his left hand, turning it over to expose the clear, bare skin on the back of it.
“my turn,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that private, low register that was reserved solely for you. “can you draw something specific for me? something that reminds you of... us?”
your heart gave a violent, familiar thud against your ribs. you looked down at his bare hand, then up at his face, the old insecurity trying to rear its head. “james... we only have like two minutes. what if i mess it up? yours should look the best, and i don’t want to give you something ugly right before we go out—”
“hey,” he interrupted softly, stepping closer until his chest practically brushed your shoulder. his right hand came up, his long fingers gently cupping your jaw, forcing you to stop looking at his hand and look into his eyes. “look at me.”
you looked up, your breathing shallow.
“stop doing that,” he whispered, his thumb softly brushing over your cheekbone, careful not to ruin your makeup. his expression was a mix of intense adoration and a slight, protective frustration. “stop talking about your work like it’s a mistake, and stop acting like you’re lesser than anyone else in that room. do you have any idea how brilliant you are? you sat out there and completely transformed the group’s look in fifteen minutes because you’re incredibly talented. you are more than enough, pretty girl. on this stage, in this group... and with me. do you understand?”
a small, breathless lump formed in your throat, but the sheer sincerity in his voice washed over your insecurities like a wave, putting them to sleep. you nodded slowly, a genuine, tear-tinged smile breaking onto your face. “okay.”
“good,” he murmured, his eyes softening as he released your jaw and held his left hand out again. “now, be fast. i want a piece of your art on me before we walk out there.”
taking a steadying breath, you pulled out your finest brush pen. you held his hand securely in yours, your fingers interlocking slightly to steady his palm, and began to ink his skin. but instead of the purely sharp, aggressive cybernetic lines you had given the others, you let your hand flow into something far more intricate.
you drew a striking, stylised butterfly. its wings were composed of sharp, futuristic shards and dangerous, metallic spikes—fitting the concept perfectly—but right at the center, weaving the dangerous wings together, you hid a microscopic, delicate infinity loop.
it was a silent promise. a hidden symbol of the way the two of you had evolved together, growing wings but staying entirely bound to one another amidst the deafening, chaotic noise of your idol lives.
as you lifted the pen, finishing the final stroke, james looked down at his hand. the contrast of the edgy, futuristic art against the deeply tender meaning behind it made his expression soften completely. his breath hitched slightly, his fingers trembling just a fraction.
“it’s beautiful, love,” he whispered, his eyes lifting to lock onto yours, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. “truly. it’s my favorite thing i’ve ever worn.”
“cortis, let’s go! stage doors are closing!” coco, your manager’s, voice boomed from the hallway, followed by the deafening roar of the crowd through the monitors.
james didn’t care about the rush. his right hand slid back to the nape of your neck, pulling you in firmly as he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. the kiss was deep, lingering, and full of a quiet, possessive love mixed with adrenaline. it sent an electric jolt right down to your toes, completely wiping away any leftover traces of your doubt.
he pulled back slowly, a breathless, confident smirk playing on his lips. he slid his fingers down to your left hand, intertwining his fingers tightly with yours. your matching, hand-drawn cyber art aligned perfectly, skin against skin, ink against ink.
“come on,” james whispered, tugging you toward the roaring light of the stadium. “let’s go crush it, pretty girl.”
SYNOPSIS : Martin has finally convinced you to let him teach you how to skateboard, but you're pretty sure the actual lesson is just an excuse for him to stay close holding you the entire time, not that you're complaining though.
WC : 2.6k
CONTAINS : reader can't skateboard, tiny mentions of injury, kissing, Martin is very touchy
PLAYLIST : Attention - Malcolm Todd; Don't let me down - The Beatles; Beaches - Beabadoobee; When it’s time - Green Day; Transform - Daniel Caesar, Charlotte Day Wilson; Sweet boy - Malcolm Todd
You don’t know how you let Martin talk you into this. Even thinking about it now, you’re fairly certain he used some form of mind control, or at the very least exploited every weakness you have when it came to him.
You’d both been sprawled across your bed, his head heavy and warm in your lap as your fingers stroked gently through his hair while some show played unwatched on your laptop.
Then he’d looked up at you with those ridiculous, impossibly soft puppy eyes he knew you couldn’t resist.
“Please let me teach you how to skateboard.” He said softly, your hands pausing briefly in his hair.
“Martin, we’ve been over this,” you sigh, shaking your head slightly.
"Have we?" He blinked innocently.
"Multiple times." You resumed your stroking, hoping the motion would lull him back into silence. “I’ve got no balance, I’d just fall over the entire time.”
“Baby, pleeeaaase.” He draws the words out, pushing himself to sit up straight as your hands fall uselessly to your lap. “I’ll be there the whole time to catch you, I promise.”
You opened your mouth to say no. You really did. It was the sensible option. The smart option. The option that would keep you safe from splatting onto the floor like a pancake.
But then his head tilted slightly, just enough to catch the light differently, and his hair was adorably mussed from where you'd been touching it, and his bottom lip pushed out in the smallest, most devastating pout you'd ever seen.
“Fine.” You’d sighed as he jumped up, throwing his arms in the air immediately to celebrate.
Now here you stand in this random skate park not too far from your house, about to face certain death while Martin stood in front of you giving you the most encouraging pep talk of the century.
“Sometimes you just have to accept the fall, babe, better to embrace it than get more hurt trying to avoid it.” He gestures casually like he was sharing profound wisdom, but you were absolutely going to avoid any possible chance of faceplanting the floor.
“I thought you said you’d catch me.” You cross your arms as you eye him up, watching the exact moment his brain catches up with his mouth, his eyes going wide for just a fraction of a second before he recovers.
“Of course I will,” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, avoiding eye contact. “Just saying in case.”
You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed.
"I'll hold you the whole time if I have to!" He throws his hands up defensively, that lopsided grin sliding back into place.
And boy did he keep his promise.
You wobbled slightly as you stepped onto the board, a little fearful of it shooting out under you, and his arms were immediately out, his hands gripping your upper arms to allow you to find your balance.
"Tin, this doesn't feel safe." Your voice comes out smaller than you'd like, eyes fixed on the board as it tilts with every micro-adjustment your shaking legs make.
"I'm here. You'll be fine." He says it with such casual confidence that you almost believe him. After what feels like an eternity, your body finally stops trembling and the board stills beneath you. When you look up, Martin's watching you with a small, proud smile that makes your stomach flip.
"I'm going to let you go now."
"Wha—"
His hands vanish from your arms. You lurch immediately, arms pinwheeling as you fight for balance until you finally find balance again, the boy in front of you just watches, grinning.
"Martin." Your voice could cut glass. "I'm going to kill you."
His smile only widens. "Sure, sure. Now it's time to move."
He steps forward, and suddenly his hands are on your waist, gently guiding you sideways. The board rolls beneath you, just inches, and you gasp, fingers digging into his forearms like they’re the only thing keeping you from certain death— which, to be fair, they are.
"Move?" you squeak, your voice pitching higher than normal. "Martin, I can barely stand still on this death trap, and you want me to move?"
His laugh is warm and infuriatingly charming, one that you’d appreciate more if you weren’t currently fighting for your life. "That's kind of the point of skateboarding, baby. Standing still is just... standing." His thumbs trace small, reassuring circles against your hips before he gives you an encouraging squeeze. "Just a tiny push. I've got you."
You take a shaky breath, looking down at your feet positioned awkwardly on the board, then back up at his patient, smiling face. Those damn eyes again.
"Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting you forever."
“I wouldn’t mind that.” He gives you a charming smile, your eyes rolling in response before he starts spitting instructions at you. “First, bend your knees slightly, but not too much, just a little… Yeah, like that." His hands guide you into the correct position before squeezing your waist again. "Now when you push, keep your weight centered over the board. Don't lean back or forward."
You look down at your feet once more, then at the hard, unnerving concrete below. "What if I fall?"
"Then I catch you." His voice is sincere now, his eyes watching your face for any sign that you truly didn’t want to do this. "I promise. I'll be right here."
You hold his gaze for a long moment, searching for any hint of the usual mischief, any sign that he's about to pull the rug out from under you again. But all you find is warmth.
"Okay," you whisper, surprised to find you actually mean it.
His smile could literally outshine the sun, but you’re too focused on not dying to pay attention to that. "Okay. Now when you're ready, just a little push. Nothing fancy."
You grip his forearms tight enough to probably leave bruises and bend your knees the way he showed you. The board wobbles beneath you and your heart stutters, but Martin's hands steady you immediately.
"I'm here," he murmurs. "I've got you. Take your time."
You breathe. Once. Twice. And then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you push.
The board rolls forward, moving beneath your feet like it's supposed to, and for one glorious second you're doing it, you're actually skateboarding. Then your weight shifts wrong, your arms fly out, and you're tipping sideways with a yelp.
But Martin's there.
His arms lock around you, hauling you against his chest as your feet leave the board entirely. It clatters away across the concrete as you both stumble, his back foot sliding out from under him, and suddenly you're falling together—
You land in a heap on the ground, him somehow twisted beneath you, his hair a mess and a breathless laugh already escaping his lungs.
"See?" He grins up at you, utterly unbothered by the fact that you're both sprawled on scratchy skate park concrete. "Caught you."
"You're literally underneath me right now."
"Caught you with my body." He winks, and you hate how much you want to kiss him.
Instead you smack his chest, which only makes him laugh harder. "You're an idiot."
"Love you too." He reaches up, running his hand through his hair, and the motion is so achingly familiar that something in your chest goes soft and warm. "You did it, though. You moved."
"I moved for like one second before falling."
"That's more than you could do ten minutes ago." His hands find your waist again, thumbs tracing gentle patterns. "Progress is progress."
You want to argue, but you're suddenly very aware of the position you're in: sprawled across your boyfriend in the middle of a skate park, his body warm beneath yours, his hands resting comfortably on your hips like they belong there.
Which, you suppose, they do.
"Are you okay?" you ask quietly. "I landed on you pretty hard."
"I'm fantastic." His voice has gone softer too, his eyes roaming your face like he's memorising it. "Best fall I've ever taken."
"You're so cheesy."
"You love it."
You do. You really, really do.
"Can we try again?" The question surprises you both, you can see it in the way his eyebrows shoot up. "I think I can do better."
His grin returns, wider than before. "That's my girl."
He helps you up, retrieves the board, and positions you carefully back on it. This time when you push, you make it three feet before wobbling. The time after that, you actually remember to bend your knees and stay centered, and you roll nearly halfway across the flat section before losing your balance.
Martin catches you every single time, without fail.
By the time the sun starts sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you've lost count of how many times you've fallen. Your palms are scraped, your knees ache, and there's a bruise forming on your hip that you don't even remember getting.
You're also pretty sure you've never had this much fun in your entire life.
"Again," you say, already pushing yourself off Martin's chest before he's fully caught you from the last attempt.
He blinks, amused. "You're not tired?"
"Not at all." You hold out your hand expectantly. "Board."
He retrieves it with a grin that's been permanently fixed on his face for the past hour, placing it carefully in front of you. "You know, most people would've given up by now."
"Most people don't have a very cute personal catcher."
His cheeks go pink, visible even in the fading light. "Oh. I'm cute now?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." But he's already positioning you on the board, hands finding their familiar place on your waist. "Okay, this time try to keep your shoulders square with the board. You've been twisting slightly when you push off."
You nod, absorbing the instruction with extreme focus, then you push off.
The board rolls smoothly beneath you, you now growing familiar with its movements as you bend your knees, centre your weight, and make sure your shoulders are square just as he said.
Then you hit a tiny pebble.
The board stops dead but you don't.
You pitch forward with a yelp, fully prepared to taste concrete, but Martin's immediately there, as always, catching you around the waist and spinning you both in a clumsy circle that dissipates the momentum.
When you stop, you're pressed flush against him, both of you breathing hard, his face inches from yours.
"That was—" you start.
"Amazing," he finishes, and kisses you.
It's quick and slightly off-center because he's grinning too wide to make it work properly, but it sends warmth flooding through your chest anyway. He pulls back, beaming, then sets you on your feet and takes off running to grab the board again before you can even process what happened.
"You can’t just do that!" you call after him while still frozen in place.
He turns, walking back towards you with the board tucked under his arm and a cheeky grin on his face. "Yes I can!"
The next attempt ends with you both on the ground again after he catches you and overcorrects, sending you tumbling in a heap. He kisses your forehead apologetically before helping you up.
The attempt after that, you make it almost the entire length of the flat section before your foot slips. He catches you, dips you dramatically, and kisses the surprised laugh right out of your mouth.
By attempt number... honestly, you've lost count... you're both giggling more than actually skating, and his kisses have become less rewards and more punctuation marks between each fall.
"You're using this as an excuse to make out with me," you accuse, wobbling slightly as he sets you back on the board.
His eyes go wide with feigned innocence. "I would never."
"You absolutely would."
"Okay, maybe." He leans in, stealing another quick kiss. "Is it working?"
You pretend to consider it. "Ask me again after I make it all the way across without falling."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Bet."
"I'm not—Martin, wait, that's not a challenge—"
But he's already stepping back, arms spread wide, giving you space. "Show me what you've got, baby. All the way across. I believe in you."
You stare at the stretch of concrete ahead. It looks much longer now than it did before. Longer and harder and would absolutely hurt if you went hurling onto it.
"Promise you'll catch me?"
"Promise."
You take a breath, bend your knees, square your shoulders, and push.
The board rolls and you're not thinking about anything. Not the ground. Not falling. Not Martin watching. Just realising you’re actually doing this stupid thing you never thought you could do.
Halfway. Your legs are screaming but you keep them bent.
Three-quarters. The end is right there. You can see where the smooth concrete ends.
And then you're rolling to a stop and you're across. You actually made it across.
You look up and Martin's already running at you full speed. You don't even have time to brace before he crashes into you, lifting you off the board and spinning you around. You're both laughing so hard you can barely breathe.
"I did it!" You gasp against his shoulder, the words muffled by his hoodie.
"You did it!" He sets you down just enough to kiss you properly: both feet on the ground, his hands cradling your face. His lips are warm and soft and this one lasts longer than all the others combined, like he's trying to pour every bit of pride and happiness he's feeling directly into you.
When he finally pulls back, you're both grinning like absolute idiots.
"Told you you could do it." His thumb traces over your cheekbone, his hair a total disaster from the wind and his hand endlessly brushing through it. He looks ridiculous. You love him so much it actually hurts.
"Okay," you admit, still catching your breath. "You were right."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Say that again?"
"No."
"Please?" He bats his eyelashes, that stupid puppy look making a comeback. "Just once more. For me."
You shove at his chest but you're smiling too hard for it to be convincing. "Don't push it."
He laughs and pulls you back in, tucking your head under his chin, and you let yourself sag against him, every muscle in your body aching.
"You know what this means right?" His voice rumbles against your ear.
"What?"
"We're gonna have to do this again. Can't let you lose your new skills."
You groan. Loudly. "I just did it once, that’s enough."
"Once is all it takes. You're hooked now. Skatepark every weekend. Maybe we'll get you your own board. Matching ones—"
"Martin."
"—with like, custom grip tape. What's your favourite colour? Wait, don't tell me, I should know this—"
"Martin."
He finally stops, looking down at you with that insufferable grin. "Yeah?"
"I'm not getting matching skateboards."
"Yet."
"Ever."
He kisses your forehead. "We'll see."
You should argue. You really should. But the sun's going down and you’re exhausted and he's warm and you just did something you genuinely didn't think you could do and maybe the idea of doing it again doesn't sound terrible.
"Fine," you mutter against his chest. "But I'm picking the grip tape."
His victory cheer echoes across the empty skatepark, bouncing off the ramps and bowls, and you're pretty sure every bird within a mile radius just took flight in alarm.
You're also pretty sure you wouldn't have it any other way.
SYNOPSIS :: In dinosaur drawings and stealing your fries, Keonho has always shown that it would only ever be you.
W.C :: 4.3k
CONTAINS :: childhoodfriend!keonho, childhood friends to lovers, swimmer!keonho briefly mentioned, skinship, kissing, both being slightly oblivious, teenage love
PLAYLIST :: Fade into you - Mazzy Star; Every summertime - Niki; Daylight - Taylor Swift; Open arms - Sza; Lovely girl - Racing Mind; Lover is a day - Cuco
Keonho and you were two peas in a pod for as long as anyone could remember, having known each other since you were little kids being placed as seatmates on the first day of school.
You don't even recall the teacher's face anymore. Just the scratch of the chair legs on the floor, the smell of crayons and raincoats, and this boy next to you who immediately drew a tiny dinosaur on a piece of paper atop the corner of his desk and looked over at you like he was waiting for you to react. You drew a bigger dinosaur next to his. He grinned, all missing teeth and mischief, and that was that.
For years, that was just how life worked. He stole the left-side swing before you could get to it, then gave it up with an exaggerated sigh. You saved him a seat at lunch and he'd slide in like he owned the place, stealing fries off your tray before you could stop him. He walked you home even when it was out of his way, kicking rocks and making up ridiculous stories just to hear you laugh. You made signs for his swim meets with glitter glue and terrible handwriting, and he'd hold them up at the finish line and wave them like a flag, completely and utterly unembarrassed.
He never said thank you in words, he was just a boy after all. But he'd show up at your door the next day with your favourite candy, toss it at your head, and say "Don't get used to it" with a smirk.
People always asked if you were dating, and you’d both turned red and say no far too quickly, spending the rest of the afternoon pretending not to look at each other. But by dinner, he was sending you a video of his dog doing something stupid, and you were sending back a blurry picture of your homework, and everything was normal again.
You grew comfortable with each other in ways you didn't fully appreciate until much later.
It just happened naturally, like moss creeping over stones or the way a favourite hoodie eventually molds itself to your shoulders. You knew how he took his ramyeon. He knew that you cried at animal commercials. You could sit in the same room for hours without speaking and neither of you would feel lonely—but also, you could talk for hours without running out of things to say, him talking just as much as you did, his voice easy and warm and full of jokes.
That was the thing about Keonho. Silence with him was fine, but laughter with him was better.
Maybe that's why it took you so long to realise.
Because love, the way people talked about it, was supposed to be loud: heartbeats and fireworks and grand gestures. But yours was just there. Already there. Had been there so long you'd stopped noticing it, like the air in your lungs or the beat of your own heart. It was in the way he threw popcorn at your head during movies, how he'd fake gag when you said something sappy, even in the way he'd look so softly at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
You remember the exact moment you finally noticed, though.
You were both twelve, sprawled on his bedroom floor doing nothing in particular. He was reading something, or more so he was pretending to read something, because you caught him staring at you over the top of his book. You opened your mouth to say something smart, but he spoke first.
"You've got a weird face," he said, completely deadpan.
"Excuse me?"
"It's not a bad weird. Just. Weird."
You threw a pencil at him and he caught it, grinning. And for one second, one stupid, electric second, your chest did something strange it had never done before. Or maybe it had. Maybe it had been doing it for years and you'd just never paid attention.
You looked back down at your worksheet pretending to be cool, but your hand was shaking.
You didn't tell him. Not that day and not for a long time. You just started noticing things you'd always known but never felt. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he was tired, how his grin softened into something smaller when he thought you weren't looking, and how he said your name like it was a private joke the two of you shared.
And you thought: Oh no.
Oh no.
Because how were you supposed to go back to normal after that?
But you did, or at least you pretended to. You still saved him seats. He still walked you home, still kicked rocks, still made up stupid stories. You still made terrible glitter signs for his meets, and he still waved them like an idiot at the finish line.
You hadn't realised that Keonho felt the same, and had pretty much always felt the same. You thought it was just you and your own stupid heart getting carried away like it always did. You thought you were being careful, keeping it hidden enough that no one noticed.
But Keonho had always been faster than you. Quicker with a joke, quicker with a comeback, quicker to figure things out.
So while you were busy pretending everything was normal, he was busy noticing that you'd stopped returning his teasing, and you laughed a little too loud when someone mentioned dating, yet you still found reasons to touch his sleeve, his shoulder, his hand—fleeting things you probably didn't even realise you were doing, but still felt intentional to him.
He noticed all of it.
He just didn't say anything yet because nothing was scarier than attempting to figure out if you were risking an entire friendship for a love that held even the slightest possibility of being unrequited.
Instead, he started doing small things. Bringing you your favourite snack without being asked, and then pretending he'd bought it for himself until you stole it. Walking even slower on the way home so the walk lasted longer, complaining loudly about how tired he was. Letting his shoulder brush yours more often and then saying "Watch where you're going" like it was your fault.
You convinced yourself it didn't mean anything. He was just being Keonho. Annoying, playful, slightly obnoxious Keonho who had never once looked at anyone the way people looked at each other in movies.
And, to be honest, Keonho grew a little frustrated that you couldn't read into his—what he believed to be—plainly obvious attempts of showing you he liked you.
Because in his mind, he was being so screamingly obvious.
He'd started walking on the outside of the pavement so you were farther from the road, a trick he’d learnt from the kdrama you’d forced him to watch with you. He'd started bringing two of everything: two ice pops, two sodas, two bags of chips, and when you asked, he'd shrug and say "I was hungry" while shoving one straight into your hand. He'd started remembering things you mentioned once, offhand, like your favourite song or the name of a movie you wanted to see, and then bringing them up weeks later like it was no big deal.
And you just… smiled, said thanks and went back to your usual routine.
He once sat next to you on the school bus and let his leg press against yours for the entire forty-minute ride. Didn't move, or even breathe, honestly. And you just leaned your head against the window and fell asleep.
He spent that whole ride staring straight ahead, ears on fire, wondering if you were being oblivious on purpose or if you had simply never once thought of him as anything other than the annoying boy who stole your fries.
The answer, of course, was neither. You just didn't think someone like Keonho could ever like someone like you. So your brain filed every single one of his attempts under just being Keonho and refused to look at them any other way.
It drove him crazy.
He'd lie awake at night staring at his ceiling, replaying every moment of the day, trying to figure out what else he was supposed to do. Write you a song? He could do that, badly and off-key just to see you laugh. Hold your hand? He could do that too, he'd just have to come up with a stupid excuse first. Show up at your door with flowers? The thought made him want to throw up, but also, maybe. If it was you. He’d only do it if it were you.
He was twelve. Then thirteen. Then fourteen. And still, somehow, you hadn't noticed.
Everyone else seemed to be able to see it. Your mothers whispered and giggled behind their hands, picturing wedding colors before either of you had even held hands. Your friends rolled their eyes every time you said "Keonho's just being Keonho" like it was the most ridiculous sentence they'd ever heard. Even his swim coach once asked, after a meet, "Is that your girlfriend?" and Keonho had laughed and said "Not yet" and the coach had looked very confused because why else would this random girl be at every competition other than to cheer on her boyfriend?
But you? You were the only person in the entire world who couldn't see what was standing right in front of you.
It wasn't that you were stupid, because you weren't. It was that Keonho had been part of your life for so long that you'd stopped seeing him as a person and started seeing him as just… Keonho. The background radiation of your everyday existence. As necessary and as invisible as the air. The annoying, teasing, funny, stupid oxygen that made your heart beat its usually fast pace, but that if you went without you wouldn’t survive past 5 minutes.
You didn't notice the way his eyes followed you across the cafeteria because his eyes had always followed you across the cafeteria. You didn't notice how he said your name softer than he said anyone else's because your name had always sounded like that coming from his mouth—and also because he'd absolutely deny it if you asked. You didn't notice that he never touched anyone the way he touched you: a shove on the shoulder, a flick to your forehead, a hand ruffling your hair, because you had no way of knowing what he was like with other people when you weren't around.
(For the record: funny, but not as funny. Playful, but not as much. He saves his best material for you. He always has.)
The summer after he turned fourteen, he nearly told you five separate times. Once at the pool, your legs dangling in the water next to his, him splashing you on purpose. Once at the convenience store, buying you both the same ice cream without asking what you wanted because he already knew, and then licking yours before handing it over just to watch you shriek. Once on your front porch, the two of you sitting on the steps while the fireflies came out, him getting quieter and quieter until you asked if he was sick and he fumbled his words.
And once in his bedroom, you lying on his floor complaining about something, him sitting on his bed pretending to listen. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Still nothing came out.
Instead, he threw a pillow at your head.
"Hey!" you said, laughing.
"You talk too much," he said.
But his ears were pink and he turned his face away, pretending to look for something on his bedside table. Anything to distract himself really: a pencil, a dead fly, he would have studied the dust motes floating in the afternoon light if it meant not looking at you sprawled on his floor, hair everywhere, cheeks flushed from laughing.
Because if he really, truly looked at you he knew he'd say it. And saying it out loud meant making it real. And making it real meant he could lose the one thing he knew he couldn’t lose.
That was the part no one talked about. Not in the movies, or in the goofy songs he hummed when he thought no one was listening. They always made confession feel like a door opening. But what if it was a door closing instead? What if he told you, and you laughed at him and then everything got weird? What if you stopped lying on his floor? What if you stopped stealing his fries as payback? What if you stopped being you and Keonho and became just two people who used to be friends?
He couldn't survive that.
You rolled onto your back and threw the pillow back at him. It hit him square in the face. "You're so weird lately," you said, but you were smiling.
He caught the pillow and held it in his lap. "Am not."
"Are too. You keep zoning out. And your ears are always red. Are you sick?"
"No."
"Fever?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He looked at you then for just a second. Long enough to memorise the way the light hit your face as you looked up at him like he was someone worth looking at. Then he turned away.
"Nothing," he said. "You're just loud."
"Rude," you said, and went back to complaining about your math homework.
And Keonho sat there on his bed, pillow in his lap, wondering if you would even feel the same.
That was the real question, wasn't it? Not if he loved you—that had been settled years beforehand. But whether you loved him back. Whether you had ever once looked at him and felt that same stupid, suffocating, wonderful thing he felt every time you walked into a room.
He didn't know.
He thought he knew you better than anyone, but he didn't know this. He couldn't tell if the way you leaned into him on the bus meant something or if you just did it because he was warm. He couldn't tell if the way you saved him a seat meant you wanted him there or if it was just habit. He couldn't tell if you looked at him the way he looked at you: like he was something precious, something fragile, something worth keeping.
Probably not, he thought. You were you. Bright and loud and easy with everyone. You hugged your friends and laughed with strangers. You probably didn't even realise you'd been breaking his heart gently for years, just by being yourself.
What he did know, though, was that even if you never feel the same way, he'd still want you here in every way you've ever been: stealing his food as payback, calling him annoying, falling asleep on his shoulder on the bus.
That was the scariest part. That he’d sacrifice his entire heart for the mere moments he gets to share with you because feeling heartbroken with you there was still a better fate than not having you at all.
But feelings that rooted themselves so deeply in you before you even had words to express them didn't stay buried forever. They grow whether you want them to or not, press against ribs and make a home in your throat. And eventually, carrying something so heavy on a soul so young is bound to boil over.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. You were walking home together like you always did: the same street at the same pace with the same space between you that sometimes shrunk and sometimes grew but never quite disappeared. He was carrying your backpack for you because you'd complained about your shoulders hurting—and he'd made fun of you for it first before taking it because that was his job and had always been his job. You were talking about something: a show you'd been watching, a friend who'd said something annoying, he couldn't even remember what.
And then you stopped walking.
He stopped too, confused. "What, did you forget something?"
You were looking at him with your eyebrows drawn together and your mouth slightly open. You looked like you'd just realised something you weren't supposed to realise.
"Ahn Keonho," you said slowly.
"Uh oh. Full name. Am I in trouble?"
"Why are you carrying my backpack?"
He blinked. "Because you said your shoulders hurt and then you whined about it for ten minutes. I did it to shut you up."
"Right." You nodded but continued to stare at him. "But why do you always do that? Carry my stuff? Walk me home? Remember everything I say?"
He felt his ears get hot and he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Because someone has to. You're a disaster."
"No," you said. "That's not what people just do. People don't just—" You gestured at him, at the backpack, at the years of history between you. "Keonho. Do you like me?"
The world got very quiet. No cars or birds. Just the sound of his heartbeat in his ears and your voice hanging in the air between them.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, just like his bedroom and the pool, and like every other time he'd almost said it and then swallowed it back down.
But his ribs were aching, his throat was full, and he was so, so tired of carrying it alone.
So he did what he always did when he didn't have words. He deflected.
"What kind of question is that?" He said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile and a half. "Of course I like you. You're tolerable. Sometimes."
"Keonho."
"I mean, you're loud. You steal my food. You fell asleep on my shoulder on the bus and you drooled. On me. I should get hazard pay for—"
"Keonho."
He stopped and finally looked at you, noticing how your eyes were shining slightly.
"Just answer the question," you said quietly.
He swallowed. His ears were on fire now, and his heart was doing something violent in his chest.
"Yeah," he said. Voice barely there. "I like you. I've liked you. Probably since you drew that bigger dinosaur."
You stared at him. "The dinosaur?"
"You don't remember? First day of school. I drew a tiny dinosaur. You looked at me like I was an idiot and drew a bigger one." He shrugged, pretending it didn't matter. "You’ve been the only thing on my mind since."
You didn't say anything. You just stood there on the sidewalk, your backpack hanging off one of his shoulders, your eyes wide and shining and wet.
And then—
"You've been carrying my backpack for years and years because of a dinosaur?" you said.
He froze. "That's— that's not— that's not what I—"
You laughed, your eyes scrunching in delight as his gaze couldn’t help but soften at the sight. And then you stepped forward and threw your arms around his neck, backpack and all, and he stumbled back two steps before catching you both.
"You're such an idiot," you said into his shoulder.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stand there with your weight against him and your hair in his face and the entire world rearranging itself around his feet.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I know."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your face was closer than it had ever been and he could finally see every small detail he'd never noticed before.
"I kept the drawing too," you said quietly.
He blinked. "The drawing?"
"You let me keep the paper we drew on. I still have it."
His heart did something complicated. A warm, spreading thing that made his chest feel too small for everything inside it. "You're such a sap," he said, but his voice came out softer than he meant it to, almost fond. He'd kill you if you pointed that out.
"You're the one who fell in love because of a dinosaur."
He opened his mouth to argue but struggled to find any words because you were standing there, your face still too close, eyes still shining, and you were smiling at him like he'd just given you the world instead of a confession he'd been choking on for years.
"Touché," he managed.
And then you kissed him—or at least attempted to
Your nose bumped against his cheek. You’d angled wrong at first and had to correct. Your hands came up to grip the front of his jacket like you were afraid he might disappear.
He almost laughed. Almost. But then your lips were on his: soft, warm, a little clumsy, and every single thought in his head scattered like startled birds.
You pulled back too soon for him to fully comprehend what was happening. His ears were scarlet, he could feel the heat radiating off them, and his face was doing something he couldn't control. His mouth was still slightly open. His eyes were probably wide. He probably looked like an absolute idiot.
"So," you said, grinning like you hadn't just rearranged his entire internal organs, "does this mean you're going to stop stealing my fries?"
He stared at you. The audacity. The absolute audacity of this girl. You’d just had your first kiss on a random sidewalk after endless years of pining, and you were worried about fries.
"Absolutely not," he said.
And then he kissed you back.
His hand came up to cup the side of your face—something he'd seen in movies, and he'd imagined doing a thousand times in the privacy of his own head. His fingers were shaking and he hoped you couldn't tell. He kissed you slower this time, not because he knew what he was doing but because he wanted to remember it. The way you sighed against his mouth and your fingers tightened in his jacket. The way the whole world narrowed down to just this: you, him, the space between you finally closed.
When you broke apart, you were smiling so wide your eyes had practically disappeared. His ears were still on fire and his heart was still doing something embarrassing.
"Your face is really red," you said.
"Yours is too."
"Liar."
"You wanna go look in a mirror?"
You shoved his shoulder. He caught your hand before you could pull it back and held it there, fingers loosely tangled with you, and they stayed tied together for awhile
After that, things were different. Softer like someone had turned down the volume of the world and turned up the warmth. He still stole your fries and you still called him annoying. But now when he held your hand, he didn't make up an excuse first. Now when you leaned your head on his shoulder on the bus, he'd rest his cheek on top of your head and pretend he wasn't smiling. Now when your mothers whispered and giggled behind their hands, he'd stage-whisper to you and you'd both dissolve into laughter at whatever cheeky comment he’d made.
Being loved by Keonho, you learned, was a noisy thing.
It was him showing up at your door with your favourite snack, tossing it at your head, and saying "you owe me." It was him waiting for you after school even when your classes ran late, complaining loudly about how cold it was the entire time. It was him looking at you across a crowded room and pulling a stupid face until you laughed.
He still teased you constantly, that never changed and likely never would. But now there was something warmer underneath it that made your chest ache in the best way. Now when he called you annoying, it meant I love you. Now when he stole your food, it meant I love you. Now when he pulled stupid faces and made bad jokes and walked you home even when it was out of his way, it all meant the same thing.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
He never said it often. Maybe once a month, maybe even less. But he didn't need to. He'd been saying it for years—in dinosaurs and stolen fries, in backpacks carried and seats saved and walks home that were never out of his way. He'd been saying it in every stupid joke and every teasing grin and every time he looked at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.
You just hadn't known how to listen yet.
Now you did.
"You know," you said one night, lying on his bedroom floor, him sprawled next to you, both of you staring at the ceiling. "I can't believe it took us this long."
"Blame yourself," he said. "You're oblivious."
"I'm not oblivious. You're just bad at flirting."
"I drew you a dinosaur."
"That was in first grade."
"My game has always been strong."
You turned your head to look at him, and found him already looking at you, his eyes soft in the dim light.
"I love you," you said. Just because you could.
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I know."
"You're the worst." You roll your eyes, a grin forming on his face.
"You love me."
"Unfortunately," you said. And when he smiled his real smile that he didn't give to anyone else, you knew he was right.
People said you were too young to know what forever meant, and maybe they were right. But when you looked at Keonho, at this boy who had been beside you since the first day of school, who knew you better than anyone, who had loved you since before he even knew the word for it, you couldn't imagine a version of your life where he wasn't there.
And neither could he.
"So," you said one afternoon, walking home, his arm slung over your shoulders, your backpack hanging off his other arm because he still carried it even though you'd stopped asking. "Do you think we'll make it?"
"To where?"
"To forever. Or whatever."
He snorted. "That's a stupid question."
"Is it?"
He stopped walking and looked down at you. His ears were already pink, but he was smiling so softly at you you felt like you were going to melt.
"I've been carrying your stuff since we were seven," he said. "You really think I'm gonna stop now?"
You grinned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
And he started walking again, pulling you along with him, and you let him. Because that was how it had always been and that was how it would always be.
You were fifteen. You were sixteen. You were two peas in a pod, still, always, just like everyone always said.
Some things don't need to be forever to be real.
But this one, you suspected, might just make it anyway.
SYNOPSIS :: Juhoon had left you heartbroken to chase his dreams, so why were you seeing posts of him sat at the very bus stop it had all began? Why did he look like he too was still haunted by the ghost of your love? And why, after years of trying to forget him, couldn’t you stop staring?
W.C :: 16.9k
CONTAINS :: idol!juhoon, angst with some fluff, small hometown, childhood lovers, longing/yearning, miscommunication, brief mentions of burns (coffee), swapping of timelines and povs a lot, break up, kissing, reader is a bad dancer, profanities, brief mentions of the members, parents make an appearance
PLAYLIST :: The man who can't be moved - The Script; Letter home - Childish Gambino; It had to be you - Frank Sinatra; Blessed - Daniel Caesar; This town - Niall Horan; Alexandra - reality club; Breakeven - The Script; Coming up roses - Harry Styles
The café had been hell.
The espresso machine broke twice, a customer yelled at you because their oat milk latte wasn't "oaty enough," and your manager disappeared into the back room for forty-five minutes to "take a call" that was definitely just him watching TikTok.
By the time you punched out, your feet were screaming, your hair smelled like stale coffee grounds, and you had a small burn on your thumb from a rogue steam wand.
But you were done. Finally done.
The walk back to your dorm was short: three blocks, past the convenience store with the flickering sign, past the elderly couple who walked their tiny dog every night at the exact same time and smiled sweetly at you. You let your mind go blank. It was easier that way.
Your dorm was exactly as you'd left it: messy, too small, and mercifully empty. Your roommates were either still out or already asleep behind their closed doors. You didn't care which.
You toed off your sneakers, dropped your bag by the door, and shuffled to the kitchenette in your thick socks. The leftover noodles from two nights ago were still in the fridge and looked edible enough. You pulled the container out, peeled back the lid, and stuck it in the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes as the beeps echoed around the room.
You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms as you watched the numbers count down.
Then your eyes landed on your phone, face-down on the counter. You hadn't checked anything all shift, there was no time and no service in the back of the café anyway.
You picked it up, swiped open the screen, and started scrolling.
Past the many updates of your school friends embracing their first year of freedom, past the random cooking videos, gossip pages, and the endless cycle of social media
Then your thumb stopped as your eyes locked onto a post.
It was uploaded by a random account, looked to be a fanpage, and it was an engagement-bait tweet that had somehow clawed its way onto your feed. The kind of thing the algorithm shoved at you because it knew something you didn't want to admit from your 2 am searching when your nostalgia grew to heavy and you couldn’t resist the urge.
"does anyone know why CORTIS's Juhoon is just sitting at a random bus stop?? this is like the fourth sighting tonight 💀"
Below it was a photo.
It was blurry, taken from a distance and probably zoomed in from a car window. But the figure in the frame was unmistakable.
Hood up, shoulders curved inward, sitting completely alone on the bench of an old bus stop.
Your bus stop.
The one with the crooked tin roof and the faded ads for phone cards that hadn't existed since you were eleven. You could recognise it anywhere, it was the place where you'd waited every single morning before school, your backpack heavy with unfinished homework, Juhoon's shoulder warm against yours as he peeled an orange and handed you half.
The microwave beeped, your noodles finally heated up.
You didn't move.
Your food sat inside, spinning to a slow stop as steam fogged the inside of the door. But your eyes stayed locked on the screen, on that blurry photo, on the shape of a boy you used to know better than your own reflection sitting at a place you'd both promised never to forget.
The microwave beeped again, impatient.
You didn't hear it.
You were already somewhere else entirely. You were back at that bench, the first time you ever met him.
It was the first day of middle school. Humid. Late August. The kind of morning where the air felt thick as syrup and your new uniform itched at the back of your neck. Your mother had walked you to the end of your road, not because you needed her to, but because she said "first days are important" and kissed the top of your head like you were still small.
She left you at the corner and gave you instructions to just continue following the road.
You'd nodded, adjusted your backpack straps and walked.
The bus stop was easy to spot: crooked tin roof, faded bench, a trash can that always smelled faintly of warm soda. What you didn't expect was the boy already sitting there.
He was small for his age. Too-thin wrists sticking out of a uniform that looked like it had been bought a size too big on purpose, a reflection of yours. Dark hair falling into his eyes because he hadn't figured out how to style it yet. He had a comic book open on his lap—some old superhero thing with bent corners—but he wasn't reading it. He was watching the ground, kicking at a loose pebble with the toe of his scuffed sneakers.
You almost walked past, too shy to even attempt speaking to a stranger without making your stomach curl. But the bench was the only place to sit, and the bus wasn't coming for another seven minutes according to the schedule nailed to the post.
So you sat on the far end. As far as you could without falling off.
He looked up.
His eyes were dark, wide, even a little startled, like he hadn't expected anyone to actually show up. For a second, neither of you spoke. A bird called somewhere in the distance. A car drove past, radio blaring something you didn't recognise.
Then he said, "You're new."
Not a question. Just an observation. Like he'd catalogued every kid in the neighbourhood and you weren't in his mental file.
"Yeah," you said. "Moved here over the summer."
He nodded slowly. Then he looked back down at his comic book. You thought that was it—that the conversation was over, that you'd spend the rest of middle school as strangers who happened to share a bus stop.
But then he held out his hand, open-palmed, and in it was a crumpled cheap packet of fruit snacks.
"Want half?" he asked. "My mom packs too many."
You looked at him, the too-big uniform and the scuffed sneakers and the way he wasn't quite meeting your eyes because he was shy too, probably, in the same exact way you were.
You took the fruit snacks.
"I'm Juhoon," he said.
You told him your name.
And for the next seven minutes you sat together on the cracked wooden bench, splitting a packet of fruit snacks, not saying much of anything. But it wasn't awkward. It was the opposite of awkward.
When the bus doors hissed open, he stood up first.
"Come on," he said. "I'll save you a seat."
You followed him on.
You were eleven years old. You didn't know it yet, but that was the moment everything started.
You'd became friends slowly.
Arriving at the bus stop a few minutes earlier each day, just in case the other was there. Saving seats on the bus, and walking together from the bus to school even though your classrooms were in different directions.
By second year, you were inseparable, making so many memories that still stick with you.
You remembered the first time he kissed you. He was teaching you dance moves in the empty parking lot near the bus stop, it seemed to become a regular occurrence after the first time,
It was summer. The kind of evening where the heat finally breaks and the air goes soft and gold. You'd walked with him after school, neither of you wanting to go home yet, and ended up in the parking lot behind the convenience store. The one with the cracked asphalt and the single streetlight that wouldn't turn on until dark.
You'd asked him to show you what he was practicing.
He'd been embarrassed at first. Shook his head. Said it was stupid. Said you'd laugh.
"I won't laugh," you'd said.
"You'll laugh."
"I promise I won't laugh."
"You always laugh."
"Because you're funny. Not because your dancing is funny. Different things."
He'd looked at you. You were sitting on the curb, chin in your hands, waiting. The gold light was catching your hair, making it look like something from a dream.
"Fine," he'd said. "But you promised."
He'd pulled out his phone, found the song he'd been working on. Placed it on the curb beside you. Stepped into the middle of the parking lot and tried to pretend you weren't watching.
He was nervous. That was the thing. He'd danced in front of people before but this was different. This was you. And for some reason, your eyes on him made his hands shake.
The song started. He moved.
It wasn't his best performance. He knew that. Missed a few beats, stumbled on a turn, almost lost his balance at one point. But he kept going, pushing through, trying to show you what he'd been working on for weeks.
When the song ended, he stood there breathing hard, waiting for your reaction.
You clapped.
Actually clapped, like he'd just finished on a real stage, your face bright with enthusiasm.
"That was amazing!" you'd said. "Do it again!"
"I'm not doing it again."
"Please? Just one more time?"
"No."
You stood up and walked toward him. "Then teach me."
"Teach you?"
"Yeah. Show me the steps. I want to learn."
He'd laughed. Actually laughed out loud. "You can't dance."
"I can too."
"You absolutely cannot."
"I can learn. That's what teaching is for. Come on."
So he'd tried.
He started with the basic footwork. Simple stuff. Step-touch, step-touch. You'd watched intently, nodded like you understood, and then tried to copy him.
You were terrible.
Graceless in a way that was almost impressive. Your feet tangled. Your arms went everywhere. You looked like someone being attacked by bees.
"That's not—no, your feet—okay, stop, just stop for a second."
You'd stopped, grinning. "What? I'm doing it."
"You're not doing it. You're doing something else entirely."
"Same thing."
"Absolutely not the same thing."
He'd walked over to you, positioning himself behind you. Reached around and took your arms, guiding them into the right position. "Like this. And then your feet go—here, step on my count. One, two, three—"
You'd stepped on his foot.
"Sorry!"
"It's fine. Again. One, two, three—"
You'd stepped on his foot again.
"You're doing that on purpose."
"I'm not!" But you were laughing, and he was laughing, and neither of you could remember the steps anymore.
You'd turned to face him, still laughing, your face flushed from the heat and the movement. "Hopelessly in love with you," you'd said.
And then your face had gone red.
Deep red, spreading from your cheeks to your ears to your neck. Because neither of you had said that word before. Not really. Not out loud. You'd danced around it for months, circling closer and closer, but never actually saying it.
The laughter stopped.
The parking lot went quiet.
You were looking at him with wide eyes, like you couldn't believe what you'd just said and you might take it back if you could.
He didn't give you the chance.
He kissed you.
Just a quick kiss, soft and gentle, his lips barely pressing against yours. A question more than anything. Testing and hoping.
When he pulled back, you were looking at him with eyes he still saw in his dreams. Bright and surprised and full of something he couldn't name but wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.
You didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
The streetlight above you flickered on, casting yellow light across the parking lot. The convenience store hummed in the distance. Somewhere a dog barked.
Then you'd whispered: "Took you long enough."
And you'd kissed him back.
Your heart clenched at the memory. You’d both been so young and so in love, believing the world was much simpler than it turned out to be.
The noodles were going cold but you didn’t care, you scrolled down to the comments on the post, hoping to get a hint of something, though you didn’t know what you were truly looking for.
"omg that bus stop is so random??"
"maybe he's filming something?"
"his company hasn't said anything"
"he looks so sad help 😭"
"someone go get him"
Your thumb twitched.
The microwave beeped a third time, a setting that intended to ensure your food wouldn’t get cold, though it already failed at that. The sound cut through the fog in your head. You blinked and the dorm came back into focus: the stack of unpaid bills on the counter, your roommate's cheap incense burning low on the shelf, the hum of the old refrigerator.
Normal and regular things that belonged to the life you'd built after.
But the photo was still on your screen. And Juhoon was still sitting there.
You locked your phone. Set it down face-up—a mistake, because now the photo was the only thing you saw every time you glanced over. You grabbed your cold noodles from the microwave, peeled back the lid, and took a bite.
Tasted like nothing.
You chewed and swallowed anyway, leaning against the counter and stared at the wall.
Don't.
The word appeared in your head fully formed. Sensible. Adult. You'd spent two years learning how to not think about him. How to scroll past CORTIS content without pausing. How to delete the old texts without rereading them first. How to fall asleep without picturing the way he used to tuck your hair behind your ear when you were too tired to do it yourself.
You were good at it now. Really good.
You took another bite of cold noodles, then you looked at your phone again.
The photo was still there. Juhoon was still there. Alone. At 1 a.m. On a broken bench. In a neighbourhood neither of you had lived in for months.
You could just... check.
Not go. Obviously not go. That would be insane. That would be something the old you would do; the girl who believed in grand gestures and movie endings and promises made at bus stops. That girl had cried herself raw and learned better.
But you could check. One quick scroll through the replies to see if anyone had posted an update. See if he'd left yet.
You picked up the phone.
No new sightings. Just more people confused, more people speculating, more people tagging his company with ‘where is his manager??’
You sighed, dropping the phone onto the counter and rubbing your hand on your face.
What on earth was he doing?
Sitting there. At 1 a.m. On a bench that had probably given you both splinters a hundred times. In a neighbourhood that wasn't his anymore. In a life that wasn't yours anymore.
It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.
You picked up the phone again. Stared at the photo. His shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller and his hands were clasped loose between his knees. The hood was pulled low, hiding his eyes.
This wasn't a PR stunt. There were no cameras. No managers hovering in the background. Just him, alone, in the dark, at a bus stop that hadn't seen a bus past 10 p.m. in years.
You thought about the last time you'd spoken properly, before he officially ended things.
It was the night before his final audition. He'd called you from his bedroom window—his way of saying come outside without saying it. You'd climbed out your own window, crossed the lawn in your bare feet, and found him sitting on his porch steps, guitar in his lap, looking at you like you were the last good thing in the world.
"What if I make it?" he'd asked.
"Then you make it."
"What if they want all of me?"
You'd laughed, not understanding. "They can't have all of you. Some of you is mine."
He'd smiled at that. But the smile hadn't reached his eyes.
You should have asked what that meant. You should have stayed on those porch steps and pulled the truth out of him, word by word, until there was nothing left hidden. But you were sixteen and stupid and you thought promises were enough.
They weren't.
You locked your phone again. Set it down. Picked up your cold noodles and scraped them into the trash—you weren't hungry anymore, hadn't been hungry since you saw the photo.
You turned off the kitchen light and walked to your room, leaving your phone on the counter.
You didn't check the photo again. You didn't scroll through the comments. You didn't look for updates. You just brushed your teeth, washed your face, and changed into an old t-shirt that used to be his, one you'd kept even though you told yourself you should throw it away.
The fabric was soft, worn thin at the collar. It smelled like your detergent now, not him. That had happened months ago. You remembered the exact wash when the last trace of him disappeared, how you'd cried a little before putting it back in your drawer and pretended you hadn't.
You climbed into bed and pulled the blanket to your chin, staring at the ceiling.
What on earth was he doing?
The question circled your brain like a song you couldn't shake. You turned onto your side. Then your back. Then your stomach. The pillow was too warm. Then too cold. Nothing felt right.
You thought about the bench. About the crooked tin roof. About the way the streetlight flickered every seventeen seconds—you'd counted once, years ago, while waiting for a bus that was running late, and Juhoon had laughed at you for counting.
"You're such a weirdo," he'd said.
"You like it."
"Yeah," he'd said, soft. "I do."
You closed your eyes.
The photo was burned into the back of your eyelids. Juhoon, alone. Juhoon, waiting. Juhoon, sitting at a place you'd both promised never to forget—
You forced your eyes open.
Stop.
You didn't need to go. You didn't need to check. You didn't need to be the girl who ran to a bus stop at 1 a.m. for a boy who'd made it clear he was done with you.
That girl had learned better.
That girl had moved on.
That girl was going to sleep.
You rolled over, punched your pillow into submission, and closed your eyes again.
The room settled. The refrigerator clicked off. The world got quiet.
And eventually, slowly and stubbornly, you fell asleep, already knowing you’d be checking your phone again the next day.
Juhoon was going mad, that was as clear as day.
The company finally gives him a long-deserved break after months of work—comeback preparations, variety show appearances, endless fansigns, flights that blurred into other flights—and this is how he spends it?
He had arrived home only two days ago, his parents fussing over him like he was still sixteen. His mother had made his favourite soup. His father had clapped him on the back and said "you look too thin" three times in one hour. The house smelled the same. The floorboards creaked the same. Everything was exactly as he'd left it.
Except for you.
Your house, three doors down, had new curtains. He'd noticed the first night, standing at his bedroom window like a ghost, watching the warm glow of your family's living room. He'd watched for longer than he wanted to admit, hoping for a glimpse of a silhouette, a shadow, anything.
He saw your mother. Your father. Your younger brother, taller now.
He didn't see you.
That was the first night.
The second night, he walked past your street entirely. Took the long way. Told himself he was just stretching his legs, just clearing his head, just enjoying the neighbourhood air that didn't smell like Seoul traffic and anxiety.
His feet carried him to the bus stop anyway.
The bench was still there, though smaller than he remembered. The wood was more splintered, the paint more peeled, the crooked tin roof more crooked. But it was still there. Waiting. Like it had been waiting since he’d left.
He sat down.
Just for a minute, he told himself. Just to see.
The minute became an hour. The hour became two. He didn't have his phone out. Didn't have headphones in. Didn't have anything except the weight of his own thoughts and the cold seeping through his jeans.
He wasn't sure what he was waiting for.
That was a lie. He knew exactly what he was waiting for.
He just didn't know if you'd come.
The first night, you didn't.
He stayed until 2 a.m. Walked home with stiff fingers and an empty chest. His mother was waiting up and he'd mumbled some excuse about jet lag, couldn't sleep, just went for a walk.
She'd looked at him like she saw straight through him.
"Is it her?"
He hadn't answered, didn't need to.
The second night, he went back.
Earlier this time: 11 p.m. He told himself it was because he wanted to see the bus stop in the dark for longer, the way the streetlight flickered, the way the shadows moved. He told himself a lot of things.
He sat on the left side of the bench, leaving your side free. He remembered—of course he remembered—that you always sat on the right because you liked leaning into his shoulder, and his right arm was stronger, so he could hold you steady when the wind picked up, a silly little habit you had grown used to over the years.
He remembered everything.
That was the problem.
The second night, you didn't come either.
But someone else did. A car slowed down as it passed. He heard the window roll down, heard a whispered "is that—" and then the car sped off. Fifteen minutes later, a different car. Same thing.
By the third night there were more. He'd lost count. Phones pointed at him from behind tinted windows. Whispers, laughter, confusion. Someone had clearly posted about it online by now, meaning his manager would probably call in the morning.
He didn't care.
He sat on the bench with his hands clasped loose between his knees, his hood pulled low and he waited.
For what?
For you to walk out of the shadows, maybe. For you to round the corner with your jacket zipped to your chin and your hair messy from sleep, looking at him like he was insane—because he was, clearly, certifiably insane.
For you to sit down on the right side of the bench, like you used to, and say his name. Just his name. That would be enough.
That was all he wanted. All he'd wanted for two years. Not the screaming crowds, not the awards, not the magazine covers or the endorsement deals or any of it. Just you, saying his name in a voice that wasn't filtered through a screen.
He rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head. The hood fell forward, hiding his face completely now.
He thought about the last time he'd seen you—not on a screen, not in a dream, but real. Flesh and bone. Standing at the bus stop with your arms crossed and your eyes wet, asking him "do you not like me anymore?"
And him, too young and too scared and too stupid to say anything except "I'm sorry."
Not I'll come back. Not wait for me. Not I love you.
Just I'm sorry.
He'd been saying it to himself ever since. In the dorm shower. In the back of vans between schedules. In the dark of hotel rooms in cities he couldn't name. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
It had never felt like enough.
The streetlight flickered. Seventeen seconds. He counted, just as you had always done.
The wind picked up, and he couldn’t help but shiver and pull his hood tighter.
Somewhere in the distance, a car door closed. Footsteps. He didn't look up. He'd stopped looking up after the second hour—every shadow was a false promise, every sound a trick of the wind.
He sat, he waited, and he went a little more mad.
His mind too replayed memories, whether he wanted it too or not.
He remembered how people always assumed you were dating, even before you were officially boyfriend-girlfriend. But Juhoon remembered the exact moment he realised he wanted to be. Sitting on this bench, waiting for the bus, watching you complain about a math test. You were eating a rice ball from the convenience store, talking with your mouth full, gesturing with the half-eaten thing, and he'd thought: I want this forever.
And that was it. Not a big realisation or dramatic moment that prompted him. Just a quiet knowing, sitting on a bench, watching you eat a rice ball and wishing he could see you do that forever.
He remembered winter mornings most of all.
The way you'd arrive shivering, your coat never warm enough, your hands stuffed deep in your pockets. How you'd stand close to him without thinking about it, seeking warmth, and he'd started bringing an extra scarf just in case you forgot yours, which you always did.
"Again?" he'd say, pulling it from his bag.
"You're my hero," you'd say, wrapping it around your neck, and the way you said it made his chest feel tight in the best way.
He remembered the morning you fell asleep on his shoulder on the bus. Just for a few minutes. Your head heavy against him, your breath slow and even. He'd sat completely still, not moving, not breathing, terrified of waking you up. The bus had jostled and bumped and he'd stayed frozen, watching your eyelashes, wondering how someone could be this beautiful just existing.
You'd woken up embarrassed, apologising, face red. He'd said it was fine. Didn't say he'd wished it could last forever.
He remembered the first time you held hands.
Not officially, officially. Just walking home from the bus stop one afternoon, and your hand had brushed against his, and neither of you moved away. Then your fingers had tangled together, tentative, questioning. He'd squeezed gently, and you'd squeezed back.
You didn't talk about it, just kept walking with your hands together and your hearts pounding.
He remembered the exact texture of your palm against his. The way your thumb had traced small circles on his skin. The way he'd gone home that night and stared at his own hand like it had become something different, something important, because it had held yours.
He remembered the countless times you both stayed at the library after school to study, though not much studying actually happened.
The library was old and smelled like paper and dust and the faint cleaning solution the janitor used. Your usual table was in the back corner, near the window, where the afternoon light came through gold and warm and caught your hair in just the right way. Your notebooks stayed empty while you talked about everything and anything.
About teachers who gave too much homework and classmates who whispered behind their hands. About songs you'd heard and movies you'd watched and dreams you hadn't told anyone else. About your parents, your siblings, the small frustrations of being fifteen and stuck in a town that felt too small for the people you were becoming.
He remembered the way you'd lean across the table when you had something important to say, your voice dropping to a whisper even though no one was near enough to hear. The way you'd bite your lip when you were thinking too hard. The way you'd reach over and touch his hand when you wanted his attention, just a quick tap, like you needed to remind yourself he was there.
He remembered the time it snowed.
Heavy snow, unexpected, that made the whole town go quiet. You'd stayed at the library later than usual, watching it fall outside the window, neither of you wanting to leave. The buses had stopped running. Your phones had buzzed with worried parents.
"We should go," you'd said, not moving.
"Yeah."
More snow. More silence.
Then you'd looked at him. "Walk me home?"
The walk had taken forty minutes in snow that came up to your ankles. You'd shared his umbrella even though it was useless against snow, just for the excuse to walk close. Your cheeks were red. Your nose was red. You were entirely beautiful.
Halfway there, you'd stopped in the middle of the empty street and looked up at the sky. Snowflakes catching on your eyelashes and your breath coming in white clouds.
"Look," you'd said. "It's like the whole world stopped."
He'd looked at you instead of the sky.
"Yeah," he'd said. "It is."
You'd turned to him, caught him staring. For a moment neither of you moved. Just stood there in the falling snow, the whole street white and silent, no cars, no people, no sound except your breathing and the soft hush of snow landing on snow.
Your face was so close. He could see each snowflake melting on your skin. Could see the way your eyes moved from his eyes to his lips and back again. Could feel his heart beating somewhere in his throat.
Then you'd kissed him.
Not like the first time, which had been quick and nervous and over before it really started. This was different, so much slower. Your cold lips pressed against his, soft and searching, and he felt your gloved hand come up to rest against his chest, right over his heart, like you wanted to feel it beating.
He'd kissed you back.
One hand holding the umbrella above you both that slanted sideways now, the other finding your waist, pulling you closer. Your lips parted slightly and he felt the warmth of your breath against his mouth, felt you lean into him, felt the snow landing on his hair and shoulders and he didn't care, didn't care about anything except this moment, this street, this girl.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. Your face was flushed despite the cold: a deep, rosy pink that spread from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. Your lips were slick and slightly swollen, parted as you gasped for air. Snowflakes clung to your lashes like tiny diamonds, and your eyes were bright—so bright—reflecting the streetlamp and the winter sky and something else, something that made his chest ache with a feeling he didn't yet have the courage to name.
He couldn't speak, could barely think.
You were smiling that small smile, the one he'd come to love without knowing he loved it.
"What was that for?" he'd managed to ask.
You'd looked at him for a long moment before reaching up and brushing a snowflake from his cheek.
"Just in case," you'd said. "In case the world starts moving again."
He'd pulled you close then, wrapped his arms around you, buried his face in your snow-damp hair, and held you there in the middle of the empty street with snow falling all around and the whole world silent and still.
He'd held you like he'd never have to let go.
He remembered the night before he left.
You'd met at the bus stop, the same place as always, except everything felt different. He'd already made up his mind. Already decided it was better this way. Better to cut clean than to drag it out.
You'd sat close, like always. Your shoulder against his. The streetlights casting long shadows across the road.
"I'm going to miss this," you'd said. "This bench. This bus stop. All of it."
He'd nodded, not trusting his voice.
"But you're going to do amazing things," you'd said. "I know it."
And he'd known he had to do it then. Had to end it before you got any more attached. Before you started planning a future that included him, because his future didn't include anyone. Couldn't include anyone.
He'd explained it badly.
Long distance wouldn't work. His schedule would be crazy. You deserved someone who could be there. All the standard lines, all the things people say when they're too scared to say the real thing.
You'd gone very still beside him.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we should end this. Before it gets complicated."
The silence that followed was the worst thing he'd ever heard.
Then you'd asked, quiet: "Do you not like me anymore?"
And he'd hesitated.
Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it. Long enough for you to draw your own conclusions.
He'd wanted to say: I like you too much. That's the problem. I like you so much that I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me. I like you so much that I'd rather lose you now than watch you suffer later because of who I'm becoming.
But he didn't say it, only letting out a small breath. “I’m sorry.”
He let you think what you thought. Let you walk away believing he'd stopped caring. Let you hate him, because hate was cleaner than love that couldn't go anywhere.
You'd stood up, looked at him for a long moment with eyes he couldn't read, then you'd walked away.
He'd watched you go, standing at this bus stop, and hadn't called you back.
That was his biggest regret, letting you believe for even a second that he didn't care about you. The problem was he cared too much, too deeply, too completely.
And he'd been a coward.
That was the truth he couldn't outrun, no matter how many flights he took or how many stages he stood on. He'd been sixteen and terrified, not of the audition or the training or the unknown, but of dragging you into it. Of making you wait. Of watching you grow tired of cancelled dates and missed calls and a boy who belonged more to the company than to himself.
So he'd cut the rope.
Told himself it was mercy. Told himself you'd forget him. Told himself you'd find someone better—someone who could walk you to the bus stop every morning, who could hold your hand in public without a contract forbidding it, who could love you without thousands of people watching.
He wanted that for you.
But God, it killed him to think about.
And sitting here now, on this splintered bench, in this cold, at 1 a.m., he knew the truth.
There was no someone better.
There was only you. There had only ever been you.
He remembered the first time he saw you after he'd left. He had been scrolling and saw a photo someone had tagged you in, months ago now. You were at what looked like a café, wearing an apron, smiling at someone off-camera. Your hair was different. Your face was older. But your eyes were the same.
He'd stared at that photo for an hour.
Zoomed in on your smile. On the curve of your cheek. On the way your hand held a coffee cup, fingers wrapped around the warmth.
He'd saved it.
Then deleted it.
Then saved it again.
He was pathetic. He knew that. He was an idol with millions of fans, magazine covers, award show invites, and he was saving grainy photos of his ex-girlfriend from a stranger's Instagram story like some lovesick teenager.
But he couldn't help it.
Because every time he thought he'd moved on and convinced himself he was over you, that it had been years, that you'd probably forgotten his name, something would happen. A song would come on. A smell would drift past. Someone on the street would laugh in a way that sounded like yours, and he'd freeze, heart slamming against his ribs, hope and dread tangled together.
He'd written songs about you. Dozens of them. None of them saw the light of day—they were tucked away in notebooks and voice memos, too personal to share, too precious to delete. The other members knew something was there, something he never talked about. They'd ask sometimes, gently, and he'd deflect with a joke or a change of subject.
But at night, alone in his bed, he'd pull out his phone and look at the photo. Wonder if you were looking at his photos the same. Wonder if you ever thought about him. Wonder if you'd even care that he was sitting here right now, freezing, alone, going mad.
The streetlight flickered again.
A car passed. Slowed. He heard the click of a phone camera.
He didn't look up.
Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself remember one more thing. Not a big moment this time. Not the first kiss or the last fight or any of the things that made for good stories.
Just a Tuesday.
An ordinary, forgettable Tuesday in October. The leaves had been turning. The air had smelled like cinnamon and something burning from a fireplace down the street. You'd been sitting on this bench waiting for the bus, but you were quiet. Quieter than usual.
He'd asked if you were okay.
You'd nodded. Then shaken your head. Then nodded again.
"Do you ever think about the future?" you'd asked.
You were fifteen. It was a winter morning, cold enough that your breath made small clouds in the air. You were wearing his scarf—you'd forgotten yours, and he'd wrapped his around your neck without thinking.
"Sometimes," he'd said.
"What do you think about?"
He'd shrugged. "I don't know. Graduation, I guess, if I don’t get into the company. Adult stuff."
"That's boring."
"What do you think about, then?"
You'd been quiet for a moment. Then: "I think about being old enough to make my own decisions. Like, really my own. About where I live and what I do and who I spend time with."
"That sounds lonely."
"It sounds free."
He'd looked at you. At the way your nose was slightly red from cold. At the way his scarf framed your face. At the way your eyes looked toward the future like it was something you couldn't wait to reach.
"If you're free," he'd said, "will you still talk to me?"
You'd turned to look at him. Smiled that small smile. "Obviously. You're part of the plan."
Juhoon closed his eyes as his chest ached.
The memory was so clear it hurt. He could feel the cold air on his skin. Could see the steam of your breath. Could hear your voice saying you're part of the plan like it was the most natural thing in the world.
What had happened to that plan?
He'd broken it. That's what happened. He'd made a decision without you, for you, and in doing so had destroyed everything you'd built. He'd told himself it was protection. Told himself you'd thank him someday, when you were living a normal life without the scrutiny that came with dating an idol. Told himself he was being selfless.
But sitting here, years later, with your ghost on the bench beside him he wasn't so sure.
Had he been protecting you? Or had he been afraid?
Afraid that you'd see who he was becoming. Afraid that you'd realise he wasn't worth waiting for. Afraid that the distance would break you slowly instead of quickly, and that slow breaking would hurt more.
He'd chosen the quick break for both of you.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it.
It buzzed again. Then a third time.
His manager, probably. Or one of the members. Someone had clearly seen the posts online by now—the blurry photos, the confused tweets, the mounting speculation about why CORTIS's Juhoon was spending his precious break sitting at some random bus stop in his hometown.
They'd ask him about it tomorrow.
He'd lie.
He always lied.
Just needed some air.
Couldn't sleep.
Didn't realise anyone was watching.
Standard, easy answers that cost him nothing except the truth.
The truth was too heavy to say out loud. The truth was that he'd spent two years building a wall between himself and the only person who'd ever known him—really known him—and he'd almost convinced himself it was for the best. Almost convinced himself that the ache in his chest was just nostalgia, just growing pains, just the natural sadness of leaving something beautiful behind.
But it wasn't.
It was grief. Pure, uncomplicated grief for a future he'd thrown away.
He looked up at the sky and noticed that the stars were dimmer here than he remembered. Or maybe his eyes were just different now. Maybe he'd spent too many years looking at city lights and phone screens and the backs of his own eyelids.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A car door closed. The world kept moving, even at 1 a.m., even in a sleepy neighbourhood that had forgotten how to be young.
He thought about going home.
He should go home. His mother was probably worrying and his father was pretending not to. But his legs didn't move.
His body had made a decision his mind hadn't caught up to yet. He was staying. He was waiting. He was going to sit on this bench until the sun came up if he had to, because the alternative—giving up, walking away, accepting that you weren't coming—felt like something he couldn't survive.
He'd already walked away once andhe couldn't do it again.
The bus wasn't coming, he knew that. It hadn't come in years. The route had changed, the schedule had been discontinued, the whole stop was just a relic of a time that no longer existed.
But he was still here waiting.
For what, he didn't know anymore.
For you? Maybe. For closure? Possibly. For a sign that he hadn't made the biggest mistake of his life?
He wasn't sure.
But he knew he couldn't leave.
Not yet. Not until the sun came up. Not until his body gave out. Not until something—anything—happened to break the spell.
You spent the next two days in a weird, floaty haze.
You just felt off, like the world had shifted two degrees to the left and you were still trying to find your footing.
The photo stayed on your phone. You told yourself you wouldn't look at it again. You did. More times than you wanted to admit: in the morning while your coffee brewed, on your break at the café, hiding in the back room, at night, lying in bed, phone screen glowing in the dark.
He wasn't there anymore. The fan account had posted a follow-up a few hours after the original sighting: "He left around 4am. walked home alone. still no word from his company."
4am.
He'd sat there until 4am.
You tried not to think about what that meant. Tried not to imagine him shivering on that bench, hood pulled low, waiting for something—someone—that never came.
You failed.
The second day, you almost went.
It was late, nearly midnight, and you were standing by your front door, keys in hand, jacket zipped. Your heart was pounding, your mouth was dry. You could picture the route back home: a short train journey, left at the convenience store next to the station, right at the oak tree. You could picture the bench. Could picture him.
But you didn't move.
Because what would you even say?
‘Hey, I saw you on Twitter. Weird night, huh?’
‘Long time no see. You look tired. I look like I haven't slept in two years. Guess we match.’
‘I hated you for so long. I'm not sure I stopped.’
You put the keys down, unzipped your jacket, went to bed and dreamed about snow.
The third day, your roommate Hana cornered you in the kitchen.
"Okay, what's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"You've reheated the same cup of coffee four times."
You looked down at the mug in your hands. She was right, you hadn't taken a single sip.
"I'm fine," you said. "Just tired."
Hana crossed her arms. She'd known you for almost a year now—since you both moved into this dorm, fresh out of high school, wide-eyed and broke. She knew about Juhoon. Not everything, but enough. Enough to recognise the hollow look in your eyes.
"Is it him?" she asked quietly. "The bus stop thing?"
You stiffened. "You saw that?"
"Everyone saw that. It's all over Twitter." She paused. "You know he's been back every night, right? People are posting about it. He shows up around 11pm and stays until almost dawn."
Your stomach dropped.
Every night. He'd been sitting there every night.
"I don't—" You stopped. Swallowed. "It doesn't matter. That's not my life anymore."
Hana looked at you for a long moment. Then she shrugged. "Okay. If you say so."
She walked away, leaving you standing in the kitchen, coffee growing cold in your hands, and tried to believe the words you'd just said.
That night, you didn't even pretend to sleep.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the dorm settling around you. The pipes groaned. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, a cat yowled.
Your phone was face down on the nightstand.
You'd charged it. Checked it. Put it down. Picked it up again.
The tweets kept coming. New sightings. New photos. The same bench. The same hoodie. The same lonely figure, sitting in the dark, waiting.
The comments were getting weirder too. Some people were romanticising it—"omg he's like a sad prince waiting for his lost love"—while others were speculating about mental health, about burnout, about whether the company should step in.
His company hadn't released a statement yet.
That worried you. Juhoon's company was fast with PR. If they hadn't said anything, it meant either they didn't know, which was completely impossible at this point, or they were letting him do this. Letting him sit alone in the cold night after night, because maybe they understood something you didn't.
Or maybe they didn't understand anything at all.
You turned onto your side and stared at the wall.
Just go.
The thought was small but insistent. Like a scratch you couldn't stop itching.
Just go. Just walk there. Just see him. You don't have to talk. You don't have to forgive him. Just... see.
You closed your eyes.
When you opened them again, it was morning. You'd slept, somehow. The sun was creeping through your thin curtains, pale and weak.
Your phone said 7:23am.
And there was a new notification.
"CORTIS's Juhoon spotted at same bus stop for fourth night in a row. Fans are getting worried."
You stared at the screen.
Fourth night.
He'd been there every night since you saw that first photo.
Every. Single. Night.
You thought about the bench. The crooked tin roof. The flickering streetlight. The cold. The way he used to wrap his scarf around your neck. The way he used to say your name like it was something precious.
You thought about years of silence and pretending and building a life that didn't include him, only to realise that life felt like a house with a room you were too afraid to enter.
You sat up, swung your legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against your bare feet, but you didn't care.
You were done waiting.
The morning air was sharp and cold and your breath fogged in front of you as you walked to the train station, feet moving on autopilot.
You were going home.
The ticket machine beeped as you tapped your card. The train wasn't scheduled for another twenty minutes so you found a seat on a cold plastic bench and waited.
That was when the thoughts started creeping in.
What are you doing?
He left you. He chose this. He chose everything except you.
You don't owe him anything.
You pulled out your phone and opened Twitter. The photo was still there—the original one, the blurry one, the one that had stopped your thumb three nights ago. You looked at it again: his shoulders, his hood, the bench.
You locked the phone and shoved it back in your pocket.
The train arrived and you got on, finding a window seat. Pressing your forehead against the cold glass, you watched the city blur past and give way to suburbs and highways and the familiar stretch of road you'd driven a hundred times as a kid.
Your hometown wasn't far. Forty minutes by train. Forty minutes to think about everything you were going to say—or not say. Forty minutes to change your mind.
You didn't change your mind.
The station was smaller than you remembered.
You stepped off the platform and into the cold.
The walk from the station to your street was fifteen minutes. You knew every step. Past the convenience store where you'd bought rice balls after school. Past the library with the gold afternoon light. Past the row of houses you'd walked past a thousand times, including—
You stopped.
Three doors up from yours. A house you knew better than your own.
Juhoon's parents' house.
The curtains were drawn. A pair of shoes sat on the front step: men's sneakers, not his father's style. His, probably. The thought made your chest tight.
You looked away and kept walking forward towards your own door.
What you failed to notice was the ruffle of the curtains as you passed.
Juhoon's mother stood at the window, hidden behind the thin fabric, watching you walk down the street. Her hand was pressed against her chest, right over her heart. Her eyes were wet.
She'd known you since you were eleven years old. Had watched you grow up in parallel with her son—first as a friend, then as something more, then as a ghost that haunted every family dinner she tried to have with Juhoon after he moved to Seoul.
"Is she okay?" she'd asked him once, early on, when the silence between you was still fresh.
"I don't know," he'd said. "She doesn’t want to talk to me."
"Have you tried harder?"
He hadn't answered that. She remembered the guilt on his face and the way he'd looked down at his hands like they'd failed him somehow.
She watched you disappear around the bend, heading into your old home where your parents still lived and would be surprised to see you, questioning why you had come home in the middle of a semester.
She didn't need to ask why, she already knew.
Juhoon's mother let the curtain fall back into place and walked to the kitchen. The kettle was still warm. She poured herself a cup of tea she didn't want and sat at the table, staring at nothing.
Her son was broken. She'd known it the moment he walked through the door four days ago. He'd smiled like always but his eyes were empty from years of pretending.
She'd asked him that first night, when he came home at 2am with frozen fingers and a face like a storm cloud.
"Is it her?"
He'd hesitated. Just for a second. But a second was all she needed.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Mom."
She'd held him. Her eighteen-year-old son, famous and successful and so, so lost. She'd held him like he was eleven again, coming home from a day of middle school, nervous and excited and full of stories about the girl who he’d shared fruit snacks with on the bus.
"Go to bed," she'd said. "We'll figure it out in the morning."
But they hadn't figured it out. And he'd gone back the next night. And the next. And now you were home for the first time in months, and she didn't know what was about to happen, but she prayed—silently, desperately—that it would be something good.
Because her son had been waiting for you for two years, and he was running out of nights.
She took a sip of her tea and looked out the window again.
The street was empty now. You were gone. Juhoon was still asleep upstairs, he'd only come home at 5am, collapsing into bed without a word.
She wondered if he'd wake up before you headed to the bus stop that she knew you’d visit later. Wondered what would happen if he didn't.
Wondered if any of this could be fixed.
She set down her teacup and folded her hands on the table.
And she waited.
Your parents were exactly as you remembered.
Which was to say: overwhelming, in the best possible way.
The moment you walked through the front door, your mother's hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks like you were still seven years old and coming home from a friend's house.
"You're too thin," she said immediately. "Are they feeding you in that dorm? Is that café job working you too hard? Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"
Your father appeared from the living room, newspaper still in hand, reading glasses perched on his nose. He didn't say much, he never did, but his eyes went soft the way they only did when he looked at you.
"Surprise," you said weakly.
Your mother pulled you into a hug so tight your ribs protested. "You should have called. I would have made rice soup. I would have cleaned your room. There are boxes in there from when we redecorated, I hope you don't mind—"
"Mom. It's fine. I'm just here for a day. Maybe two."
She pulled back, searching your face. The same way she'd always done when you were hiding something. She was a human lie detector, your mother. It was exhausting and comforting in equal measure.
"And why," she said slowly, "are you here in the middle of the semester?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Needed a break," you said. "Classes are intense."
She didn't believe you. You could see it in the way her eyes narrowed, the way her lips pressed together, but she didn't push, not yet. Your father gave you an out—a classic Dad move.
"Leave her alone," he said, folding his newspaper. "She's an adult. She can come home whenever she wants."
Your mother shot him a look that said we're talking about this later but let go of your face. "Fine. But you're eating dinner with us. Real food. Not whatever microwave garbage you've been surviving on."
You laughed as lightly as you could. "Deal."
Your room was almost exactly how you'd left it.
The walls were the same pale blue. The posters were still up: bands you didn't listen to anymore, movies you'd outgrown. Your desk was empty, cleared of notebooks and pens, waiting for a student who no longer lived here.
But there were boxes. As your mother had warned. Stacked in the corner near the closet, labeled in her neat handwriting: WINTER CLOTHES, BOOKS, KEEP, DONATE.
And one box that wasn't labeled.
You knew that box.
It was shoved at the bottom of your wardrobe, hidden behind old sweaters and a suitcase you hadn't used since high school. You'd put it there years ago, the night before you left for university, actually. You'd told yourself you'd throw it away someday. Told yourself you'd open it when you were ready.
You'd never been ready.
But today, somehow, you were.
You pulled the box out and sat cross-legged on your childhood bed. The cardboard was soft with age, the corners bent. You'd sealed it with packing tape—too much packing tape, like you'd wanted to make sure nothing could get in or out.
You grabbed a pair of scissors from your desk and cut through it cleanly, watching the flaps fall open.
The first thing you saw was the scarf.
His scarf. The one he used to wrap around your neck on cold mornings because you always forgot yours. It was navy blue. Cheap. A little frayed at the edges. You'd never given it back.
You picked it up and held it to your face.
It didn't smell like him anymore. Just like cardboard and time. But you remembered how it used to smell: like his laundry detergent, like the cologne he'd started wearing in high school, like something warm and distinctly him.
You set it aside carefully as though it was made of glass.
Underneath the scarf were photos, dozens of them. Printed at the convenience store for a few hundred won each, corners slightly curled. You'd forgotten how many you'd taken, how many moments you'd tried to freeze before they slipped away.
The two of you at the school festival. He was wearing a ridiculous headband, you were laughing so hard your eyes were closed.
The two of you at the library. He'd fallen asleep on his textbook, and you'd taken a photo instead of waking him up.
The two of you at the bus stop. A selfie. His arm around your shoulders, your cheek pressed against his. The streetlight flickering behind you—you could almost see it, almost feel the seventeen-second pattern.
You traced your finger over his face in the photo.
He looked so young. So happy. So unaware of what was coming.
Beneath the photos were ticket stubs.
Movies you'd seen together. The train ticket from the time you'd visited Seoul before he auditioned, before everything got complicated. A wristband from the festival where he'd won you a stuffed animal—a small dog that you'd slept with every night for years, until the fabric wore thin and you'd retired it to this box.
You looked for the dog. Found it at the bottom, squished and faded and missing one button eye.
You held it, and for the first time in two years, you let yourself cry.
Not the angry crying you'd done after he left. Not the exhausted crying you'd done during exam weeks. Just... sad crying. Missing-something crying.
You cried for the eleven-year-old who'd shared fruit snacks on a bus.
You cried for the fifteen-year-old who'd kissed in the snow.
You cried for the sixteen-year-old who'd watched him walk away.
And you cried for the eighteen-year-old you were now, sitting on your childhood bed, holding a broken stuffed animal, wondering if some wounds never really healed.
Juhoon woke up to sunlight.
He lay still for a moment, letting the ache in his body register. His back hurt from sleeping in his clothes. His fingers were stiff from the cold. His eyes felt gritty, like he'd cried in his sleep—though he didn't remember crying.
He checked his phone.
12:47pm.
He'd slept for nearly eight hours.
He dragged himself out of bed—his old bed, the one with the creaky frame and the too-soft mattress—and shuffled to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror and barely recognised the person staring back.
Dark circles, pale skin, hair a mess. He looked like someone who'd spent four nights sitting on a cold bench, waiting for a ghost.
Maybe because he had.
He padded downstairs in his socks, following the smell of coffee.
His mother was in the kitchen. She had her back to him, stirring something on the stove—rice porridge, probably. She always made rice porridge when she was worried.
"Morning," he said, voice rough.
She turned. Her eyes swept over him the same way they always did, cataloguing every sign of exhaustion, every hint that he wasn't taking care of himself. Her expression softened into something that looked like pain.
"Did you sleep?"
"A little."
"Eat something."
He sat down at the kitchen table without arguing. She placed a bowl of porridge in front of him, along with a spoon and a glass of water. He stared at it. His stomach felt like a closed fist.
"Juhoon."
"Mm?"
She sat across from him and folded her hands on the table. The same way she did when she had something he probably didn't want to hear. "You need to stop."
He looked up. "Stop what?"
"Going to that bus stop." Her voice was gentle but firm. The kind of gentle that came from watching your child hurt himself and finally saying enough. "You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're just... sitting there. Every night. Coming home frozen and hollow. It's not healthy."
Juhoon set down his spoon. "Mom—"
"I know why you're going." She cut him off, not unkindly. "I've always known. But she's not there, honey. She hasn't been there for months. And sitting on that bench isn't going to bring her back."
He flinched.
The words landed exactly where she'd aimed them—right at the wound he'd been pretending didn't exist.
"You don't know that," he said quietly. "You don't know she won't come."
His mother hesitated, breathing a sigh. Then she said, quietly, "She’s back at her parents' house."
The words hit him like a physical blow.
She was home, three doors down. Close enough that if he walked outside and stood on the porch, he'd be able to see her front door from here.
Close enough that it hurt.
"Is she..." He stopped, swallowed and tried again. "Did she look okay?"
His mother's expression softened into something sad. "She looked like someone who hasn't been sleeping either."
That made his chest ache in a whole new way.
He thought about you at sixteen: bright-eyed, warm, always the one to pull him out of his own head. He thought about the way you'd looked at him the last time you spoke, eyes wet and voice breaking.
‘Do you not like me anymore?’
He'd hesitated.
He'd hesitated like a coward.
"Juhoon." His mother's voice pulled him back. "Are you going to do something? Or are you going to stand there looking like a lost puppy?"
He blinked. "Mom—"
"I'm serious." She crossed her arms. "You've been sitting at that bus stop for four nights, freezing, waiting for a sign. Well, here it is. She's home. She's right there. So what are you waiting for now?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't know what to say to her."
"Then say that. Say 'I don't know what to say.' At least it's honest."
He stared at his mother. For a moment, he was eleven years old again, nervous about his first day of middle school, and she was kneeling in front of him, tying his shoelaces, telling him just be yourself, sweetheart. that's enough.
But he wasn't eleven anymore. And "himself" was someone who'd broken your heart and spent two years regretting it.
"She might not want to see me," he said quietly.
His mother looked at him for a long moment. Then she walked to the front window and pulled the curtain aside. She looked out at the street, at your house, just visible through the bare winter trees.
"She came home in the middle of the semester," his mother said. "She didn't tell anyone she was coming. She got off a train, walked past our house, and went straight to her parents' door." She let the curtain fall and turned back to him. "You really think that has nothing to do with you?"
Juhoon's heart hammered.
"I'm going to change," he said suddenly. "I can't show up looking like—" He gestured vaguely at himself, at his wrinkled clothes, his messy hair, the exhaustion written all over his face.
"You're going to change?" His mother raised an eyebrow. "Juhoon, you've been sitting on a cold bench for four nights in the same hoodie. She's not expecting a fashion show."
"Mom—"
"Go." She pointed at the door. "Before you overthink it and talk yourself out of it."
He hesitated for one more second, then he grabbed his hoodie from the hook and pulled it on. He didn't bother with his hair. Didn't bother with shoes. Just slipped into some slides.
The door swung open and the air was sharper than he remembered.
He walked past his driveway. Past the row of hedges that separated his house from the neighbour's. Past the old oak tree at the corner.
Your house came into view.
He stopped walking.
Your parents' car was in the driveway. The front door was closed and the curtains in the living room window were drawn, but the ones upstairs—your old room—were partially open. He could see a light on inside.
You were up there. You were twenty meters away.
His feet wouldn't move.
What if she doesn't want to see me?
What if she slams the door in my face?
What if—
The front door of your house opened and his heart stopped.
Your father stepped out onto the porch. He was holding a coffee mug, steam rising from it, and he was looking directly at Juhoon. Not with anger. Not with surprise. Just... watching. The way fathers did when they were assessing a situation.
Juhoon's throat went dry.
Your father didn't say anything, didn't wave or call out. He just took a slow sip of his coffee, looked at Juhoon for a long, measuring moment, and then turned his gaze toward the bus stop.
The bus stop at the end of the street.
Then he looked back at Juhoon. Raised his eyebrows slightly. Like he was asking a question without using any words.
Are you going to stand there all day?
Juhoon swallowed. Nodded once: a small, jerky movement.
Your father nodded back. Then he turned and went inside, closing the door softly behind him.
Juhoon stood there for another thirty seconds, frozen.
Then he turned away from your house and started walking toward the bus stop.
He didn't know why.
Maybe because your father had looked in that direction. Maybe because his feet had memorised the route. Maybe because he couldn't knock on your door—couldn't face you in your own home, with your parents there, with all the weight of two years pressing down on him.
The bus stop was neutral ground, it belonged to both of you. To the eleven-year-olds who'd shared fruit snacks. To the fifteen-year-olds who'd kissed in the snow. To the sixtteen-year-olds who'd fallen apart.
If there was any place in the world where he could say the things he needed to say, it was there.
He rounded the corner and the crooked tin roof came into view, it’s shadow cascading over the empty bench.
Empty.
He stopped walking. His chest caved in.
She wasn't there. Of course she wasn't there. Why would she be? She'd just gotten home. She was probably upstairs, unpacking, resting, doing anything except—
A sound behind him stopped his running thoughts. It was footsteps on pavement.
He turned and saw you standing at the end of the block.
Jacket zipped. Hair messy. Eyes red—like you'd been crying, or like you hadn't slept, or both. He couldn't look away from your face.
Neither of you moved as the world held its breath.
And then you took a step forward, slowly closing the distance between you two.
Fifteen feet between you. Then ten. Then five.
Juhoon didn't move. He barely breathed. His hands were shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, but you could see them shaking.
You stopped when you were close enough to see the dark circles under his eyes. Close enough to see the small blush on his cheeks—the cheek you used to trace with your finger when he fell asleep on your shoulder on the bus.
Close enough to realise he was real.
Not a photo. Not a tweet. Not a memory you'd replayed a thousand times.
Him. Juhoon. Here.
"Hi," he said. His voice was hoarse, cracked, like he hadn't used it in days.
You swallowed. "Hi."
That was it. Two years of nothing and a universe of unsaid things crammed into two letters.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair—messy, unstyled, the kind of messy you remembered from sleepovers and study sessions and early mornings when the bus came too fast.
"I didn't think you'd come," he finally said.
You looked at him. "Neither did I," you said.
He flinched slightly, like your words had hit something soft.
You should have felt satisfied. You'd imagined this moment a hundred times: the moment you'd get to throw his silence back at him, make him feel even a fraction of the hurt you'd carried. But standing here, watching him flinch, all you felt was tired.
"Why are you here, Juhoon?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Here." You gestured at the bench. At the bus stop. At the street that hadn't changed since you were kids. "Why are you here? Every night? Sitting on this bench like it's going to do something?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that the wind picked up and you shivered, pulling your jacket tighter.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I thought I was waiting for something. An answer. A sign. I don't know."
"An answer to what?"
He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes were dark and tired and so, so familiar. "To whether I made the biggest mistake of my life."
Your chest cracked open. "You're asking a bus stop that question?"
He shook his head slowly. "No." His voice dropped. "I'm asking you."
The air between you went thin.
"You can't just..." Your voice broke. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. Started again. "You can't just disappear for two years and then sit on a bench for four nights and expect me to—"
"I don't expect anything." His voice was raw. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't expect you to even want to look at me. I just..." He pulled his hands out of his pockets. Let them hang at his sides, open and empty. "I just needed to be somewhere that felt like you."
The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere you'd been protecting.
"That's not fair," you whispered.
"I know."
"You don't get to say things like that."
"I know."
"Stop repeating that."
He almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a second he looked like the boy you'd known: the one who'd kissed you in the snow, the one who'd held your hand on the bus, the one who'd promised to wait.
"I'm sorry," he said.
You'd heard those words before, they replayed in your head constantly like a broken record, how he hadn’t seemed to mean it back then. But this time, standing at the bus stop with the wind in your hair and his shadow on the pavement, they sounded different.
This time, he looked like he meant it.
"What are you sorry for?" you asked. "Be specific."
He blinked. Then, slowly, he started talking.
"For everything," he said. "For the way I ended it. For not calling. For not texting. For making you think you didn't matter when you were the only thing that did."
You crossed your arms, partly from cold, partly from the need to hold yourself together. "That's not specific."
He let out a breath. It fogged in the air between you.
"The night before my final audition," he said, "you climbed out your window. You came to my porch. You sat with me on the steps and you told me everything was going to be okay. And I wanted to believe you. I really did. But I was so scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Of losing you." His voice cracked. "Which is ironic, right? Because I ended up losing you anyway. But back then, I thought if I held on too tight, I'd just drag you down with me. The company, the schedules, the fans, the scrutiny—I didn't want any of that touching you. You were the one good thing in my life. The only thing that was just mine."
You felt your throat tighten. "So you decided to throw me away before I could get thrown away by accident?"
He flinched again. Harder this time.
"When you say it like that, it sounds—"
"Like what? Like the truth?" Your voice rose. "You didn't ask me, Juhoon. You didn't say 'hey, this is what I'm scared of, what do you think?' You just decided. For both of us. And then you vanished."
He nodded slowly. Swallowed. Didn't look away.
"I know," he said. "I know I should have talked to you. I know I shouldn't have made that decision alone. But I was sixteen. I was terrified. And every time I picked up the phone to call you, I imagined you crying because of me, or waiting for me, or putting your life on hold for someone who couldn't even tell you when he'd be free. And I couldn't—" His voice broke. "I couldn't do that to you."
"So instead you did nothing."
"Instead I did nothing," he agreed quietly. "And I've regretted it every single day for two years."
You wanted to stay angry. You wanted to hold onto the hurt like a shield, like something that could protect you from the wreckage of him. But standing here, watching his eyes fill with tears he was clearly trying not to shed, the shield started to crack.
"The night you left," you said slowly, "I waited. I sat on my bed and stared at my phone for hours, thinking maybe you'd call. Maybe you'd text. Maybe you'd show up at my window like you used to. But you didn't."
He shook his head. "I couldn't. I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn't be able to go through with it."
"And that would have been bad?"
"Yes." His voice was barely a whisper. "Because I needed to go. I needed to try. But I also needed to know you weren't waiting for me. That you were moving on. Living your life. Being happy."
You laughed—a short, bitter sound. "You wanted me to be happy? While you left me heartbroken?"
"I wanted you to be happy even if it wasn't with me."
"That's very noble," you said. "It's also bullshit."
He stared at you.
"You don't get to decide what makes me happy," you continued. "You never did. And the fact that you thought you could? Juhoon, I would have stuck with you through anything."
The words hung in the cold air between you and you watched him grow very still.
"I would have waited," you said, your voice quieter now but no less fierce. "I would have figured it out. The long distance, the crazy schedules, the secrecy—all of it. I would have done it because it was you. But you didn't even give me the chance to choose. You just decided for me and walked away."
Juhoon's breath came out shaky. "I know."
"Do you? Because I don't think you understand. I would have followed you anywhere. I would have stood in the back of every crowd. I would have pretended to be just a fan if that's what it took. I would have—" Your voice cracked. You stopped and pressed your palm against your mouth, closing your eyes briefly.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, hands clenched tightly either side of him, tears sliding down his face.
"I would have loved you through all of it," you finally whispered. "If you'd just let me."
The silence that followed was enormous.
Then Juhoon made a sound—a raw, broken thing—and his composure shattered. His shoulders shook. His hands came up to cover his face. He cried the way he used to cry when he was young, before he learned how to hide it. Messy, uncontrolled, and entirely human.
"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry. I was stupid. I was scared. I thought I was protecting you but I was really just—" He gasped for air. "I was just terrified that one day you'd wake up and realise I wasn't worth the sacrifice. So I left before you could leave me."
Your heart cracked open.
You'd spent two years imagining this moment. Two years rehearsing everything you'd say—every sharp word, every accusation, every piece of hurt you'd hand him like a weapon. But now that you were here, watching him fall apart by this old bench, the weapons felt heavy and wrong.
You took a step forward, and then, without really deciding to, you reached out.
Your fingers brushed his wrist. He flinched, startled. You gently pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes were red, swollen, desperate.
"I'm not saying I forgive you," you said quietly. "I'm not saying any of this is okay."
He nodded miserably. "I know."
"But I'm here." Your voice wavered. "I got on a train. I walked to this bus stop. I'm standing in front of you. That has to count for something."
He stared at you like you'd hung the moon.
"It counts," he whispered. "It counts more than you know."
You should have stepped back. You should have kept your distance, protected the walls you'd spent two years building. Instead, you pulled him into a hug.
His arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely breathe and his face pressed into your shoulder, you felt his tears soak through your jacket, cold against your skin.
You cried too. You hadn't meant to, but the tears came anyway, hot and messy, and you buried your face in his hoodie and held on like he might disappear if you let go.
"I hated you," you said into his chest. "I hated you so much."
"I know."
"I tried to forget you."
"I know."
"I dreamed about you every single night."
He let out a shaky breath. "Me too."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was a mess—tears and redness and dark circles. Yours probably looked the same.
"What are we doing?" you asked.
He let out a wet, broken laugh. "I don't know. Crying at a bus stop, apparently."
You laughed too. It was small and sad and real.
"We can't just..." You trailed off, not sure what you were even trying to say.
"I know," he said again. "I know we can't just pretend the last two years didn't happen. I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve—"
"Stop." You pressed your hand against his chest, right over his heart. It was pounding. "Stop deciding what you do and don't deserve. That's what got us here in the first place."
He went quiet.
"I'm not saying we're okay," you said. "I'm not saying I forgive you. I'm not saying anything except..." You looked down at your hand on his chest, then back up at his face. "I'm not walking away. Not today."
His breath caught. "What does that mean?"
"It means sit down." You stepped back, pulling him toward the bench. "We're both exhausted. We're both crying. We're both still wearing the same clothes we slept in. So sit down, and talk to me. Really talk. Not the idol version. Not the version you think I want to hear. Just you."
He looked at the bench.
"Just me," he repeated, like he was testing the words.
"Just you," you confirmed.
He sat on the left side, his side.
You sat beside him. Not close enough to touch. But close.
The wind blew. A car passed. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn sounded.
Juhoon turned to look at you. His eyes were still red, still wet, but there was something else there now. Something that looked like hope—fragile, terrified, barely holding on.
"Can I—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Can I try? To make things right? I don't know how. I don't even know if it's possible. But can I try?"
You looked at his hand, resting on the bench between you. His fingers were inches from yours.
You thought about being eleven years old, sharing fruit snacks on a crooked bench, not knowing that the boy beside you would break your heart and then come back to try to put it together again.
"Try," you said. "But don't lie to me. Not ever again. Not even to protect me."
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
He took a breath, then another. His fingers twitched on the bench between you—not reaching yet, but wanting to.
"The first time I realised I loved you," he said slowly, "wasn't some big dramatic moment. It was a Tuesday. We were sitting right here. You were complaining about a math test and eating a rice ball with your mouth full. Rice was falling everywhere. You didn't care." He let out a small, shaky laugh. "And I thought—I want to see this every day. I want messy rice ball mornings and cold bus stops and you. Just you."
Your throat tightened.
"I thought it would last forever," he continued. "I thought we'd graduate together. I thought we'd figure everything out. And then the audition happened, and suddenly forever didn't feel guaranteed anymore. It felt like something I had to fight for. But also something I had to protect."
"By pushing me away."
"By pushing you away," he agreed. "It was the dumbest thing I've ever done. And I've done a lot of dumb things."
You almost smiled. Almost.
"When I left for Seoul, I told myself you'd move on. I told myself you'd find someone better. Someone who could be there. Someone who didn't have millions of people watching their every move." He looked down at his hands. "I told myself a lot of things to make the hurt feel like the right choice."
"But it wasn't."
"It wasn't," he said. "It was the wrong choice. It was always the wrong choice. I just didn't know how to take it back."
"You could have called."
"I know."
"You could have shown up."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I was a coward. I'm still scared. But I'm here now. And I'm not asking for everything. I'm not even asking for forgiveness. I'm just asking for a chance to prove that I can be better. That I can be the person you deserved two years ago."
The wind picked up and you shivered. Juhoon noticed. He pulled off his hoodie and held it out to you.
"I don't need—"
"You're cold," he said simply. "Take it."
You looked at the hoodie. At him. At the vulnerable set of his shoulders now that he was just in a thin t-shirt. "You'll freeze."
"I've been freezing for four days," he said. "One more won't matter."
You took the hoodie. It was warm from his body heat, and it smelled like him—not the cologne he used to wear, something different now, but still unmistakably Juhoon.
You pulled it over your head and it drowned you. Too big, just like your uniform had been on the first day of middle school.
He watched you with something soft in his eyes. "It looks better on you anyway," he said.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that." But your voice had no heat. "I'm still angry."
"I know."
"Stop making me feel bad for being angry."
"Sorry." He paused. "Wait. Am I supposed to apologise or not?"
You snorted, a real snort, embarrassing and involuntary.
Juhoon's eyes went wide. "Did you just—"
"No."
"You did. You snorted."
"It was the wind."
"The wind snorted?"
"You're insufferable."
"You used to say that with more affection."
"You used to deserve more affection."
He winced. But there was a ghost of a smile underneath it.
You looked down at the hoodie sleeves, bunched around your hands. Then at him, shivering in his thin t-shirt, dark circles under his eyes, nose red from cold and crying.
"Tell me something," you said. "One thing that happened in the last two years that you actually want to tell me. Not the highlights or photoshoots, or whatever you do when famous. Just... one real thing."
Juhoon was quiet for a long moment.
"I wrote songs about you," he finally said. "Dozens of them. None of them are good enough. None of them say what I actually want to say. But I kept writing anyway, because it was the only way I could still feel close to you."
Your heart clenched.
"What do you want to say?" you asked.
He turned to face you fully. His knees brushed yours—accidentally, maybe, or maybe not.
"I want to say that I'm sorry," he said. "But that's not enough. I want to say that I love you. But that sounds like an excuse. I want to say that I never stopped thinking about you, not for one single day, and that every time I stood on a stage and heard people scream my name, all I could think about was how quiet it was when we sat on this bench together. How peaceful. How much like home."
You couldn't breathe.
"I want to say," he continued, voice barely above a whisper, "that I know I broke your heart. But mine broke too. And I don't know how to put either of them back together. But maybe... maybe we could try. Together. Slowly. If you want."
The silence stretched between you before you reached out for his face, your fingers brushing his cheek, cold and damp from tears.
"I don't know if I can trust you yet," you said.
His eyes fluttered closed at your touch. "I know."
"But I want to try."
He opened his eyes. They were glassy, hopeful, terrified. "Yeah?" he breathed.
"Yeah."
And there, sat on the crooked bench, Juhoon let out a breath he'd been holding for two years.
He didn't kiss you. Didn't pull you close. Didn't rush.
He just sat there, your hand on his cheek, and let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't lost you forever, that he still had a chance to win you back. And he was going to do everything in his power to do so.
It had been six months since you and Juhoon had reunited in your hometown, and, to be honest, it all felt like a blur.
Not in a bad way, more like the way snow fell so fast you couldn't catch individual flakes, you just knew the ground was covered and everything had changed.
The café was busy for a Tuesday afternoon.
You moved on autopilot: steaming milk, pulling shots, calling out names for pickup. The rhythm was familiar now, almost comforting. Your regulars smiled at you, your coworkers had stopped asking why you were smiling so much lately.
"One caramel macchiato for Hana!"
Your roommate appeared at the counter like a summoned ghost. She'd been sitting in the corner for the last hour, pretending to study, actually scrolling through Twitter on her phone.
"You look like death," you said as she grabbed her cup.
"Thanks. You look like someone who's dating an idol." She took a long sip. "Wait. That came out wrong. You look happy, like, disgustingly happy. It's annoying."
You flipped her off with a smile.
She laughed and retreated back to her corner table just as the bell above the door chimed.
You looked up.
The boy who walked in was wearing a black mask, a baseball cap pulled low, and an oversized hoodie you recognised immediately because it used to be yours. A faded band sweatshirt from high school that he'd "borrowed" three months ago for an outfit and never returned.
Juhoon's eyes met yours through the gap between his cap brim and mask.
You felt your face break into a smile before you could stop it.
He walked to the counter with his head down, hands shoved in the pocket of your hoodie, casual and unbothered. Like he wasn't an idol who'd flown in at 6am just to spend a few hours in your city.
"The usual?" You asked, trying to sound professional.
"Is the usual still on the menu?" His voice was muffled behind the mask, but you could hear the smile in it.
"The usual is always on the menu for you."
"Then yes. The usual."
You rang him up and he paid with his card, his fingers brushing yours when he took the receipt.
"Find a seat," you said. "I'll bring it to you."
He nodded and disappeared into the small crowd of afternoon customers.
You watched him weave through the tables and settle into the smallest, most hidden corner of the café: the table behind the pillar, that had bad lighting that no one ever chose. He pulled out his phone, tilted his cap lower, and became just another anonymous customer.
But you knew the slope of his shoulders. The way he tapped his fingers against the table when he was waiting. The way his eyes kept drifting from his phone to the counter, to you, back to his phone, back to you.
You made his drink without looking at the recipe.
Iced Americano, light ice, an extra shot. You'd memorised it after his first spontaneous visit to your job
You carried the cup to his table and set it down, pausing for a moment instead of walking away.
"Can I get you anything else?" you asked.
He looked up, his eyes warm above the mask. "Just you. When's your break?"
"Twenty minutes."
"I'll be here."
You smiled. "I know you will."
You walked back to the counter, heart full, and took the next order. And the next. And the next. The café kept moving, the world kept turning, and Juhoon sat in the corner, drinking his Americano, watching you work like you were the only thing worth looking at.
Twenty minutes later, you hung your apron on the hook and walked to his table.
He pulled out the chair across from him
"You're here early," you said whilst sitting down.
"Flight got in sooner than I expected." He finally pulled down his mask, just enough to take a sip of his drink. "I only have until tomorrow morning. Then I fly back for rehearsals."
"That's half a day."
"It's half a day," he agreed. "Worth it."
You looked at him. At the dark circles that never seemed to go away. At the way your hoodie hung off his frame—too small for him, really, but he wore it anyway because it was yours. At the small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"How was the flight?" you asked.
"Long. Boring. I slept through most of it."
"Did you eat?"
"Not really."
"Juhoon."
"I know, I know." He held up his hands in surrender. "I'll eat. I promise. There's a rice bowl place down the street. I saw it on the way here."
"You're impossible."
"You still like me."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "That's debatable."
He placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "You wound me."
"Someone has to keep you humble."
He leaned back in his chair, mask still pulled down just enough to drink. His eyes traced your face like he was cataloguing every detail—the way your hair had grown since last month, the small burn on your finger from the steam wand, the tiredness around your eyes that matched his own.
You kept talking, catching up on as much as you could in twenty minutes.
Eventually, from the counter, your coworker called your name. Your break was over.
"I have to go," you said.
"I know."
"You'll still be here when I finish?"
He pulled his mask back up, hiding his smile. But his eyes gave him away.
"I'll be here," he said.
The next three hours were chaos.
The afternoon rush hit hard: students, office workers, a family with three kids who all wanted different drinks. You didn't have time to look at the corner table. Didn't have time to think about anything except orders and milk temperatures and the growing pile of dishes in the back.
But every time you glanced up, he was there.
Still in the corner. Still drinking his Americano—though it had probably gone warm by now. Still watching.
He answered calls, scrolled through his phone, typed out messages you assumed were for his manager or his members. But every few minutes, his eyes would find yours, and he'd give you a small nod, and you'd remember why you were smiling.
At 4:45, the rush finally died. You wiped down the counter, restocked the cups, and checked the time.
Fifteen more minutes.
Your phone buzzed in your apron pocket.
Juhoon: You're almost done.
You glanced at the corner. He was looking at his phone, typing.
You: Counting down?
Juhoon: Maybe.
You: That's cute.
Juhoon: I try.
You bit back a grin and shoved your phone back in your pocket.
At 5:00 exactly, you hung up your apron.
Your coworker shot you a knowing look. "Boyfriend?"
"Something like that."
"He's been sitting there for hours. Didn't even order anything else."
"He's shy."
"He's staring at you like you hung the moon."
You felt your face warm. "He's dramatic."
But when you walked to the corner table, hoodie in hand, bag over your shoulder, Juhoon looked up at you with those dark, tired eyes, and your heart did the same stupid flip it had done six months ago at the bus stop.
"You waited," you said.
"I told you I would."
"You could have sat somewhere more comfortable."
"I was comfortable." He stood up, pocketing his phone. "I was watching you."
"That's not creepy at all."
"It's romantic."
You laughed and shoved his shoulder. He caught your hand before you could pull it back.
"I have leftovers you could eat at my dorm," you said. "Hana made too much stew."
"Your roommate hates me."
"Hana doesn't hate you."
"She called me a 'walking red flag' last time."
"She calls every guy that. You’re not special."
Juhoon laughed, his whole face crinkling. You'd missed that sound for two years. You still weren't used to hearing it again.
"Okay," he said. "Leftovers. But only if I can help with dishes."
"You're an idol."
"I'm your boyfriend first."
The word still made your chest tight. Boyfriend. You'd been calling each other that for four months now, ever since he'd asked—properly, nervously, with flowers and a speech he'd clearly rehearsed—if you'd let him try again.
You'd said yes.
You still said yes. Every day. Even on the hard days.
He didn't let go of your hand as you walked out of the café together. His mask was up, his cap was low, and anyone who saw you probably just thought you were another couple, another Tuesday, another ordinary afternoon.
The dorm was empty when you got there, Hana had headed to a late afternoon library session.
Juhoon stood in the middle of your tiny kitchen, looking around like he was trying to memorise it: the cheap cabinets, the humming refrigerator, the microwave that had beeped at you six months ago, the one you'd ignored while scrolling through a tweet that changed everything.
"This is where you live," he said.
"This is where I live."
"It's small."
"It's cheap."
He smiled. "I like it."
He helped reheat the stew. Set the table without being asked. Sat across from you in a chair that was too small for his shoulders, eating Hana's cooking and telling you about his week—the radio show where James had accidentally cursed on air, the photoshoot in freezing rain, the fan who'd recognised him at a convenience store at 2am and asked for a photo while he was buying ramen.
You told him about the café. About the customer who'd yelled at you over a latte. About the stray cat you'd been feeding behind the building. About the exam you were pretending not to stress over.
Normal things. Regular things. Things that belonged to the life you were building together, piece by piece.
After dinner, he did the dishes and you stood beside him, drying, your shoulders brushing.
"I have to leave at five tomorrow morning," he said quietly.
"I know."
"I wish I didn't."
"I know."
He set down the last plate. Turned to face you. His hands were wet, soapy, warm when they found your waist.
"Six months," he said.
"Six months," you agreed.
"Does it feel... okay? Is this okay?"
You looked at him. At the boy who'd broken your heart and come back to try to fix it. At the boy who still asked permission to hold your hand, who still looked at you like you might vanish, who still showed up even when it was hard.
"It's not easy," you said. "But it's okay. You're okay."
His forehead dropped to yours.
"I love you," he said. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I should say it more. But I love you, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you."
"Juhoon..."
"Let me." His voice was soft. "Let me be cheesy. I didn't get to be cheesy for two years. I have a lot of cheese saved up."
You laughed and he kissed your forehead before you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close.
"Stay until the last possible second tomorrow," you murmured into his chest.
"I will."
"Don't say goodbye when you leave."
"I won't."
"Just..." You tilted your head up to look at him. His face was soft in the dim light of your kitchen, the shadows carving out the exhaustion you'd learned to read like a second language. "Just promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't disappear again." Your voice was small. Smaller than you wanted it to be. "I don't care if we fight. I don't care if you're busy. I don't care if you can only send a single text at 3am. Just... don't disappear."
Juhoon's hands tightened on your waist.
"I promise," he said. "No more disappearing, no more silence, no more deciding what's best for you without asking." He pressed his forehead back against yours. "I'm done being a coward."
"You're not a coward."
"I was."
"You were sixteen."
"So were you. And you were braver than me."
You shook your head slightly, noses brushing. "I just didn't have as much to lose."
"You had everything to lose." His voice cracked. "And you were still willing to risk it."
You didn't know what to say to that. So you just held him tighter.
Outside, the city was loud: sirens, traffic, the hum of a thousand lives being lived all at once. But here, in this tiny dorm kitchen, wrapped around each other like you were afraid the world might pull you apart again, everything was quiet.
"You're really here," you whispered.
"I'm really here."
"And tomorrow you'll be gone."
"And tomorrow I'll text you from the airport. And the day after that, I'll call you between schedules. And the day after that, I'll send you a photo of whatever stupid thing Keonho is doing. And then I'll come back. And then I'll leave again. And then I'll come back." He pulled back just enough to look at you. "That's what this is. That's what we are. And I know it's not fair to you—"
"Stop." You pressed a finger to his lips. "Stop deciding what's fair for me."
He went quiet.
"I know what this is," you said. "I know you're an idol. I know you have schedules and fans and a company that watches your every move. I know we can't have normal dates or walk down the street holding hands or post couple photos on Instagram. I know all of that." You lowered your finger. "And I'm still here. I chose to be here. So stop apologising for things I already accepted."
Juhoon stared at you for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, shaky and relieved, like he'd been holding it for six months.
"How did I get so lucky?" he asked.
"You broke my heart and spent two years making up for it. That's not luck. That's stubbornness."
He laughed—wet and bright. "Yours or mine?"
"Both."
He kissed your forehead again. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth—not quite a real kiss, but close. Asking permission, like always.
"Can I—"
"Yes," you said. "You don't have to ask anymore."
"I want to ask. I never want to assume."
You pulled him down by the collar of his—your—hoodie and kissed him properly.
His lips were soft. A little chapped from the cold. He tasted like coffee and the remnants of Hana's stew and something sweet you couldn't name. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you impossibly closer. One of your hands tangled in his hair and the other rested over his heart, feeling it pound beneath your palm.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
"Okay," you said, a little dazed. "You can keep asking."
He grinned. That full, bright, unguarded grin that he only ever gave you. "Good. Because I have about two years' worth of kisses saved up."
"You're ridiculous."
"You like it."
"I love it." You paused. Realised what you'd said. Your face went warm.
Juhoon's eyes went wide. "You—"
"Don't make it a thing."
"You said—"
"I know what I said."
"You love me?"
You looked away, embarrassed. "I never stopped. That was the problem."
He cupped your face in his hands, still slightly damp, and turned you back to face him.
"I love you too," he said. "I never stopped either. I just forgot how to show it."
"Then show me now."
He kissed you again. Slower this time, deeper. Trying to pour every apology, every regret, every ounce of longing from the last two years into a single moment, and felt it. You could feel all of it.
When he pulled back, you were both smiling.
Somewhere across the room, your phone buzzed. Then his. The world was still out there: schedules and flights and cafés and fans and all of it. But for now, in this tiny kitchen with the humming refrigerator and the flickering fluorescent light, none of that existed.
SYNOPSIS : Your boyfriend takes you on a date to a drive-in movie, but you can hardly focus when he’s sat right next to you, watching you the entire time.
W.C : 5.0k
CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, lots of back to the future references (the best movie oat), established relationship, overprotective father, flirting, clichés, physical affection, confessions, pouting, kissing, fluff
PLAYLIST : Earth angel (will you be mine?) - Marvin Berry, The Starlighters; Waiting for a girl like you - Foreigner; Human nature - Michael Jackson; Take my breath away - Berlin; Don't you (forget about me) - Simple Minds; Every breath you take - The Police; Take on me - a-ha;
"I want you back by 10:30 sharp!" Your father's voice booms from the doorway, his finger pointed up at the sky like he's making a decree. You have your back to him, one foot already on the porch step, but you can feel the weight of his stare. "Not a minute later!"
"I know, I know." You mumble, turning briefly to kiss him goodbye on the cheek before heading down your porch steps, your sneakers soft on the concrete, the night air cool against your face.
"And you!" Your father's sharp voice follows you down the drive and you watch your boyfriend immediately straighten up under his pointed gaze. He's standing at the end of the path with a small bunch of flowers in his hand, trying very hard to look like he's never broken a rule in his life—like he didn’t once sneak you out in the middle of the night to go ‘God knows’ where for ‘God knows’ how long, as your father had described. “No funny business! You’re lucky after that stunt you pulled last time.”
Your face goes red hot, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks. "That was ages ago, Dad."
”Yes, sir.” Seonghyeon gave a small nod, and your dad held his gaze for a beat longer before grunting and stepping back inside. The door closes with a solid click. The porch light stays on, casting a pale yellow glow across the front steps, a reminder that someone is watching.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walk the rest of the way down the drive.
Seonghyeon was holding the flowers out before you even reached him. Store bought roses, you noticed, mixed with something white. You'd told him to stop stealing the cornflowers from Mrs. Park's garden after she'd gone on a neighbourhood-wide threatening spree, standing on her front porch with her hands on her hips, announcing to anyone within earshot that she would find out who kept stealing her flowers and she would 'deal with them'. You'd laughed about it at the time, but Seonghyeon had gone pale. He hadn't stolen anything since.
“Hi.” You say, taking the flowers, your finger’s briefly touching his.
"Hi, baby." He smiles, and his head tilts slightly as his eyes scan your face. You'd dressed up tonight, just a little: a nice dress from the back of your wardrobe that you never wear, and a cardigan that isn’t your mother’s for once. A small layer of make-up, too, just enough to cover the tiredness under your eyes. You didn't realise any of it made his heart beat faster, but you can see it now, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a second too long.
"You know you don't have to bring me flowers every time," you say, looking down at the roses. They're nice. Proper. The kind of flowers a girl's father might approve of. But something about them feels less like him, less like the boy who flicked your forehead daily and threw rocks at windows and handed you bent stems tied with kitchen string like they were made of gold.
He shrugs, easy, but there's something underneath it. "What kind of boyfriend wouldn't get his girlfriend flowers?"
You look up at him, at the way the porch light catches the edge of his jaw, at the small smile playing at his lips, and you realise he's nervous. Actually nervous. Like he's still trying to impress you, like nine months together hasn't made him any less scared of messing this up.
"They're nice," you say quietly. "Thank you."
His smile widens, just a little, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. "You're welcome."
He lingers there for a moment longer than necessary, warm against your skin, and then he drops his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket like he's trying to play it cool. Like you can't see the way his ears have gone pink at the tips.
"You look really nice," he says, quieter this time, as though he's not sure he should say it out loud.
You feel your face warm and look down at the flowers, turning them in your hands. The paper crinkles softly. "We should go. Before my dad changes his mind and comes back out here."
Seonghyeon glances toward the front door, and the memory of the last time your dad caught you trying to sneak back in flickers through his mind.
"Good point," he says, and moves to open the passenger door. "After you."
You climb in, settling onto the worn vinyl seat, and he closes the door behind you. You set the flowers carefully on your lap, arranging them so they won't get crushed, and watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield.
He moves easy, one hand trailing along the hood as he passes. The streetlight catches his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and you catch yourself staring, looking away before he catches you.
He slides into the driver's seat, and the car dips slightly under his weight. The door closes, and suddenly the world shrinks to just the two of you, the dark, and the low rumble of the engine.
"Can't believe your dad let you use his car again," you comment, watching him reach for the radio dial.
"Used my charm." He doesn't look at you, just clicks his seatbelt into place with a quiet snap after finding the station he wanted. "Seems to work. It won you over too, didn't it?"
"You're so annoying." You roll your eyes, but you're already pulling your own seatbelt across your chest, the metal latch clicking into place. He watches you do it; his eyes tracking your hands, your shoulders, the way your hair falls across your face. You feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.
"What?" you say.
"Nothing." He turns back to the wheel, starts to pull away from the curb. "Just looking."
"You're always looking."
"Hard not to."
You shove his arm. He laughs, low and warm, and the car rolls forward into the night.
The radio crackles through the speakers, searching for a signal before it lands on one of the local stations, the one you know Seonghyeon adores because it plays nothing but love songs from dusk until dawn. The instrumental of 'Waiting for a Girl Like You' by Foreigner fills the silence, the song familiar and soft, the same one he'd put on a mixtape for you months ago. The one you'd played so many times the tape started to wear thin.
He reaches over and turns it down, just enough that it sits underneath everything else: a quiet heartbeat beneath the sound of the engine and the rush of air through the cracked windows.
Streetlights pass overhead in rhythm, painting the inside of the car in orange and shadow, orange and shadow. You watch his profile for a while: the way his jaw moves when he swallows, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel in time with the song, the way his hair falls across his forehead and he doesn't push it back because he knows you'll do it for him later.
"You're staring," he says, his eyes still on the road.
"I'm looking out the window."
"My face is not a window."
You laugh, soft, and turn to face forward, watching the neighbourhood slip by. Houses become fewer, trees become thicker, and the lights of the city grow smaller in the rearview mirror until they're nothing but a warm glow on the horizon.
The car pulls into the drive-in just as the sky finishes its fade from blue to black. Rows of cars are already scattered across the lot, facing the massive screen that looms at the far end, pale and blank and waiting. Headlights cut through the dark as people find their spots, and somewhere in the distance, someone's radio is playing something you can't quite make out.
Seonghyeon finds a spot near the back, far enough from the other cars that you have your own space, close enough that you can still see the screen clearly. He backs in smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder. The car settles into place, and he kills the engine.
The silence that follows is sudden. Heavy. The radio hums quietly, still tuned to the right frequency, the movie's audio not quite started yet. Just static, soft and waiting.
He doesn't move. Just sits there, one hand still on the wheel, the other moving to rest on the console between you. His thumb traces slow circles on the vinyl.
You look at him. His face is half-lit from the dashboard, half in shadow, and his eyes are on the screen, but he's not really watching it. You can tell by the way his jaw is set, the way his breathing is slow and deliberate.
"What?" you ask.
He turns to look at you. "Nothing."
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you pretend you're not thinking about something."
He smiles, just slightly, and reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Maybe I'm just thinking about you," he says.
"That's so corny."
"You love it."
Before you can respond, the movie crackles to life, Seonghyeon quickly reaching over to switch off the radio entirely as you adjust into your seat. The speakers on the post beside the car hum with static for a moment, then clear, the familiar Universal logo appearing on the massive screen in front of you.
Back to the Future.
You've seen it before—twice, maybe three times—but you don't mind. You settle back into the seat, tucking your legs up beneath you, the flowers now resting on the dashboard between you.
Seonghyeon shifts beside you, one arm draping against the headrest of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He's not looking at the screen. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady.
"Marty's late again," you say, nodding toward the screen.
"Mm."
"You're not watching."
"I'm watching you watch it."
You turn to look at him. His face is soft in the glow from the screen, the light shifting with each scene, painting him in blues and whites and the occasional flash of colour. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.
"You're so weird," you say.
"You're just noticing?"
You laugh, quiet, and reach into the bag of snacks you brought: crisps, chocolate, two bottles of Coke that are already going warm. You pull out the chocolate, break off a piece, and hold it up to his mouth.
He looks at it. Then at you. Then opens his mouth just enough for you to feed it to him, his lips brushing your fingers as he takes it.
"Good?" you ask.
He chews slowly, watching you the whole time. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Yeah."
You break off another piece for yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating. On the screen, Marty McFly is skateboarding, weaving through traffic, late for school. You've seen this part before. You know what happens next. But somehow, with his arm around your shoulder and his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve, it feels different.
"You're staring," you say.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady, like a hand cupping your cheek. He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours and his breath warm on your cheek.
"So?" he says.
You turn to face him properly, ready with a retort, and find him closer than you expected. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and you can see the moment his gaze drops to your mouth.
"Seonghyeon—"
He kisses you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you feel it everywhere: the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your scalp, the way he tilts your head just slightly to deepen the kiss.
You forget what you were going to say. You forget the movie. You forget the other cars, the other people, the whole world outside this small space. There's just him. His mouth on yours. The quiet sound he makes when your fingers curl into the front of his jacket to pull him closer. The way his thumb traces the curve of your jaw like he's memorising the shape of you.
His lips are warm, familiar, and they move against yours with an ease that comes from months of practice. But despite all of that, it still feels new. Still feels like the first time, a little. Still makes your chest ache in the best way.
He tastes like chocolate and something else, something that's just him, and it's the taste of someone you know better than anyone. You want to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in the dark of the car with the movie playing forgotten and the whole world reduced to the space between his lips and yours
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow. The movie plays on, forgotten: someone on screen is shouting about plutonium, about the future, about something that doesn't matter. Someone laughs somewhere in the distance, and a car door closes, and the speakers crackle with static, but none of it matters. None of it exists.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi."
He smiles. That smile. The one that won you over from the very beginning.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Was that distracting you from the movie?"
You shove his chest, but there's no force behind it. Your hand lingers there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "You're impossible."
"You say that." He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and soft, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin. "But you still haven’t gotten rid of me."
You settle back against him, your head finding its usual spot against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like it belongs there, his thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric of your dress. On the screen, Marty plays guitar, too loud, too fast, and Doc Brown's lab fills with smoke and light.
You watch it, but you're not really watching it. You're watching the way Seonghyeon’s chest rises and falls. You're watching the way the light from the screen catches his profile. You're watching the way his thumb moves, slow and steady, like it's keeping time with something only he can hear.
"Hey," he says quietly.
"Mm?"
"I'm glad you came."
You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. His skin is warm and you feel the muscle twitch under your lips when you do it, before turning back to continue watching, his arm tightening around you.
The movie eventually reaches one of your favourite scenes, of which you have many: the one where Marty's dad is trying to ask out Marty’s mother, stumbling over every word, face flushed, hands trembling.
‘Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.’
You feel Seonghyeon shift beside you, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusts his position. His arm, which had been draped loosely around your shoulders, tightens just slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb, which had been tracing idle patterns on your sleeve, stills.
You glance at him. He's not watching the screen. He's watching you.
"What?" You whisper, not wanting to break the quiet of the moment.
"Nothing." His voice is low, almost lost beneath the dialogue from the movie. "Just... you like this scene? You’re smiling."
You nod, turning back to the screen. "It's sweet. He's so nervous, but he tries anyway. Even though he thinks he's going to mess it up."
‘I’m George, George McFly. You’re density. I mean, your destiny.’
You don't even realise it, but your lips form a small pout when listening to him speak on screen: the way he stumbles over the words, the way his voice cracks just slightly and he can barely even get a word out.
Seonghyeon makes a quiet sound beside you and you feel his thumb start moving again, tracing slow circles on your shoulder.
"You look cute pulling that face," you hear him say.
You turn to look at him. His hand reaches up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb gently touches the corner of your mouth. The pad of his finger is warm, slightly rough, and it lingers there for a moment, tracing the curve of your lip where it's still pressed into that small pout.
"What face?" you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, muffled slightly by his thumb.
"This one." He presses his finger against your bottom lip, just barely, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch, wanting to smile. "The one where you're all soft and focused and you don't even know I'm looking at you."
You don’t know what to say, the feeling of his thumb on your lip ridding you of any logical thought.
“You used to do it before we started dating too.” You watch him smile softly, the memories of the two of you sitting next to each other in class flashing through his mind.
“I always knew you were looking at me.” You finally say.
His thumb stills from its tiny movements, and his eyes bore into yours, like he was trying to read if you were bluffing or not. “So why didn’t you do anything?”
“Because,” you shrug, turning back to face the screen, the movie flashing through. “I wanted to see if you were brave enough to ask me out yourself. Even if you stumbled over every word like George McFly, I still would have given you a chance.”
He's quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on.
Then he laughs, a breath of a sound that you feel more than hear.
“I was so nervous.” He finally says, glancing down at his lap briefly. "I was so scared I was going to mess it up. That I'd say the wrong thing, or freeze, or—" He stops, swallows. "That you would say no. But not saying anything would have been worse. Not knowing would have been worse."
You turn to him, blinking in surprise. "Seonghyeon," you say slowly. "You asked me out behind the bleachers."
"I know."
"You kissed me before I could even finish saying 'yes'."
"I know that too." He's smiling now, small and almost shy, like he's remembering it the same way you are. The way he'd been standing there when you rounded the corner, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair messy from practice. The way he'd looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
"You were so confident," you say.
He laughs and shakes his head, "I was terrified." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. "I just didn't want you to know."
The pout quickly returns to your face as you watch him, your heart sinking at the thought of you making your confident boyfriend so nervous. All this time, you'd thought he was calm, collected, completely sure of himself. But he'd been scared. He'd been terrified. And he'd done it anyway.
You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough from the faintest hint of stubble, and you feel the small exhale he lets out: a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then you settle back onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck fitting perfectly against your temple.
His arm tightens around you immediately, like he was waiting for you to come back, like the few seconds you were gone were seconds too long. His hand moves to settle on your waist, fingers spread wide, and you feel the warmth of him seep through your dress.
"Hey," he says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.
"Mm?”
"You're not allowed to feel bad about that."
"I'm not feeling bad."
"You're pouting again."
You press your lips together, trying to stop. It doesn't work. "I'm not."
"You are." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I can feel it."
You're quiet for a moment, watching the movie without really seeing it. All you can think about is him. About the boy who stood behind the bleachers with his heart in his throat and asked you out anyway.
"I would have said yes," you say softly. "Even if you'd stumbled. Even if you'd forgotten every word. Even if you'd just stood there looking at me like an idiot. I still would have said yes."
His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel his cheek press against the top of your head.
"I know," he says, and his voice is thick, barely above a whisper. "I know that now."
The movie plays on. The night settles around you, dark and warm. And you stay there, tucked against his side, his heart beating under your ear, steady and real.
"You were worth the nerves," he says after a while.
You tilt your head up, looking at him. His face is soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.
"Yeah?" you ask.
"Yeah." He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. "You always have been."
You smile, and he smiles back, and then you both turn back to the screen, the lights flickering against both your faces.
The scene changes, the clock tower fades, and suddenly the screen is filled with the soft glow of the dance. Streamers hang from the ceiling in shades of blue and silver, and the band is playing something slow.
‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine?’
"My favourite part," you murmur, not even realising you've said it out loud.
"Yeah?" His voice is low, close to your ear.
"Mm. When George finally kisses her. When he stops being scared and just... does it."
On screen, George is dancing with Lorraine on the dance floor, his face set with determination, his hands trembling whilst the music swells.
‘My darling dear, love you all the time’
You feel Seonghyeon's hand slide from your waist to your chin, tilting your face up toward his and this thumb starts brushing your cheek. His eyes are dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you.
"What?" you whisper.
He glances at the screen, where George is leaning in, where Lorraine is waiting, where everything is about to change. Then he looks back at you.
“I was terrified of our first kiss too…” He whispers, barely audible over the movie, “but not enough to stop me from trying.”
Your heart stutters.
On screen, George kisses Lorraine. The music swells. The audience cheers. And in the darkness of the car, with the glow of the movie painting everything in soft blues and silver, Seonghyeon leans in and kisses you.
It's soft. Slow. His hand moves to cup the back of your head, sifting through the strands of your hair. You tilt your head slightly and feel his breath catch against your lips, a small sound that he swallows before it can escape.
His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he's anchoring himself to you. His thumb traces the curve of your skull, slow and absent, and you shiver despite the warmth of the car, despite the heat of his body pressed against yours. The leather of his jacket is cool under your hands where you've gripped the collar, and you feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, through his shirt, through the space where your chest presses against his.
‘I'm just a fool,’
The song drifts through the speakers, soft and distant, barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat, over the quiet exhale of his breath, over the soft slide of his lips against yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world—like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Like this moment, right here, is exactly where he's supposed to be.
His hand on your waist shifts, fingers spreading wide against your hip, and he pulls you closer until there's no space left between you, until your ribs are aligned with his despite the gearshift’s attempts to separate you, until you can feel every breath he takes.
When he finally pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he's having to remind himself to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow, your breath mingling with his in the small space between you.
‘A fool in love with you’
"See?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the fading song. "Not so scary after all."
You laugh, soft and breathless, the sound strange and bright in the darkness of the car and he just watches you with that look. The one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes everything else fall away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, something that looks like awe and wonder, like he can't quite believe you're real.
You lean in and kiss him again.
This time, it's slower. Sweeter. His lips part under yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, like your mouth was made to fit against his. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious and it makes your stomach flutter.
The movie continues. George wins the girl, and Marty makes it back to the future… or present, or was it—it doesn't really matter. Not when his thumb is tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you. Not when his breath is warm against your lips, slow and steady, matching yours without either of you trying. Not when the world outside this car has shrunk to nothing, faded to static, disappeared entirely.
On screen, the DeLorean disappears in a flash of light and fire, the movie ending in a cliff hanger. Someone shouts. Someone cheers. The credits begin to roll, music swelling, names scrolling up the screen in white text.
Neither of you notice.
His forehead presses against yours again, and his eyes are closed, and his hand is still cupping your face like you're something worth holding onto. You watch him for a moment: how his lips are still slightly parted whilst his chest rises and falls beneath your palm where your hand rests against his heart.
"Seonghyeon," you whisper.
He opens his eyes. They're dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you. "Yeah?"
"The movie's over."
He glances at the screen, then back at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. "So?"
"So..." You smile, and you feel his thumb brush the corner of your mouth, catching the curve of it. "Aren't you going to take me home?"
He's quiet for a moment. The credits keep rolling, the music keeps playing, and somewhere behind you, car engines are starting up, headlights flickering on, people beginning to leave.
"No," he says finally.
You blink. "No?"
"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Not yet."
"Seonghyeon, I have a curfew."
"I know."
"My dad will kill you."
"I know that too." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's that smile again—the one that's gotten him into trouble more times than you can count, the one that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "But I'm not ready to take you home yet."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You should argue. You should remind him of the last time you were late, of the way your dad had stood on the porch with his arms crossed, of the five weeks Seonghyeon hadn't been allowed within thirty feet of your house.
But he's looking at you like that, and his hand is warm on your face, and the night is dark and soft and full of something that feels like possibility.
"Five more minutes," you say.
His smile widens. "Ten."
"Seven."
"Deal."
He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, settling against his chest. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.
The credits finish. The screen goes dark. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio he had turned on after the credits finished and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.
"Baby," he says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"You’re my density."
You tilt your head up, look at him. His face is soft in the darkness, his eyes steady on yours like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.
"And you’re mine," you say.
And you stay there, tangled up together, watching the empty screen, not watching anything at all. The night stretches on around you, dark and endless, and the world feels very far away.
Seven minutes, you think. But you know, even as you think it, that you're not going to remind him when the time's up.
SYNOPSIS :: Following your campers locking you and Seonghyeon in a closet together, you try to pretend he doesn't exist, but Seonghyeon and your two cabins of relentless matchmakers have other plans.
W.C :: 4.6k
CONTAINS :: campcounselor!seonghyeon, a spinoff of mr and mrs camp counselor, the campers are menaces, stubborn reader, crack, fluff, angst if you squint, the love bomb, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Tongue tied - grouplove; It’s not living (if it’s not with you) - the 1975; Slide away - Oasis; You are the right one - Sports
It had been exactly one day since the storage closet incident that saw you and Seonghyeon finally confess that there was something between you both.
When the two of you were freed from the makeshift prison you had attempted to give the campers a thorough talking to. Really, you had.
You'd marched them all to the main lodge, mustered your most authoritative counselor voice, and launched into a speech about boundaries, respect, and the importance of not locking people in confined spaces.
They'd stood there in a ragged semicircle, faces arranged in expressions of performative contrition—and then one of them had pointed at your hair and whispered, "It's still there."
Another had started giggling, then another.
Within thirty seconds, the entire group had devolved into helpless laughter, tears streaming down their faces as they pointed at the glitter still stubbornly clinging to your part, your temples, the collar of your counselor polo, all the while you tried to maintain your composure.
Then you'd glanced at Seonghyeon, who had somehow gotten it worse: his entire left shoulder sparkled like a disco ball, and there was a particularly stubborn cluster of purple flakes stuck to his eyebrow, and you'd lost it too.
The "talking to" had devolved into all of you laughing so hard the camp director had come outside to check if someone was dying.
Safe to say, you deemed the whole thing a wash and the lecture was officially canceled. The campers had won yet again.
And so, in your own stubborn and unrelenting methods of punishment , you refused to allow the campers to see you interact with Seonghyeon at all in the hopes that eventually the campers would stop being so persistent.
It was petty, sure, but seeing their faces: the way their eyes would light up whenever you so much as glanced in his direction, and they'd scramble for that ridiculous notebook, then they'd start narrating your every move like you were characters in their personal drama—it all made you want to scream.
So you'd decided: no interaction, no eye contact, no accidental hand brushes, no standing within ten feet of each other. No anything that could be documented, analysed, or turned into another entry in Operation Summer Romance.
You were going to starve them of content.
It was a brilliant plan. Foolproof. Diabolical, even.
It lasted approximately one day before collapsing.
You had started the morning off strong, positioning yourself on the complete opposite end of the counselor’s dining table to Seonghyeon, as far away from him as physically possible.
The campers noticed immediately, and you watched their faces drop, eyes darting between the two of you.
"Why is she sitting so far away?"
"Is she... avoiding him?"
"Why would she avoid him? They were literally trapped in a closet together yesterday."
"Maybe she's embarrassed."
"Maybe he did something wrong."
"He wouldn't do anything wrong. He's perfect."
"Nobody's perfect."
"He is. He's perfect for her."
You stabbed your oatmeal with unnecessary force.
Seonghyeon, at the opposite end of the table, was pointedly not looking at you. You could tell he was trying not to look at you. His eyes kept drifting in your direction, then snapping away, like he was fighting a physical urge.
It was kind of adorable, but you weren't going to think about that.
The whispers continued as breakfast finished up, it was only natural for them to speculate anyways, they had quite literally witnessed you two fall into each other laughing upon your release from the closet. The sudden switch up from "they're obviously in love" to "she won't even look at him" was jarring, even for the most dedicated investigators, especially considering both you and Seonghyeon still had the remnants of glitter dusted across you, so what could have possibly happened in that short time period?
You could feel their confusion radiating from the other side of the dining hall like a physical force.
Eventually you pushed your bowl away, your oatmeal a lost cause.
Standing up, you collected your tray and turned to your campers, who were still huddled together, watching you with the intensity of hawk-eyed detectives.
"Clean up," you said firmly. "We have archery in twenty minutes. I don't want to hear any excuses about being late."
Your campers exchanged glances. They clearly wanted to ask more questions and demand answers, but something in your tone made them hold their tongues for now.
You walked toward the tray return, keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead. You could feel Seonghyeon's eyes on you from across the room, the weight of his attention like a physical presence, warm and steady and impossible to ignore.
You didn't look back, you refused to.
That afternoon you were walking back from the archery range when you saw him coming the other way, flanked by his campers. The path was narrow, there was nowhere to go, and you were going to have to pass him.
You squared your shoulders and lifted your chin, prepared to walk past him like he was a stranger, a complete non-entity, someone you'd never met in your entire life—
"Counselor Y/N."
His voice stopped you in your tracks.
You turned to see his campers watching with barely contained glee. Your campers were watching from a distance, having somehow materialised out of thin air the moment they sensed an impending interaction.
"Yes?" You said, keeping your voice flat.
Seonghyeon smiled that soft, private smile that was only ever for you. "You have something in your hair."
"Really."
"Really."
"Let me guess, glitter?"
"Purple."
You reached up. Your fingers brushed against a cluster of stubborn sparkles still clinging to your part. You tried to pull them out, but they were completely stuck despite your insistence.
One of Seonghyeon’s campers squealed quietly, barely able to contain her excitement as she watched Seonghyeon’s smile turn even fonder than it already had been, "He's going to help her."
"He's going to touch her hair." Another responded, swinging the arm of the camper beside them in uncontrolled glee.
Seonghyeon stepped closer, his hand already reaching out towards you. "Do you want—"
"I've got it," you said quickly, far too quickly. "I'm fine. Thank you."
You turned and walked away, continuing your trek down towards the camp. Behind you, the campers gasped. "She walked away!"
"He looks so confused." Your camper whispered behind her hand, watching Seonghyeon carefully from a distance. The crowd of kids surrounded him like concerned bodyguards, all of them tracking his every micro-expression following the... rejection, if you could even call it that.
"He looks hurt."
"She hurt his feelings."
One of the younger campers pouted dramatically, her lower lip wobbling as if she'd personally been rejected. "Why would she do that? They were so happy yesterday."
"Maybe she's playing hard to get."
"What do we do? We can’t let this stand." Seonghyeon’s camper declared, shaking his head dramatically.
"We'll fix it, somehow."
“How???”
What every single one of them failed to notice, in their mass whispers of shock and concern, was the smirk that now rested on Seonghyeon's lips as he watched you go.
He had worked out almost immediately what you were doing. The moment you'd sat at the opposite end of the breakfast table, refused to make eye contact, and now walked away from him on the path—he'd seen right through it.
You weren't rejecting him.
You were testing him, or rather, you were testing yourself. You were trying to prove that you could resist him, that you could keep things professional, that the campers hadn't already won.
It was absolutely adorable, and also completely, utterly futile.
He watched you disappear around the bend, your shoulders still squared with your chin still lifted and your hair still glittering with purple sparkles that caught the afternoon light like tiny stars. You were trying so hard to be strong, distant, and untouchable.
But he knew you.
He'd known you for three summers. He'd watched you comfort homesick campers at midnight and laugh so hard at a camper's joke that you'd snorted juice out of your nose.
He'd even watched you fall in love with him—just as he'd fallen in love with you.
This little performance of yours wasn't going to last, he'd make sure of it.
"You know," he said, not turning around to face his campers, "she's very stubborn."
"Yeah, we noticed."
"She's SOOOOO stubborn."
"Stubborn enough to walk away from true love."
Seonghyeon chuckled. "She's also very determined. Once she decides on something, she doesn't give up easily."
"Is that supposed to be a good thing?"
"It is when she's determined about the right things." A camper pointed out.
"And right now, she's determined about the wrong thing."
"Don't worry," Seonghyeon said, finally turning to face his campers. His smirk had softened into something warmer and more certain. "She'll come around."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know her." He tucked his hands into his pockets, already planning his next move. "And because I'm very, very patient."
"Patient for what?"
"For her."
The campers exchanged glances. Then, slowly, their expressions shifted from despair to hope, realising they had maybe underestimated their counselor.
That evening, you found yourself back in the boys' cabin.
It wasn't by choice, exactly. The glitter situation in the storage closet had become a genuine hazard—campers were tracking purple sparkles everywhere, and you'd drawn the short straw when it came to cleanup duty. So there you were, knee-deep in craft supplies, trying to contain the chaos that your campers had unleashed.
The irony was not lost on you.
You were just reaching for a particularly stubborn cluster of glitter that had somehow migrated to the ceiling when you heard footsteps behind you: the soft tread of sneakers on wooden floorboards that were familiar and unmistakable.
"I'm not talking to you," you said without turning around.
"I didn't say anything," Seonghyeon replied.
"Your presence is saying plenty."
"My presence?"
"Yes. It's very... present."
He laughed warmly, making your stomach flip. You'd heard that laugh a hundred times before, but somehow it still managed to catch you off guard and make your heart do that annoying little skip it had been doing for three summers now.
You refused to acknowledge it.
"I was just passing by," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "I didn't realise you'd be in here."
"Liar."
"Excuse me?"
"You're a terrible liar, Seonghyeon. You always have been." You finally turned to face him, still holding the glitter container like a shield. "You knew I'd be here. One of your campers told you, didn't they?"
He had the decency to look slightly caught out. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit you'd noticed years ago, one that he only ever did around you.
"Maybe," he admitted.
"Maybe?"
"Okay, yes. Jungwoo mentioned it during free period. He said you were 'on a glitter crusade' and that I should 'seize the opportunity.'"
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "They're coaching you now?"
"They're very invested."
"They're meddling."
"They prefer the term 'facilitating.'"
"Seonghyeon."
"Y/N."
You stared at each other across the small cabin. The evening light slanted through the windows, catching the glitter dust still floating in the air like tiny purple stars. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Somewhere further away, campers shouted and laughed and continued their endless chaos.
But in here, it was just the two of you.
"I'm doing this for a reason," you said.
"Which is?"
"The campers. They're watching us all the time, and if we give them any more material, they're going to—" You gestured vaguely. "—do something. I don't know what. Something worse than the closet."
"Worse than the closet?"
"Yes. They're creative and unhinged. They have that stupid notebook, for god’s sake."
Seonghyeon took a step toward you. "So your solution is to pretend I don't exist?"
"It's a temporary measure."
"For how long?"
"Until they lose interest."
He raised an eyebrow. "They're not going to lose interest."
"They will eventually."
"Y/N. They've been watching us for weeks. They locked us in a closet. They have a Venn diagram." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of colour in his eyes. "They're not losing interest."
You swallowed. "So what do you suggest?"
He reached up, very slowly, very deliberately, and brushed a cluster of purple glitter from your hair, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I suggest we stop pretending," he said quietly. "They already know. Everyone already knows. The only people who don't seem to know are us."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.
You opened your mouth to respond, deflect, argue, do anything other than admit that he was right, and then you heard it.
A soft gasp from behind you. Barely audible, but unmistakable.
Your eyes widened. You started to turn to see who was there and had been watching, ready to question how long they'd been listening—
But Seonghyeon's hands were suddenly on your cheeks, cupping your face, gently but firmly holding you still. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, warm and steady, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"Don't turn around," he murmured.
"Seonghyeon."
"Don't."
"Seonghyeon, I—"
"Just look at me." His voice was soft, almost pleading. "Please. Just look at me."
You wanted to argue and pull away to see who was at the window and put an end to whatever scheme the campers had cooked up this time.
But his hands were so warm, his eyes were so steady, and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the world, like nothing else mattered, like the campers could be watching or not and it wouldn't change a single thing—made it impossible to move.
"Seonghyeon," you said again, and this time your voice came out as a warning, low and threatening. The kind of voice you used when campers were about to do something stupid.
He just tilted his head, his expression entirely innocent. His eyelashes fluttered and he smiled so softly you felt your heart clench.
"Yes?" He asked, his voice dripping with false sweetness.
You stared at him and he stared back, completely unrepentant.
Despite everything surrounding you at this moment, you felt the fight drain out of you.
You sighed, a long, defeated exhale that seemed to come from somewhere deep in your soul. "You're impossible," you said.
"I know."
"This is exactly what they want."
"I know."
"And you're just... going to give it to them?"
He smiled, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks. "I'm not doing it for them," he said quietly. "I'm doing it for us."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Seonghyeon..."
"Y/N." His forehead touched yours. "I've been waiting for three summers. I've been patient. I've been professional. I've been careful." He let out a soft breath. "I'm tired of being careful."
"You're tired of being careful?"
"I'm tired of pretending I don't want to kiss you every time you laugh at one of my jokes, and watching you walk away and not following. I'm tired of—" He stopped, his voice catching slightly. "I'm tired of loving you from a distance."
Your breath caught. "Seonghyeon..."
"I know the campers are watching." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I know they're going to make this into a whole thing and we're never going to hear the end of it." He smiled, soft and warm. "But I don't care."
"They’re going to actually plan our wedding."
"I figured."
"Seonghyeon."
"Y/N."
He was so close. His hands were on your face, his forehead was against yours, and somewhere behind you, through the window, a dozen campers were watching with bated breath.
But in this moment none of it mattered.
"You're not worried?" You whispered.
"Not even a little," he whispered back, his lips curving into a smile.
And then, before you could overthink it, you surged forward and kissed him.
His lips were warm, slightly chapped from the summer sun, the way they always were this time of year, and you'd noticed that detail a hundred times before without ever admitting it to yourself. You'd noticed the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking, the way he licked them before he smiled, the way they curved around words that made you laugh.
But you'd never let yourself imagine what they'd feel like against yours.
Now you knew.
His hands were still cupping your face, and as you kissed him, his thumbs traced slow, reverent circles across your cheekbones. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that it made your chest ache with something you couldn't quite name.
You felt his breath hitch against your lips—a soft, surprised sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands then slid from your cheeks into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, pulling you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.
Which, you realised with a jolt, he had.
Three summers. Three years of stolen glances and accidental touches and breakfast cleanup shifts, three years of watching you from across the dining hall, of finding excuses to be near you, of loving you from a distance.
And now, finally, finally, you were here.
The kiss deepened, and you felt his body press against yours—warm and solid and real. His chest against your chest, his hands in your hair, his lips moving against yours with a slowness that felt almost deliberate.
You reached up, your fingers finding the collar of his counselor polo. You tugged him closer, and he made a soft sound against your lips—a sound that was half laugh, half sigh, entirely content.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips parted slightly.
"Y/N," he whispered, and your name sounded softer on his lips now.
"I'm here," you whispered back.
He opened his eyes. They were bright, warm, filled with something that made your heart stutter in your chest. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he said.
"I know."
"You know?"
"You signed up for breakfast cleanup on your off days for three summers, Seonghyeon. I wasn't oblivious." You smiled, your fingers still tangled in his collar. "I was just..."
"Scared?"
"Patient."
"You're not patient. You're stubborn."
"Same thing."
He laughed and pressed his forehead more firmly against yours. "I love you," he said quietly. "I've loved you for three summers, and I'm tired of pretending I don't."
"I know."
"Say it back."
"Seonghyeon."
"Say it back," he repeated, and his voice was soft but insistent. "Please."
You looked at him, seeing his warm eyes and his soft smile and the single purple glitter flake still clinging to his eyebrow. He was the man who had been waiting for you for three summers, who had signed up for shifts he didn't need and duties he didn't want, who had loved you from a distance and never once given up.
"I love you too," you said.
His smile was the brightest thing you'd ever seen. "Say it again."
"I love you too."
"Again."
"Seonghyeon."
"Again."
You laughed, pulling him closer. "I love you. I love you. I love you." You pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth. "Is that enough?"
"Not even close," he murmured, and then he was kissing you again: deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world.
Behind you, the campers erupted.
“THEY’RE KISSING!!!” One shouted as the two campers beside her screamed and covered their eyes, trying to erase the sight from their memories.
“WE DID IT!”
“OPERATION SUMMER ROMANCE IS COMPLETE!”
You felt Seonghyeon smile into the kiss as the campers voices filtered in through the cracks of the window, the sun shhining bright onto the grounds. Maybe it was time to give in and accept that the campers were victorious, though if it meant you got to kiss Seonghyeon more often, you weren’t going to complain.
EXTRA ::
The sun hung low and golden over the lake, casting long shadows across the water as the final afternoon of camp drew to a close. The air was thick with the scent of pine and sunscreen and the bittersweet weight of endings. Summer was almost over, the campers would leave tomorrow, the cabins would empty, the laughter would fade into memory.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
You stood at the edge of the dock, the wooden boards warm beneath your bare feet. The water lapped gently against the pilings, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. Beside you, Seonghyeon's hand was warm in yours, his fingers laced through yours like they'd always been there.
The campers were gathered on the shore, a chaotic cluster of cabin shirts and sunburned noses and glitter-covered notebooks. They'd been watching you both all week—following you around like ducklings, documenting your every interaction, adding to their ever-growing collection of evidence that you were now, officially, a couple.
"Are you ready?" Seonghyeon asked softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the campers' chatter.
You turned to look at him. The golden light caught the edges of his face, illuminating the warmth in his eyes, the soft curve of his smile. "Ready for what?" You asked, though you already knew.
He smiled gently. "To make a memory."
Your heart swelled in your chest. "I've already made enough memories with you to last a lifetime."
"Then make one more."
The campers on shore were growing restless. You could hear their whispers and excited murmurs. "They're holding hands."
"They're always holding hands now."
"It's so romantic."
"It's so gross."
"Shush!! It’s beautiful."
You laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. Seonghyeon's hand squeezed yours, and you turned to face him fully. "Together?" You asked.
"Together," he confirmed.
And then you jumped.
The water was cold and shocking and perfect. It closed over your heads like a curtain, muffling the sounds of the world above. For a moment, there was nothing but the weight of the water around you, the pressure of Seonghyeon's hand still gripping yours, the strange, suspended feeling of falling without falling.
You then kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.
The air was warm against your wet skin. The sun was bright in your eyes. The campers were screaming from the shore, their voices a chaotic chorus of excitement and disbelief.
But you barely heard them because Seonghyeon was there, treading water beside you, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes bright and laughing. Water droplets clung to his lashes like tiny diamonds and his smile was the widest you'd ever seen it.
"You're crazy," you said, laughing.
"You're the one who jumped with me."
"I didn't say I wasn't crazy too."
He laughed heartily and pulled you closer. His hands found your waist beneath the water, steadying you, anchoring you to him. "I love you," he said, and the words came easy now, as natural as breathing.
You smiled, water dripping from your chin. "I love you too."
He kissed you.
His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt your feet leave the bottom of the lake. You floated together, suspended in the golden water, the world reduced to the warmth of his lips and the steady beat of his heart against yours.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed.
"Best summer ever," he murmured.
"Best summer ever," you agreed.
From the shore, the campers had lost their collective minds.
"THEY KISSED IN THE WATER!"
"THAT WAS SO ROMANTIC!"
"WE DID THIS! WE'RE MATCHMAKING GENIUSES!"
"WE'RE LEGENDS!"
Then, without warning, the first camper jumped.
A splash followed by a shriek and a burst of laughter, then another, and another.
Within seconds, the air was filled with flying bodies and screaming children and the unmistakable chaos of two cabins' worth of campers launching themselves into the lake with absolutely no regard for safety or dignity or the fact that they were all still wearing their clothes.
"CANNONBALL!" One shouted before they hit the water, you quickly turned your face away to avoid the spray of water from hitting your eye.
You watched in horror and delight as the chaos unfolded around you. Campers splashed and shrieked and laughed, their voices echoing across the lake like the sound of pure, unfiltered joy.
And then, as the realisation hit you—
"WHERE ARE YOUR LIFE JACKETS?!" You shouted, your counselor instincts overriding everything else.
A camper paddled past you, grinning. "Relax, Counselor! We're in the shallow end!"
"The shallow end is still deep enough to drown!"
"We're fine!"
"You're not fine! You're going to drown!"
"I can swim!"
"That’s not the point!"
Seonghyeon laughed beside you, his arm still wrapped around your waist. "They're not going to listen."
"Seonghyeon."
"Just let them have this."
"Someone's going to injure themself!"
"Well at least they would be having fun whilst doing so."
You turned to stare at him. "Did you just joke about campers getting injured?"
He grinned, water still dripping from his chin. "I'm very funny."
You splashed him in response.
The water caught him square in the face, and his head snapped back with a startled laugh. For a moment, he just froze: jaw dropped, eyes wide, water streaming down his cheeks like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
Then he turned to you, and his grin turned wicked. "Oh, it's on."
Before you could react, his hand came down in a sweeping arc, sending a wall of water directly into your face. You sputtered, gasping, as the lake water invaded your mouth and nose.
It quickly devolved into the two of you splashing water at each other relentlessly, wide grins on both your faces: your hands churning the surface into a frenzy, his laughter echoing across the lake as he dodged and retaliated. Water flew in every direction, catching the golden sunlight like scattered diamonds.
One of your campers shouted: "WATER FIGHT!"
It then became an all-out war. A free-for-all, even.
Campers descended from every direction, shrieking and laughing, their bodies cutting through the water like torpedoes. You couldn't tell who was an ally or an enemy anymore—only that you were aiming to stop swallowing so much water. Hands splashed from every angle, faces appeared and disappeared in the chaos, the lake had become a battlefield of pure, unfiltered joy.
You spun in circles, trying to defend yourself, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them and they were everywhere: behind you, beside you, in front of you. Water filled your eyes, your nose, your mouth. You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, you caught a glimpse of Seonghyeon. He was surrounded by at least five campers, all of them splashing him relentlessly, and he was laughing so brightly his cheeks were turning red. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt clung to his chest, and you realised truly that you'd never loved him more.
The sun shone brightly above, its rays gleaming against the rocking water. The lake sparkled like a sea of scattered stars, each ripple catching the light and throwing it back toward the sky. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of summer. The sounds of laughter and splashing echoed across the water like music.
In the middle of it all, surrounded by chaos and campers and the golden light of the setting sun, you found yourself thinking that this was it. This was the moment you'd remember forever.
The summer you fell in love.
The summer the campers won.
The summer that changed everything for the better.
SYNOPSIS :: To celebrate your one year anniversary James takes you on a trip to Paris, and underneath the glow of the Eiffel Tower you fall in love with him all over again.
W.C :: 4.5k
CONTAINS :: bf!james, non idol au, just pure fluff, established relationship, pet names, skinship, kissing, cliché, cheesy dialogue, pda
PLAYLIST :: Only you (and you alone) - The Platters; I waited for you - Chet Baker; Misty- Lesley Gore
The first thing you feel is warmth.
James's arm is draped across your waist like it belongs there—and after a year, you suppose it does. His hand rests flat against your stomach, fingers slightly curled, and every few seconds you feel the unconscious twitch of his grip, pulling you even closer even in sleep.
His face is buried in the curve of your neck, his nose pressed into the soft skin just below your jaw. His breath comes in slow, even puffs, warm against your collarbone, and his legs are tangled with yours beneath the rumpled duvet.
You smile before you even open your eyes.
You shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position without disturbing him, but his arm tightens instinctively. A low, sleepy murmur of something unintelligible escapes his lips.
"James," you whisper now, your voice thick with sleep as you look down at him. "You're crushing me."
He doesn't move, doesn't even stir. Just burrows deeper into your neck like a cat determined to find the warmest spot, his nose nuzzling against your skin. A soft, contented sound escapes his throat.
You laugh quietly, reaching forward to thread your fingers through his messy hair. You stroke gently, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in the way you know he loves, and you feel the tension in his shoulders ease even further.
The movement finally seems to pull him out of the depths of sleep. His grip on you loosens slightly, just enough for him to lift his head. His eyes are still closed, his face slack with drowsiness, but a slow smile spreads across his lips.
"Five more minutes," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. His hand slides up from your stomach to rest just beneath your ribs, palm flat against your skin. He presses his lips to the curve of your shoulder, soft and warm. "Just five more."
You laugh again, softer this time. "You said that twenty minutes ago."
"Did I?" He cracks one eye open, peering up at you with a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't remember that. I was asleep."
"You're still kind of asleep."
"Mmm." He closes his eye again, snuggling closer. "You’re so right, baby."
You shake your head, but you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your fingers continue their gentle path through his hair, and he makes another contented sound, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "We should get up soon," he says, though he makes no move to do so.
Instead, he simply reaches up, his hand sliding into your hair as he tilts your head downwards. His fingers curl gently at the nape of your neck, warm against your skin, and he shifts himself closer, closing the small distance between you until his lips connect with yours.
His mouth is warm and slightly chapped from sleep, but there's a gentleness to the way he moves against you, unhurried and deliberate. His thumb traces a slow, soothing path along the curve of your jaw as he deepens the contact, tilting his head just slightly to find a better angle. He hums against your mouth: a low, contented sound that vibrates through you, and his hand tightens almost imperceptibly in your hair.
You melt into him, your fingers still tangled in his sleep-mussed hair, and you feel the smile that curves against his lips.
He pulls back just far enough to look at you, his eyes still heavy-lidded but warm, softened by the pale morning light. His gaze traces your face as though he's cataloguing every detail to store away for later.
"Good morning," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, and the sound of it wraps around you like a second blanket.
"Good morning," you whisper back.
He leans in again, slower this time, as though he's savouring every second, and pressed a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek, followed by another to your forehead. Each one is soft and sweet, like he's trying to pour a year's worth of love into a single moment.
"Mmm." He nuzzles back into the curve of your neck, his nose brushing against your pulse point. "Okay. Now I'm ready to get up."
You laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you. Your hand remains in his hair, sifting through the strands as he continues to hum at the feeling. His eyes close again, his face pressed into the curve of your neck, and he shows absolutely no sign of moving.
"James," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "You said you were ready."
"Mmm." He doesn't move. "I lied."
"You just said—"
"I know what I said." He presses a kiss to your throat, soft and lazy. "I'm a liar. A fraud. A man of weak moral character."
You snort, tugging gently at his hair. "A man who's going to miss all his 'big romantic plans' that he talked about for weeks if he doesn't get out of bed."
He groans, the sound muffled against your skin. "You play dirty."
"I learned from the best."
He lifts his head just enough to peer at you through one eye, his expression a mix of amusement and exaggerated betrayal. "I'm a terrible influence on you."
"The worst." You cup his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Now come on, I want to see Paris."
Something softens in his eyes at your words, and he holds your gaze for a long moment, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rests against his cheek.
"Okay," he says finally, his voice quiet. "Let's go see Paris."
It took nearly an hour for the two of you to get ready, James's hands somehow always finding their place on your waist and slowing the process down entirely.
Every time you tried to pull away to grab your jacket or find your shoes, his fingers would curl into the fabric of your shirt, tugging you back toward him. He'd press a kiss to your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your jaw—soft, distracting, maddeningly sweet.
"James," you'd said, laughing, trying to wriggle free. "We're never going to leave."
"Then we'll never leave," he'd murmured against your skin, his voice a low rumble. "Sounds perfect to me."
You'd eventually managed to extricate yourself with a promise of "more later," and he'd pouted like a child who'd been denied dessert. But he'd relented, pulling on his shirt with exaggerated reluctance, and you'd watched as the soft fabric settled over his frame, the pale cream colour making his skin look warm and golden in the morning light.
Now, finally, you emerge onto the streets, his fingers immediately intertwining with yours.
The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain that lingers from the overnight drizzle. A few Parisians pased by: a woman with a baguette tucked under her arm, a man walking a small, fluffy dog, a couple arm in arm, heads bent together in quiet conversation.
James squeezes your hand, and you look over at him. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken moments ago, a few strands curling at his temples, and his cheeks were flushed with the chill of the morning air. He caught your gaze and smiled gently.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing." He shrugs, tugging you closer. "Just happy."
"Happy?"
"Mm." He nods, looking ahead at the street. "It's our anniversary, and I'm in Paris with you." He glances down at you, his eyes warm. "What's there not to be happy about?"
You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked away, hiding your smile, but he saw it anyway, and his thumb traced a gentle pattern against your knuckles.
You walked for a while, weaving through the narrow streets. The buildings crowded close together, their honey-coloured facades softened by age, their windows reflecting the pale blue of the sky. Ivy trails from wrought-iron balconies, and here and there, a window box burst with scarlet geraniums or trailing pink roses.
You pass a small square with a fountain, the water catching the light and scattering it into rainbows. You pass a bookshop with a striped awning, its windows piled high with leather-bound volumes. You pass a café where a man sits alone, sipping espresso and reading a newspaper, his face hidden behind the broad sheets.
And then James stops.
He's staring at something across the street, his eyes bright, his lips curving into a grin.
"Look," he says, pointing.
You follow his gaze to a tiny bakery tucked between two taller buildings. Its awning is faded blue, its sign painted in elegant gold lettering. The window was filled with an array of pastries, their golden surfaces gleaming under the late morning light, and the door was propped open, spilling the warm, intoxicating scent of fresh bread and butter into the street.
"Come on," he says, already tugging you across the cobblestones. "We can have breakfast there."
"It’s nearly midday," you point out amused as he pulls you through the door. "It’s practically lunch."
"Brunch then," he corrects, his voice already distracted as he steps up to the counter.
The bakery is tiny, barely big enough for the two of you and the display case that takes up most of the space. But it's warm, the air thick with the smell of yeast and sugar and butter, and the woman behind the counter greets you with a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
James orders in his halting, adorable French—deux croissants, s'il vous plaît—and the woman's smile widens as she hands him a small paper bag, still warm from the oven. He paid, pockets his change, and turns back to you with a look of pure triumph.
"Voilà," he says, his accent terrible as he holds up the bag in triumph.
You laugh, taking his hand again as he leads you back out into the street.
You find a small bench near the fountain, tucked away from the main tourist crowds, the metal cool beneath you, painted a faded green that's chipped and worn in places.
James settles beside you, his thigh pressed against yours, and reaches into the paper bag. He pulls out one of the croissants, its golden surface flaking in delicate layers, and holds it out to you.
You take it carefully, cradling it in your hands. The warmth seeps through the paper and into your palms, and you bring it to your nose, inhaling deeply. The scent is intoxicating: buttery and rich, with a hint of caramelised sugar.
You take a bite, and your eyes flutter closed.
It's transcendent. The croissant shatters against your teeth, impossibly light and airy, a thousand flaky layers dissolving on your tongue.
"Good?" James asks, his voice amused.
You open your eyes to find him watching you, his own croissant halfway to his mouth, a soft smile on his lips.
"Good," you manage, your voice slightly muffled. "Really good."
He laughs, the sound warm and bright, and takes a bite of his own.
You eat in comfortable silence for a while, trading bites of each other's pastries, your shoulders brushing with every movement. The fountain gurgles nearby, the water catching the light and scattering it in tiny rainbows. A pigeon lands at your feet, eyeing you hopefully, and James breaks off a small piece of his croissant and tosses it to the bird.
"Feeding the wildlife," he says, shrugging when you raise an eyebrow. "I'm a generous man."
"You're a softie."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
You're about to retort when you notice it: a small, golden flake of pastry clinging to the corner of his mouth. He's grinning, completely unaware, and you can't help the smile that curves your own lips.
"Hold still," you say, reaching up.
He freezes as your thumb swipes gently across the corner of his mouth, catching the flake. His eyes go wide, startled, and then soften as he realises what you're doing.
But when you go to pull your hand back, his own hand catches yours.
His fingers curl around your wrist, just enough to stop you. Slowly, deliberately, he guides your hand toward his face, his eyes never leaving yours. He turns his head, pressing his lips to the center of your palm, and holds them there for a long, warm moment.
Your breath catches.
He looks up at you then, his gaze dark and soft, and the morning light catches in his eyes. His thumb strokes lightly against your wrist, back and forth, a soothing rhythm.
His free hand reaches forward and his thumb traces your jawline, feather-light, and you lean into his touch without thinking. His eyes drop to your lips, then back up to meet yours.
"I love you," he says quietly, like it's a fact. Like it's the most certain thing in the world.
Your throat tightens. "I love you too."
Suddenly a drop of water lands on your nose.
You blink. Another drop lands on your forehead. Then another, cold and sharp on your cheek, and then another on your lips.
You glance up, and the sky has gone grey. The pale sunlight that had been filtering through the clouds has vanished, swallowed by a thick blanket of charcoal and steel. The first scattered raindrops are beginning to fall in earnest, pattering against the leaves of the ivy overhead and darkening the cobblestones in a thousand tiny splatters.
"It's raining," you say, your voice flat with disappointment. "Oh no. James, it's raining."
You can feel your carefully planned day slipping through your fingers like water: the open-air market you'd wanted to explore, the long stroll along the Seine you'd imagined, the picnic with cheese and baguettes and wine that James had packed in a canvas tote. All of it, washed away by the grey drizzle that's now beginning to fall in earnest.
You slump back on the bench, watching the rain darken the stone around you. A few tourists hurry past, umbrellas popping open like bright flowers. The fountain's surface ripples with a thousand tiny impacts, the water churning and dancing. The ivy above you provides some cover—not enough to keep you dry, but enough to give you a moment to breathe.
"It's going to ruin the day," you mutter, lips curving into a small pout.
James is quiet for a moment. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and thoughtful, as the rain continues to fall around you. It patters against the leaves, drips from the awning of the bakery, plinks into the fountain. The sound is everywhere, a soft white noise that fills the silence.
Then you feel his hand find yours, squeezing gently.
"Come on," he says, tugging you to your feet as you look at him in surprise. "Let’s get out of the rain, I know somewhere we can go."
The art gallery James brought you towas small and obscure, tucked away in the winding streets. James pulled you under the awning, shaking the rain from his hair, causing a few drops to scatter from the ends as you laugh, wiping one from your cheek.
"Did you plan this?" You ask.
"I planned something," he says, pushing open the door. "I didn't plan the rain. But this was on my list."
The interior was beautiful. A narrow stairwell led upward, its walls painted a soft cream, its floors worn smooth by generations of footsteps. The air smelled like old paint and dust and something faintly floral, like dried lavender. A single chandelier hung overhead, its crystals catching the light and scattering tiny rainbows across the walls.
The gallery itself was spread across two floors, each room a treasure trove of art. The walls were a pale dove grey, the lighting warm and dim, casting golden pools that illuminate each painting like a secret. Rain drums softly against the roof above, a steady, soothing rhythm that feels like the heartbeat of the building itself.
James buys the tickets and the attendant, a young woman with glasses and a kind smile, hands them over with a quiet, "Enjoy."
You wander through the first room, your fingers loosely intertwined with his. The paintings are mostly landscapes: rolling French countryside, sun-drenched fields of lavender, a single windmill on a hill against a blazing sunset. They're beautiful, but your focus keeps drifting back to James and the way his thumb traces absent patterns on your knuckles, just how his profile looks in the soft golden light.
He catches you looking. "What?"
"Nothing." You smile. "Just... taking it in."
He grins, and it's like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
You stop in front of a portrait.
Within stands a woman, an intrinsically lined dress falls to her feet, her eyes boring out into the distance. She is absolutely stunning, her lips a soft shade of pink and her hair cascading in soft curls down her shoulders.
You study it for a long moment, losing yourself in the details. The curve of her neck, the tilt of her chin, each detail so in depth it took your breath away.
Then you feel him stop beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushes your arm. The warmth of him radiates through the cool air of the gallery, a familiar comfort.
"She's pretty," he murmurs, his voice low.
You hum in agreement, not looking away from the painting. "She's beautiful."
"But she doesn't hold a candle to you."
You snort, finally turning to see him smiling. "James. That's so cheesy."
"Cheesy but honest," he says, and his hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traces your jawline, soft and slow, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. "I'm not even looking at the art, you know. I've been looking at you the whole time."
Your cheeks warm. "You're supposed to be admiring the paintings."
"I am." His eyes are dark, sincere, the gold flecks catching the dim light. "I'm admiring my favourite one."
"James."
"I mean it." He steps closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your lips. "It's our anniversary. Let me be sappy."
You laugh, soft and breathless, your hands coming up to rest against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat under your palms, steady and familiar.
"Fine," you say, tilting your head up to look at him. "Be sappy, but don't expect me to join in."
His eyes crinkle at the corners, that soft smile playing on his lips. "Oh, I don't expect anything. I just want to tell you you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And no, I'm not just saying that because it's our anniversary."
"You're saying it because you're a hopeless romantic."
"Guilty as charged." He leans in, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. "But also because it's true. The way the light is hitting your face right now—" He gestures vaguely. "You look like you belong in one of these paintings."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "That is the most ridiculous thing you've ever said."
"Is it?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression shifting to something more serious—but his eyes are still warm, still teasing. "Because I meant every word."
"James—"
"I know, I know." He shrugs, his hands sliding from your chin to cup your face. "You're probably thinking I'm being dramatic. But it's our anniversary, I'm allowed to be dramatic. It's in the rules."
"There are rules?"
"Yep, there’s a whole handbook." He grins, raising a hand to mimic quotation marks as though he were reciting this mysterious book. "'Thou shalt be dramatically romantic on thine anniversary.'"
You laugh, shaking your head. "You're impossible."
"Impossibly in love with you," he says, and it's so smooth you almost miss the way his eyes soften as he says it.
"You know what? I liked you better when you were asleep."
"Liar." He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose. "You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing." He pulls back, his hands still cupping your face, and looks at you with an expression that always makes your chest feel tight. "Happy anniversary, pretty girl."
Your heart stumbles. "Happy anniversary, James."
He leans in to kiss you properly this time, his lips warm and soft, and you melt into it. His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and the world around you fades. The paintings, the gallery, the rain—none of it matters. It's just him.
When he finally pulls back, you're both a little breathless.
"Okay," he says, his voice slightly hoarse. "Now I'm really not looking at the art."
You laugh, shoving his shoulder gently. "You were never looking at the art."
"Exactly." He grins, taking your hand and lacing his fingers through yours. "Why would I look at paintings when I've got you?"
"How many more cheesy phrases do you have?"
"I've got more. I've been saving them up."
"Please don't."
"I'm going to. All day." He leads you out of the portrait room and toward the next gallery, his hand warm and steady in yours. "Get ready. I've been practicing."
You groan, but you're laughing, and he's laughing too, and the sound of it echoes through the quiet gallery. "James, I swear—"
"Too late." He glances back at you, grinning. "I'm committed. I've got a list."
"You have a list?" You stop walking, staring at him. "You're joking."
"I'm not joking." He pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your waist. "I've been planning this for months. You think I just wake up and decide to be this smooth? This takes work, baby."
"I think you're just naturally like this."
"Naturally charming, yes. But the sappy lines? Those are researched." He winks, and it's so ridiculous, so utterly him, that you can't help but laugh.
"You're so stupid."
"Sure, my love." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Now come on. I want to show you the impressionists. I've got a line about you and Monet that's going to knock your socks off."
"James, no."
"Y/n, yes."
And he leads you into the next room, his hand in yours, still laughing.
By the time you emerge from the gallery, the sun had already begun its slow descent toward the horizon, the rain finally concluding. The clouds had parted, leaving behind a sky painted in soft shades of pink and gold and pale lavender. The streets were still wet, the cobblestones gleaming like polished glass, and the air smelled clean and fresh.
James takes your hand as you step out, his fingers warm and familiar between yours. He's quiet for a moment, just looking up at the sky, and you watch the colours reflect in his eyes.
"Pretty," he says softly.
"The sky?"
"You." He glances down at you, that soft smile playing on his lips. "But the sky's nice too, I guess."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "You're such a flirt."
"Only for you," he responds, his thumb tracing a gentle pattern against your knuckles.
You walk in comfortable silence, noticing how the evening light makes everything look warmer, softer. The buildings glow like they're made of honey, and the ivy that climbs the walls is touched with gold. The city feels slower now, quieter, like it's settling in for the night.
Suddenly James stops.
He's staring ahead, his eyes wide, his lips parting slightly. You follow his gaze, and there it is: the Eiffel Tower, rising in the distance against the painted sky. It's still far away, but you can see it clearly, its iron lattice catching the last of the sunset, glowing like something out of a dream.
"Wow," James breathes.
"Yeah," you agree.
You stand there for a moment, just looking. The tower is taller than you expected, more beautiful. The metal seems to shimmer in the fading light, and the longer you look, the more details you notice—the intricate patterns of the lattice, the soft curve of the arches, the way it reaches toward the sky like a prayer.
Then James tugs your hand. "Come on."
He leads you through the streets, his pace quickening with each step. You laugh, stumbling a little as you try to keep up, but he doesn't slow down. He's like a kid on Christmas morning, eyes bright, grin wide, pulling you along like he can't wait another second.
You round a corner, and suddenly the tower is right there, looming above you, impossibly close. You tilt your head back, letting the vastness of it fill your vision. The iron structure seems to stretch up into the clouds, and the colours of the sky frame it perfectly.
"It’s beautiful," you say, eyes continuing to scan the structure.
"Mm," he breathes in agreement, pausing momentarily as his eyes lock onto your face.
The crowd had thinned out, the usual rush of tourists reduced to a few scattered groups. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of the river and the distant hum of the city. A few couples linger nearby, but mostly it's just the two of you, standing beneath the tower as the sky darkens around you.
Then the lights come on, starting at the bottom, a cascade of gold that climbs up and up, illuminating the iron frame like veins of fire. The tower glows against the deepening sky, warm and alive, and you can't help the soft gasp that escapes your lips.
James's hand squeezed yours when the sparkling suddenly began.
A thousand tiny lights flicker across the tower, shimmering like stars brought down to earth. They ripple from top to bottom, a waterfall of diamonds that pulses and glows, and the tower transforms into something else entirely—magical and otherworldly. The crowd around you gasps, phones raised, children laughing, but you can't tear your eyes away.
You don't notice James moving until his hand is on your waist.
"What are you—"
He spins you, slow and gentle, pulling you into the open space beneath the tower. Before you can protest, he's swaying, guiding you with him, and you stumble forward, crashing into his chest.
"I can't dance," you laugh.
"You're dancing right now," he says, spinning you out.
You let him, your hand in his, his other hand warm on your waist. He spins you once, twice, and you laugh as you stumble back into him. He catches you easily, his arms wrapping around you, and you stay there for a moment, your cheek pressed to his chest, his arms holding you close as you continue to sway.
"Happy one year," he murmurs against your hair.
You smile, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes are bright, the tower's lights reflecting in them, and his smile is soft and warm.
"Happy one year," you say.
He kisses you, slow and sweet, right there beneath the tower. The music from a distant street musician drifts softly through the air, and when James pulls back, he's still smiling.
You lean forward again, placing a kiss on his jaw before resting your head against his shoulder, feeling his arms tighten just slightly as he moves to lay his chin atop your head.
The city breathes around you, a gentle exhale of light and shadow, and in his arms you breathe with it, your chest rising and falling against his, steady as the turning of the earth.
SYNOPSIS :: Your father finally caves and lets Seonghyeon sleep over, complete with a very long list of rules. There's just one problem: your boyfriend has never met a rule he couldn't, and wouldn’t, break.
PLAYLIST :: My love will never die - The Channels, Earl Lewis; Alone - Heart; Time (clock of the heart) - Culture Club; Open arms - Journey; Making love out of nothing at all - Air Supply; Alone with you - The Outfield
It had taken weeks of convincing for your father to finally agree to this.
Not because he didn’t know Seonghyeon. In fact, that actually was the problem.
Unfortunately, your father knew Seonghyeon very well.
He knew about the late-night drives, the missed curfews, the sound of a car engine idling outside your house fifteen minutes after you were supposed to be home. He knew Seonghyeon smiled his way through trouble instead of avoiding it, and somehow always managed to drag you directly into the middle of whatever terrible idea he’d had.
By the third time Seonghyeon had shown up at your house past midnight, and the second time your father had caught him trying to quietly drop you off only to nearly reverse into the mailbox, any chance of him being viewed as a respectable influence had disappeared completely.
So when you’d first brought up the idea of a sleepover your father had looked at you like you were insane.
"No," he'd said.
Then no again.
Then absolutely not.
Then not in this house, not while I'm breathing, not over my dead body, and did you think he was born yesterday?
You'd persisted anyway. You'd brought it up at dinner, pushing peas around your plate while your mother hid a smile behind her wine glass. You'd caught your father in the hallway before bed, in the kitchen over his morning coffee, in the garage while he swore at something under the hood of his car. You'd asked so many times that your brother had started mimicking you: "Dad, can Seonghyeon sleep over?" in a high-pitched whiny voice that made you want to throw a pillow at his head.
You even attempted dramatically insisting that everyone else’s parents allowed it, which only earned you a long look and a “I’m not everyone else’s parents.”
All of these attempts earned you nothing but your father's disapproving gaze and, consequently, the slow squashing of your heart. Every time you brought it up, he'd fix you with that look that said don't push your luck, and you'd feel your hopes deflate a little more.
Eventually, you'd recruited your mother.
Your father had always been weak when it came to her. It was something only years of love could really create—that quiet power she held over him, the way he'd soften around the edges whenever she asked for something. He'd deny you for weeks, but she could undo all his resolve with a single look across the dinner table.
Maybe you and Seonghyeon would be like that when you were older.
Not that you ever thought about that, obviously. That would be crazy. You were only seventeen. You definitely hadn’t ever dreamed what it would be like to have your own house with Seonghyeon. Not at all.
But your mother was your secret weapon and over the following days she slowly wore him down.
"He's a good student," she'd mention the next night, stirring her coffee. "I saw his report card. You saw it too, didn't you?"
Your father would grunt.
“They’re good kids.”
Another grunt.
“You used to sneak out too, you know.”
That usually got a longer silence.
And every single time, you’d watch your father try very hard not to look affected while your mother hid a tiny smile behind her coffee cup.
It took nearly three weeks.
Three weeks of promises. Three weeks of “we’ll stay apart.” Three weeks of “the door will stay open.” Three weeks of your father looking personally exhausted by the entire situation.
But eventually, somehow, he caved. Not happily or gracefully, but he did.
The conditions came immediately after.
“Guest room,” your father had said firmly, pointing directly at Seonghyeon from across the living room. “Down the hall.”
Seonghyeon had been sitting on the couch so stiffly it was almost painful to watch, hands flat on his knees, posture straight like he was interviewing for a scholarship instead of asking to sleep over at his girlfriend’s house.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not her room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not near her room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And absolutely no funny business upstairs.”
At that, you’d nearly choked trying not to laugh while Seonghyeon nodded with suspicious seriousness.
“No funny business,” he repeated solemnly, like he was signing a legal contract.
Your father narrowed his eyes immediately, clearly unconvinced by how agreeable he sounded.
The worst part was that Seonghyeon looked entirely too amused underneath it, like he was enjoying this.
Your mother had stepped in before your father could change his mind completely, patting Seonghyeon lightly on the shoulder as she stood.
“He likes you,” she’d whispered kindly once your father disappeared into the kitchen.
Seonghyeon had glanced toward the doorway your father had vanished through before looking back at her. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“It is,” your mother insisted. “He would have killed you by now if he didn’t.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
You’d had to look away because you were already starting to laugh.
Even now, hours later, lying awake in bed, you could still picture the expression Seonghyeon had worn all through dinner afterward: trying and failing to hide his smile every single time your father repeated one of the rules.
Which was exactly why sleep felt impossible now.
The house had been quiet for almost an hour.
The movie downstairs had ended. Your father had fallen asleep in his armchair halfway through it, your mother eventually nudging him awake while Seonghyeon tried very hard not to laugh. Everyone had gone upstairs after that, lights shutting off one by one until the whole house settled into silence.
And Seonghyeon was right down the hall.
Not far enough away to ignore.
You rolled onto your side again with a sigh, tugging the blankets higher before immediately kicking them back down again.
It was ridiculous, you saw him almost every day and yet somehow knowing he was only a few rooms away made you feel restless in a way you couldn’t fix.
The worst part was that the two of you had actually behaved all evening. Mostly.
You’d sat together on opposite ends of the couch at first, which was your father’s idea obviously, but little by little Seonghyeon had started inching closer whenever nobody was paying attention.
A shift of his knee against yours under the blanket. His shoulder brushing yours when he leaned over for popcorn. His hand lingering just slightly too long when he reached into your bowl instead of his own. Tiny, barely noticeable things.
Except your father noticed everything. Every single time your knees touched, you could practically feel your father narrowing his eyes from across the room without even looking away from the television.
At one point, Seonghyeon had leaned over to whisper something in your ear during the movie, and your father had immediately gone: “What was that?”
“Nothing,” both of you answered at the exact same time.
Which honestly only made it worse.
By the time everyone finally headed upstairs, you’d barely even gotten a proper goodnight. Just a quick glance, a small grin from him halfway down the hall, and a quiet: “Sleep well.”
Like that was actually possible now.
With a quiet sigh, you sat up in bed, throwing your blankets aside and pushing your hair back from your face as you stared toward your bedroom door.
This was ridiculous. You weren’t twelve. He was literally just a few doors away. You’d survived entire weekends without seeing him before. So why did knowing he was in your house suddenly make sleep impossible?
You flopped back dramatically for half a second, staring at the ceiling again. Then you immediately sat back up.
Just for a minute. That was all.
You’d go down the hall, see him, complain that you couldn’t sleep, maybe make fun of the guest room your father had stuck him in, and then come right back upstairs before anyone noticed.
Easy.
You slipped carefully out of bed, the floor cool against your feet as you crossed the room. The whole house had that deep, late-night stillness to it now, where every tiny sound suddenly felt dangerous.
The hallway outside your room was dark, lit only faintly by the pale moonlight spilling through the window at the far end. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, the old house creaking softly around you as if it were settling deeper into sleep.
You reached for your doorknob slowly, trying not to make noise.
The hinges gave the faintest creak as you pulled it open—
—and froze instantly.
Seonghyeon was already standing right outside your room. For a second your brain genuinely stopped working.
He looked equally caught off guard, though far less guilty about it. One hand was half-raised like he’d been about to knock, his hair slightly messy from sleep or from running his hands through it too many times.
You just stared at each other silently in the dark hallway. Then his eyes flicked over your face once, and the corner of his mouth pulled upward slowly. “You too?” He whispered.
You blinked. “What are you doing?”
“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”
“You’re supposed to be down the hall.”
“And you’re supposed to be asleep.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
You opened your mouth, then shut it again because unfortunately, it really wasn’t. He looked far too pleased about that realisation.
You tried crossing your arms, aiming for annoyed, but it lost some effect considering you were standing there in oversized sleep clothes staring at him in the middle of the night.
“You weren’t supposed to leave the guest room,” you whispered again, quieter this time.
“And you weren’t supposed to open the door.”
His voice stayed calm and low, but there was amusement tucked into every word. You rolled your eyes automatically, though your heartbeat had already started picking up.
He noticed, even in the darkness, how you were unable to meet his gaze for a moment.
Of course he noticed. Despite the impression you gave about not getting nervous around him, small parts of yourself that only he noticed ratted you out to him every single time. He’d known you long enough to tell.
Seonghyeon took a small step closer, enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent from the sweatshirt he’d changed into earlier. “You couldn’t sleep either?” He asked.
You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Maybe.”
“Mm,” he murmured, clearly not believing you for a second.
Then, before you could think too hard about it, his hand slid around your waist naturally, easily, like it belonged there. The movement pulled you closer in one smooth motion and your breath caught before you could stop it.
He leaned down slightly, giving you barely enough time to realise what he was doing before his mouth met yours.
Soft at first, careful enough that you almost thought he was trying to behave.
Though that lasted about three seconds because the second you kissed him back, his grip tightened slightly at your waist, and you felt him smile against your mouth like he’d just proven himself right about something.
Your fingers curled instinctively into the front of his sweatshirt, bunching the fabric lightly, and you melted into him, making a small sound against his mouth, a sigh of relief. He chuckled slightly. You could feel it, the small gust of air that escaped him, and you wanted to stay here forever.
But then you remembered where you were, how your parents' bedroom was at the end of the hall that now felt increasingly small and dangerous
You pulled back and his mouth chased yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted. He leaned in for another kiss until you put your hand on his chest, pushing him back gently.
His eyes opened and he blinked, confused. His lips were pink, slightly swollen, he was looking at you like you'd just taken something vital away from him, a frown forming on his face. “Why?” He whispered, sounding genuinely betrayed by the interruption.
You stared at him incredulously before pointing toward your parents’ bedroom farther down the hall. “We cannot get caught,” you mouthed carefully.
He glanced once in that direction, then looked back at you completely unbothered. “They’re asleep.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“And I was right last time.”
“You almost got hit with a shoe.”
“That wasn’t that serious.”
You gaped at him quietly. “My dad threatened to kill you.”
“Yeah,” he whispered thoughtfully. “But he says that every time he sees me now.”
Which was, annoyingly, true.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You like me.” The smugness in his whisper made you roll your eyes again, even though the warmth climbing into your face completely ruined the effect.
Unfortunately, he noticed that too. His expression softened instantly, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Before he could lean down again, you grabbed his wrist suddenly. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as you tugged him backward down the hallway. “Wait—where are we going?”
“Shh,” you whispered immediately. You started guiding him carefully toward the stairs, both of you moving slowly to avoid the loud spots in the floorboards.
The old house creaked anyway. Every single noise made you freeze for half a second before continuing. At one point, the stair beneath Seonghyeon’s foot let out an especially loud groan, and you whipped around so fast you nearly ran into him, only to find his shoulders were already shaking silently with laughter.
“This isn’t funny,” you mouthed.
“It kind of is.”
You glared at him while trying not to laugh yourself.
By the time the two of you finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the house had gone still again.
Moonlight spilled through the living room windows in pale strips, turning everything soft silver-blue. The furniture looked different at night somehow: quieter, softer around the edges. Even the air felt still.
For a second, neither of you said anything. You could hear the faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen alongside the hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall.
Seonghyeon glanced around slowly before looking back at you, hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Now what?” He whispered.
You shrugged, trying to act like dragging him downstairs in the middle of the night had been a completely normal decision. “I don’t know,” you said quietly. “You’re the one lurking outside my bedroom.”
A small grin tugged at his mouth immediately. “I was being romantic.”
“You were standing in the dark outside my door.”
“Romantically.”
You snorted softly, shaking your head. He wandered away before you could answer, moving toward the vinyl cabinet beneath the stereo system in the corner of the room. Immediately, suspicion hit you. “Oh, don’t touch those.”
Too late.
Seonghyeon crouched in front of the cabinet anyway, flipping through your father’s records with the kind of confidence people only had when they absolutely should not be touching something. “You own, like, fifty sad old man albums,” he murmured.
“My dad likes music.”
“Your dad likes depression.”
You rolled your eyes, moving closer as he continued flipping through them one by one.
“What even is this?” He whispered, holding up a record sleeve covered in dramatic black-and-white photography.
You glanced at it. “I don’t know.”
“That guy looks miserable.”
“He’s probably singing about heartbreak.”
“Yeah, well. He should cheer up.”
You laughed quietly through your nose, quickly covering your mouth when the sound echoed slightly too loud in the room. Seonghyeon looked very pleased with himself for causing it.
He kept searching until one particular record made him pause. Slowly, he pulled it free from the shelf.
“My Love Will Never Die,” he read under his breath.
You immediately groaned. “Oh my god.”
“What?” He asked, already grinning.
“You cannot be serious.”
He turned the sleeve over in his hands dramatically. “This is perfect.”
“It’s ancient.”
“Barely.”
“It literally belonged to my parents before I was born.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Classic.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself while he carefully slid the vinyl from its sleeve. For all his usual recklessness, he handled it surprisingly gently.
“That thing’s older than both of us,” you whispered.
He glanced up at you while setting it onto the player. “Still works better than your dad’s rules.”
“You are obsessed with annoying him.”
“He makes it easy.”
A soft crackle filled the room as the needle settled. Eventually the music started low and warm, instantly making the whole room feel slower.
‘I know, I know I love you (love you)
And I really love you so, need you (love you)’
Something about it changed the atmosphere immediately. The teasing quieted a little and the darkness around you suddenly felt softer instead of sneaky.
Seonghyeon stood there for a second listening before turning toward you again and holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”
‘And I'll never let you go, honey (love you)
My love for you will never die, ooh, ooh’
You stared at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”
“Because this is embarrassing.”
“It’s literally just dancing.”
“In my living room. At like one in the morning.”
“Exactly,” he whispered. “Makes it better.”
You crossed your arms. “No.”
“You dragged me downstairs.”
“That does not mean I owe you a dance.”
“You’re hurting my feelings.”
“You don’t have feelings.”
“Wow.”
You tried to stay serious, but his smile was already ruining it. Especially because he looked completely unashamed standing there holding his hand out like some dramatic movie character. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.
“Still waiting.”
You let out a quiet sigh, already losing the argument.
‘So, come on over (love you)
I want you to hold my hand, tell me (love you)’
Before you could properly refuse again, he stepped closer and took your hand himself. Your stomach flipped stupidly fast at the contact. “You’re so annoying,” you whispered.
“You’re still dating me,” he murmured, pulling you gently toward him anyway.
One of his hands settled naturally against your waist whilst the other stayed wrapped loosely around yours, and just like that something softened. The teasing faded a little around the edges.
You could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, could feel his thumb moving absently against your side while the music drifted quietly through the dark room.
Neither of you were really dancing properly. Just swaying slowly in place, being close enough that your slippers kept brushing against his socks every few seconds.
The floor creaked once beneath your feet and both of you froze instantly before trying not to laugh.
“Oh my god,” you whispered through a grin. “We’re actually going to get caught.”
“We’re fine.”
“That’s exactly what you said before my dad almost killed you.”
“He didn’t almost kill me.”
“He threw a shoe at your head.”
“And missed.”
You laughed quietly again, shaking your head as he smiled down at you.
‘That I'm your lover man, darling (love you)
My love for you will never die (ooh)’
For a little while, neither of you said anything after that. The music played softly around you while moonlight stretched across the floorboards. Somewhere outside, a car passed faintly in the distance before everything settled quiet again.
Seonghyeon looked down at you after a minute, his expression softer now, less teasing. “This song’s ridiculously old,” he murmured.
You glanced up at him. “You’re literally dancing to it.”
“Yeah,” he said easily. His hand shifted slightly at your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Because you’re here.”
And somehow that was worse than his usual flirting, because he said it so simply like it wasn’t even a line to win you over, it was just the truth embedded so deeply into his soul he couldn’t help but share.
Your eyes dropped away from his immediately, warmth rushing into your face as you tried very hard to focus on literally anything else besides the way he was looking at you.
Which only made him smile a little more. You hated when he did that: looking at you like that afterward, all quiet and unfairly sincere, like he knew exactly what it did to you.
You glanced down at the front of his sweatshirt instead, fingers curling lightly into the fabric near his shoulder. “Don’t say stuff like that,” you muttered.
“Like what?”
“You know what.”
A small pause passed between you before he spoke again, quieter now: “You get shy.”
Your head snapped back up immediately. “I do not.”
“You do,” he whispered, smiling a little wider now. “Right now.”
“I’m literally looking at you.”
“Yeah, after avoiding eye contact for like thirty seconds.”
“It was not thirty seconds.”
“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly. “Felt long.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was still holding you close in the middle of your dark living room while some ancient love song played softly behind him.
“This is why my dad doesn’t trust you,” you informed him.
“He didn’t trust me before this.”
“That’s true.”
“See?”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh again.
‘Love's so necessary (wow)
That's why I just gotta be your man, oh, come on’
The record crackled softly between verses, the sound warm and familiar in the quiet house. Seonghyeon swayed lazily with the music, more interested in watching you than actually dancing properly.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “your mom definitely knew we were gonna sneak downstairs.”
You looked up immediately. “No, she didn’t.”
“She definitely did.”
“She wouldn’t allow that.”
“She likes me.”
You snorted. “She tolerates you.”
“She offered me more dessert at dinner.”
“She felt bad for you because my dad kept threatening your life.”
“Still counts.”
You rolled your eyes, but he only grinned.
‘Oh, girl (love you)
I want you to hold me tightly, kiss me, baby (love you)’
The song kept playing low through the speakers while the two of you moved slowly across the living room in uneven little circles. Every now and then the floor creaked beneath your feet, and both of you would instinctively freeze before dissolving into muffled laughter when nobody came downstairs.
At some point, his hand slipped lower against your waist, settling against your hip.
“So this is your definition of ‘no funny business?’” You whispered.
His eyebrows lifted innocently. “We’re dancing.”
“You are absolutely pushing it.”
“Your dad specifically said no funny business upstairs.”
You stared at him and he stared back completely serious for about two seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, trying not to laugh too loudly. “You’re horrible.”
“Still won you over though, huh.”
You groaned quietly, dropping your forehead briefly against his shoulder as he laughed softly under his breath, the sound warm and sleepy.
The living room smelled faintly like dust and laundry detergent and your father’s aftershave lingering in the furniture. Outside, wind brushed softly against the trees near the window, and somewhere far off, a car drove past on the main road. Everything felt suspended somehow, as though the whole world had gone quiet around the two of you.
Your eyes drifted half-shut for a second before you felt Seonghyeon shift slightly.
“You tired?” He whispered, his lips just grazing your hair as you hummed in response.
“A little.”
“You should sleep.”
“You first.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You yawned like six times during the movie.”
“That was acting.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him incredulously, your eyebrows drawing together. “Why would you fake being tired?”
He shrugged lightly. “Wanted your mom to think I was innocent.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “You are actually unbelievable.”
“Worked, though.”
“No it didn’t.”
“She called me sweet.”
“That’s because she doesn’t know you.”
He grinned. “You do.”
Unfortunately.
That stupid warm feeling hit your chest again. You looked away before he could notice it this time, but his hand squeezed lightly at your waist like maybe he already had.
‘And make me know how much you love me (love you)
My love for you will never die (ooh)’
The record neared its end, music softening under the crackle of vinyl, though neither of you moved to stop it.
Seonghyeon rested his chin lightly against the top of your head for a second, voice quieter when he spoke again. “You know your dad’s gonna blame me if we get caught down here.”
“He blames you for everything already.”
“Fair.”
“You breathed too loud at dinner and he looked ready to fight you.”
“I was nervous.”
You blinked, pulling back slightly. “You were nervous?”
“Yeah.”
“You? Nervous?”
He looked down at you like the answer was obvious. “Your dad scares me.”
You burst into quiet laughter immediately. “No, he doesn’t.”
“He threatened me with a garden tool last month.”
“That was one time.”
“It was a rake.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
You giggled slightly, forehead dropping against Seonghyeon’s shoulder for a second.
Upstairs, your father’s eyes opened immediately. He laid there for half a second, listening. Another faint laugh drifted up from downstairs and your father sat upright. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Beside him, your mother groaned softly, hands rising to rub her eyes. “What now?”
“They’re awake.”
He was already throwing the blankets off when your mother sat up and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”
“They’re downstairs.”
“So?”
“So?” He repeated in disbelief. “It’s one in the morning.”
Your mother squinted at him sleepily. “And?”
“And he’s down there with her.”
“You allowed him over.”
“That is suddenly feeling like a mistake.” Another muffled sound floated upstairs completely incoherent; for all he knew Seonghyeon could be plotting sneaking you out again. Your father pointed toward the floor. “You hear that?”
“I hear two teenagers.”
“I hear bad decisions.”
Your mother snorted softly, letting go of his wrist and lowering herself back onto the mattress. “You used to climb through my bedroom window.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Your mother smiled a little, already pulling the blankets back up. “Leave them alone. Let them have this.”
Your father stared at the bedroom door for another long second, clearly still considering marching downstairs anyway. Then he sighed heavily and dropped back onto the mattress. “If he breaks my record player, he’s dead.”
“Sure, honey.”
Your father grumbled something under his breath before dragging a pillow over the side of his head dramatically. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered.
Your mother laughed quietly beside him, reaching over to switch the lamp off again while downstairs, completely oblivious, the static kept playing softly through the house, the two of you in your own world.
"This is nice," Seonghyeon finally spoke again, his voice muffled against your hair.
"Mm."
"We should do this more often. It’s much easier sneaking downstairs than climbing through your window."
"You're going to get us killed."
"Worth it."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. The streetlight caught the side of his face, illuminating the soft curve of his smile and the way his eyes were half-closed like he was already half-asleep. You reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. It fell right back, the way it always did.
"Come on," you whispered. "We should actually go to bed. Before he comes down here with a baseball bat."
He groaned but let you step back. His hand lingered on your waist for a moment longer, then dropped to his side. You walked together to the stairs, your bare feet silent on the cold floor, his heavier behind you. At the top of the stairs, you stopped, turning back to face him.
"Goodnight," you whispered.
"Goodnight."
Neither of you moved.
"You first," he said, a soft smile resting on his face.
"No, you."
He smiled—that slow, lazy smile that always made your stomach flip. His eyes softened in the dim light, crinkling at the corners, and for a moment, he just looked at you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your face. As though he wanted to remember this exact second.
Then he leaned in.
His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, gentle but sure. His thumb brushed against your temple and you felt your eyes flutter closed before his lips even touched your skin.
When they did, it was soft. Softer than you expected. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and they pressed against your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He stayed there longer than he needed to, just breathing you in, and his breath warmm against your hairline. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers where they rested against your scalp, could feel the way his chest rose and fell with a slow, steady breath, like he was trying to steady himself.
Your own hands had found the fabric of his t-shirt at some point, your fingers curled into the soft cotton, holding on without meaning to. You could feel the heat radiating off him, and you never wanted to let go.
When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant even. His lips brushed your skin one last time before he straightened, and his hand slid from your hair to your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His eyes were dark in the dim light, soft, and he looked at you as though you were something precious.
"Goodnight," he whispered. His voice was low, rough, barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.
Then he let go. His hand dropped to his side and he took a step back, then another, his bare feet silent on the carpet. The hallway was dark, but you could see the outline of him: the slope of his shoulders, the mess of his hair, the way he kept his eyes on yours even as he moved away.
He reached the guest room doorway and paused. His hand rested on the frame. He looked back at you one last time, and something warm and unspoken passed between you.
Then, eventually, he stepped inside, and he was gone.
You walked to your room, climbed into your own bed, and pulled the blanket up to your chin, still feeling the warmth of his hands in your hair. The house was silent again, the needle of the vinyl player resting in the final groove, evidence of the events of what had just happened right under your father’s nose.
You closed your eyes and, for the first time all night, felt sleep pulling at the edges of your mind.
In the master bedroom, your father lay on his back with his arm over his eyes, pretending not to have heard the faint creak of the stairs twenty minutes ago. Beside him, your mother smiled into her pillow and said nothing.
The house settled. The night stretched on. And somewhere in the dark, two hearts beat in time, separated by only a hallway and a door that did little to contain the love you had for the boy on the other side.
SYNOPSIS :: Your boyfriend swears he'll be fine without sunscreen despite your insistence, though he doesn't mind being proven wrong if it means you'll take care of him.
W.C :: 5.0k
CONTAINS :: athletic!keonho, fluff + crack, high school au, established relationship, cringe + cliché teen love, cheesy dialogue, sports day, sunburns, pet names, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Sweet boy - Malcolm Todd; The perfect pair - Beabadoobee; Puppy love - Paul Anka; No.1 party anthem - Arctic Monkeys
The school field was already buzzing with energy despite the early hour. Red, Blue, Yellow, and Green banners rippled in the warm morning breeze, and the sound of excited chatter mixed with the occasional shriek of laughter as students ran around with face paint, glitter, and makeshift foam fingers. The smell of freshly cut grass and the distant sizzle of the food stalls being set up hung in the air.
Keonho had claimed a spot against the old brick wall near the Red House base, far enough from the chaos to hear himself think but close enough to be part of the action. He sat cross-legged on the grass, a small pot of red face paint beside him and a thin brush in his hand. His other hand was resting on his knee, tapping along to a song only he could hear.
"Come here," he said, his voice soft but commanding as he looked up at you. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement, the corners of his mouth already curving into that teasing smile you knew so well. "Hold still, baby."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the warmth that spread through your chest at the endearment. You knelt in front of him, tucking your knees under you on the grass whilst his hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face gently toward him. His fingers were warm, a little calloused from all the hours he spent practicing basketball, and they lingered on your skin just a moment longer than necessary.
"Perfect," he murmured, more to himself than to you, as he studied your face like it was a canvas he was about to create a masterpiece on. His brow furrowed in concentration, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing at how serious he looked.
He dipped the brush into the red paint and began to work, his strokes careful and deliberate. He painted two bold streaks on your cheeks, mirroring the ones he'd already applied to Seonghyeon beforehand. Then he added a small star on your forehead, right between your eyebrows, because apparently he thought that was necessary for good luck.
"There," he announced, leaning back to admire his handiwork. "Now you look like a proper Red House warrior."
You laughed, reaching up to touch the star on your forehead. "Really? I feel like I look a bit silly."
"You could never look silly, baby," he said with a shrug, his grin widening. "You’re too cute anyways."
Your eyes drifted to his hand to avoid his eyes, his fingers still holding the paintbrush. Specifically, you noticed the way his fingers looked completely normal. No white cast, no greasy sheen. The sun was already warm on your own arms, and the sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue that promised a scorching day ahead.
"Give me the brush," you finally said, holding out your hand and ignoring his flirtation.
He raised an eyebrow but handed it over. "Bossy."
"Someone has to be," you shot back, dipping the brush into the paint. "Now hold still, and don't blink."
He obediently froze, his eyes fixed on you as you reached forward. Your free hand came up to cradle his jaw, tilting his face so you could see the streaks you were about to paint. Your thumb rested against the curve of his cheekbone, and you paused for just a second.
Something felt off.
You ran your thumb along his jawline, feeling the smooth, warm skin. There was no tackiness, no residue, no protective layer of sunscreen that should have been there on a day like today. His skin felt suspiciously, alarmingly normal.
"Keonho," you said slowly, still holding his face, still staring at his skin. "Did you put sunscreen on today?"
He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Huh? No. Why would I?"
The incredulity in your voice was unmistakable. "Why would you? Because we're going to be outside in the sun for the next six hours! Because you're pale! Because you burn like a vampire in direct sunlight!"
He scoffed, pulling back slightly from your grip. "I do not burn like a vampire, and my skin is not that sensitive."
"Your ears turn red if you stand near a window for too long," you reminded him flatly.
"That's different," he insisted. "That's just... temperature. The sun is not that strong today. It's barely even warm."
You stared at him, then gestured dramatically at the blazing sun overhead, the bright blue sky, the students already fanning themselves with their hands. "It's literally a heatwave. The weather forecast said it's going to be the hottest day of the month."
"Forecasts are always wrong," he said confidently. "It's fine. I'm fine. The sun is not going to murder me."
"You're so stubborn," you muttered, but you couldn't help the fond exasperation in your voice.
He reached up and grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand, that was still holding the brush, back toward his face. "Just paint my face, baby. Stop worrying. I'm a grown man, I can handle a little sunlight."
"You're a grown man who once got sunburned through a car window," you pointed out.
"That was one time."
"It was three times."
"Okay, three times, but this is different. We're in a competition and I have to focus on winning, not on... skincare routines."
You sighed, shaking your head, but you couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. This was so utterly, completely Keonho: stubborn, confident, and convinced he knew better than everyone else, especially when it came to things he didn't actually know anything about.
"Fine," you said, moving closer again. "But I'm going to say this once more. You are going to get sunburned badly. You're going to look like a tomato by the end of the day."
"Tomatoes are healthy," he quipped. "I'll be a very attractive tomato."
You snorted, nearly dropping the paintbrush. "That's not how that works."
"It is if I want it to be." His grin was infuriatingly smug, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked so completely, utterly certain of himself, like he couldn't even conceive of a reality where he might be wrong about something.
You raised an eyebrow, dipping the brush back into the paint. "Okay. But when you're bright red and peeling for the next week, I don't want to hear a single complaint."
"I won't complain," he promised, his tone dismissive.
"You'll complain."
"I won't."
"You'll be whining by noon."
"Not if I win the races, I’ll be too busy celebrating."
You leaned in, using your free hand to tilt his face again, and you painted the streaks with care and precision. The red pigment stood out starkly against his pale skin, and you couldn't help the small pang of worry that lingered in your chest. He was going to get burnt. You knew it. He knew it too, probably, somewhere deep down, but he was too proud to admit it.
"There," you said, finally finishing the second streak. "You look... like you're about to lose a fight with the sun."
"Charming," he deadpanned. "You really know how to boost a guy's confidence."
"I'm just being honest."
"Honesty is overrated."
You set the brush down and leaned back, studying your work. The streaks were even, symmetrical, and somehow made him look even more attractive than usual. It was annoying, really, how good he looked even when he was being a complete idiot.
He caught you staring and smirked. "What? Already admiring your work?"
"You wish," you said, but your cheeks flushed slightly. "I'm just mentally preparing myself for the inevitable 'I told you so' moment later."
"Oh, you're going to be waiting a long time for that one," he said confidently. "I'm not going to get sunburnt. I have naturally resilient skin. It's a genetic gift."
"Your genetics are going to betray you today," you predicted.
"Wanna bet?"
"No, because I don't want to profit off your suffering. I'd rather just be smug and supportive."
He laughed at that, a warm, genuine sound that made your heart do a little flip in your chest. He reached out and ruffled your hair carefully, so he didn't ruin the hairdo you had it in, and his expression softened into something fond.
"You're really worried about me, aren't you?" He asked, his voice gentler now.
"Of course I am," you admitted. "I don't want you to be in pain, even if it is your own fault."
He was quiet for a moment, and something flickered across his face before he then shook his head, that familiar confident smirk returning.
"I'll be fine," he promised. "And even if I do get a little pink, it'll be worth it. I'm going to win so many events today. You're going to be so impressed."
"I'm already impressed by your ability to be this wrong about the weather," you said dryly.
He just laughed, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. "Keep watching. You'll see."
Your gaze drifted to his arms, his neck, the exposed skin that was already warming under the morning sun. You felt a familiar, sinking certainty settle in your stomach. His skin was so pale, so vulnerable. Even now, in the early hours, you could see the faint pink beginning to bloom on his ears.
He was going to get absolutely cooked, and you were going to have the best 'I told you so' moment of your entire relationship.
"Fine," you said, getting to your feet and brushing the grass off your knees. "Go win your little events. I'll be right here, cheering you on and waiting."
"Waiting for what?" He asked, tilting his head with that infuriatingly innocent expression he always wore when he was pretending not to know exactly what you meant.
"For you to realise I'm always right," you said sweetly, reaching out to fix a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "But don't worry, I'll be patient."
He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling, that familiar, lopsided grin that made your heart do little flips in your chest. He got to his feet in one smooth motion, brushing the grass off his own pants, and for a moment, he just looked at you.
The noise of the crowd faded into background static. The sun warmed your shoulders, the paint on your cheeks felt like a second skin, and all you could see was him, standing there with that soft look in his eyes.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice suddenly sincere. "For painting my face, and for worrying about me. For everything."
Your cheeks flushed beneath the paint. "You don't have to thank me for worrying. It's basically a full-time job with you."
He laughed, that warm, genuine sound that always made you want to smile. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing gently across your cheekbone. His skin was warm, so warm, and you knew it was only going to get hotter as the day went on.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "You know that, right?"
"Keonho," you started, suddenly flustered. "You don't have to—"
But he didn't let you finish. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, tender kiss. His hand cradled your face like you were something precious, something worth protecting. The kiss lingered, gentle and warm, a goodbye and a thank you all at once.
When he pulled back, his eyes were bright, his smile soft. "That's for being you," he said. "And for putting up with my stubbornness."
"Your stubbornness is part of your charm," you said, your voice a little breathless. "Annoying, but charming."
"Annoyingly charming," he agreed, pressing one more quick kiss to your forehead. "I'll be back. Don't go anywhere."
"I'll be right here," you promised. "Watching you get progressively redder whilst winning."
He laughed, shaking his head, and turned to jog off toward his friends. He called something over his shoulder, something you couldn't quite hear over the noise of the crowd and the sudden thumping of your own heart.
It didn't matter. You already knew how this day was going to play out.
"Just you wait, Ahn Keonho." You murmured to yourself, watching his figure be swallowed into the surrounding group of students. “Just you wait.”
The morning events kicked off with the relay race, and Keonho was running second leg. You found a spot near the finish line, your face painted, your voice ready. When the starter gun fired, you watched him tear down the track, his legs pumping, his expression fierce. He passed the baton cleanly, and his team ended up taking second place.
After the race, he found you immediately, jogging over with that victorious grin on his face. He was sweaty, breathless, and absolutely glowing with adrenaline.
"Did you see me?" He asked, grabbing your shoulders. "I passed like, three people. Three people!"
"I saw," you said, laughing and handing him a bottle of water. "You were fast, really fast. You also look a little pink."
"Shut up," he said, but he was laughing, shaking his head at your persistence. "It's just from running, blood flow and all that."
"Uh-huh." You eyed his ears, which were already starting to turn a faint shade of pink. They were practically glowing against his pale skin. "Keep telling yourself that."
He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face. He downed half the water in one go, then draped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.
"Come watch the long jump with me," he said, already steering you toward the field. "Martin is competing. He's going to get destroyed, but I want to see it."
"You're such a good friend," you said dryly.
"The best," he agreed. "Now come on. I want to hold your hand and mock my friends simultaneously. It's my ideal afternoon."
You let him drag you across the field, settling into a familiar rhythm of teasing and easy conversation. Between events, you sat together in the shade of the Red House canopy, sharing a bag of crisps and taking photos with your friends. He kept pulling you close, pressing kisses to your temple, whispering jokes in your ear that made you snort with laughter.
Every now and then, you'd glance at him and see his skin getting progressively redder. His ears were now a distinct, unmistakable pink. His neck was starting to flush. His arms, usually pale, had taken on a faint reddish hue.
"Keonho," you said during a lull in the conversation, gesturing to his arm. "You're literally turning red right now as we speak. Right in front of my eyes."
"I'm fine," he insisted, not even looking at his arm. "It's just warm. Everyone's a little red."
"I'm not red," you pointed out, holding up your own arm: normal and sunscreened. "Because I'm responsible."
"Responsible and annoying," he teased.
"Responsible and right," you corrected.
He just shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. You gave up, deciding to let him figure it out on his own. He was stubborn to a fault, and arguing with him was pointless.
The afternoon events were more intense. Keonho competed in the three-legged race with Seonghyeon, and they somehow managed to win despite nearly falling twice. Then he was in the tug-of-war, pulling with everything he had, his face contorted with effort. His team won, and his friends lifted him onto their shoulders in celebration.
You cheered from the sidelines, laughing at his triumphant expression. But when he came back to you, sweaty and breathless, you noticed the sunburn had progressed significantly. His neck was a deep, angry red. His ears were practically glowing. His face, protected by the paint, was still pale, but his nose was starting to turn pink.
"Keonho," you said slowly, reaching up to touch his neck. "You're cooked. Like, really cooked. You're at medium-well right now, and you're going to be well-done by dinner."
"I'm fine," he said automatically, but his voice was a little weaker now. He was starting to feel the sunburn, you could tell. He kept touching his ears, wincing slightly. "It's not even that bad."
"It's bad," you insisted, your voice softening with genuine concern. "You're going to be in so much pain tonight."
"It'll go away."
"Sunburns don't just 'go away,' Keonho. They get worse. Tomorrow you're going to be peeling, and it's going to hurt, and I'm going to be very, very unsympathetic."
"Wow," he said flatly. "You're so supportive."
"I told you this morning," you reminded him, poking his chest. "I gave you multiple warnings. I was very clear about the consequences and you still didn't listen."
He leaned his forehead against yours, a gesture of affection despite the teasing smile arising on his lips. "I love you," he murmured. "Even when you're annoyingly right."
"I love you too," you said, your voice softening. "Even when you're burning yourself to a crisp like an idiot. Which is always."
The final events wound down as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon. The sports day closing ceremony was a blur of announcements, awards, and exhausted students heading home. Keonho found you in the crowd, his hand finding yours, his skin hot to the touch.
"Let's get out of here," he mumbled, his voice tired. "Go back to your place?"
"Sure," you said, threading your arm through his. "I’m going to be tending to your new sunburn anyways, it looks like it hurts."
"Ugh," he groaned as your fingers grazed his reddened skin, his facade not being able to stand up much longer. "It’s not that bad."
"Keonho, shut up and just admit it’s painful and that I was right.”
“Never!”
Your house was quiet and cool when you finally arrived, a welcome relief after the heat of the day. You kicked off your shoes by the door, and Keonho followed suit, his movements slower, more tired. He was still in good spirits, but you could see the exhaustion settling into his bones.
In your room, he collapsed onto the edge of your bed, letting out a long sigh. His hair was a mess, his face paint smudged, and his skin was radiating heat like a furnace.
"Okay," you said, heading into the bathroom. "Let's get this paint off. I'm getting you some aloe vera after this."
"Aloe vera?" He asked, his voice skeptical. "I don't need aloe vera."
"Keonho, you're literally burning up. You need aloe vera."
"I'm fine."
"You've said that fifteen times today, I'm going to ignore you."
You came back with a warm, wet towel, positioning yourself just in front of him. He looked up at you, his expression softening, a tired smile on his lips.
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" He asked.
"Never," you promised. "This is the most satisfying moment of my life. I've been looking forward to this all day."
He rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Instead, he let you work, closing his eyes as you gently began to wipe away the red paint from his cheeks, his hands sneaking onto your waist.
"Hold still," you murmured, using the same words he'd used on you that morning. "This might be a little messy."
The paint came off in streaks, the red pigment smearing across his skin before disappearing into the towel. You worked carefully, making sure to get every last bit. Underneath, his skin was pale, almost translucent compared to the angry red around it.
Then you paused.
Your hand froze mid-motion. You stared at his face, your brow furrowing in confusion. Something was... different. The paint was gone, but the area where it had been was noticeably lighter than the rest of his face. Two perfect, pale streaks stood out against his reddened skin.
"Keonho," you said slowly.
"What?" He asked, his eyes still closed as his thumbs slightly caressed your sides.
You didn't answer. A snort escaped your lips, followed by a giggle you couldn't quite suppress. Then, the giggle turned into a full-blown laugh that erupted from your chest, loud and uncontrollable.
He opened his eyes, looking at you with alarm. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," you gasped, doubling over. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's right. This is perfect. This is the most perfect thing I've ever seen."
"Y/N, stop laughing! Tell me what's happening!"
But you couldn't. You were too busy laughing, your shoulders shaking, tears starting to form in your eyes. He stared at you, bewildered and increasingly concerned.
"Did I have something on my face?" He asked. "Is it still dirty?"
"It's not dirty," you managed, wheezing. "It's... you're..."
"You're going to have to use words at some point," he said flatly, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. He was trying to be annoyed, but your laughter was infectious, and he could feel his own smile threatening to break through. "Use your big girl voice."
"Tan lines," you finally choked out. "You've got tan lines."
He blinked, uncomprehending. "What?"
"On your face," you said, pointing. "Where the paint was. It blocked the sun, and now you have two perfect, pale stripes on your cheeks. It looks like you got attacked by a ghost."
He stared at you, his brain slowly processing your words. He moved his hands from your waist and touched his cheeks, feeling the smooth, cool skin and then, further out, the hot, tight skin that was definitely, painfully sunburned.
"Oh no," he breathed.
"YES," you cheered, clapping your hands together. "Yes, yes, yes! This is the moment I've been waiting for!"
"Let me see," he demanded, scrambling to his feet. "Where's your mirror?"
You practically skipped over to the full-length mirror on your closet door, pulling him along with you. He stood in front of it, his reflection staring back at him, and his face fell in pure, unadulterated disbelief.
Two perfect pale streaks ran down his cheeks, exactly where the red paint had been. The rest of his face was a blotchy, uncomfortable-looking red. His nose was pink. His ears were crimson. His neck was an angry, mottled mess. But his cheeks, protected by that stupid paint he'd insisted didn't matter, were completely pale, completely untouched by the sun.
He looked like a raccoon. A very red, very embarrassed raccoon.
"I told you so."
He could hear the smugness in your voice, a smugness that had been building all day, a smugness that was now reaching its peak. He didn't even need to turn around to see the smirk on your face.
"It's not that bad," he said weakly.
"Oh, it's bad," you assured him. "It's incredible, it's a masterpiece, I'm going to frame this moment in my memory forever."
He turned to look at you, and you were practically glowing with satisfaction. Your arms were crossed over your chest, your eyes dancing with amusement, your smile so wide it looked like it might split your face.
"You're enjoying this way too much," he grumbled.
"I've been enjoying this since eight o'clock this morning," you said. "This is the payoff for six hours of watching you get progressively redder while insisting you were fine. I deserve this."
He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "I can't believe this. I literally can't believe this."
"I can," you said, stepping closer. "I told you this morning. I warned you. I was very, very clear about what was going to happen."
"I know," he mumbled. "You were right."
"I was right," you repeated, savoring the words. "You should say that again."
"Don't push it."
"Say it."
"You were right," he said, his voice muffled through his hands. "Are you happy?"
"Ecstatic," you confirmed. "This is the best day of my life."
He turned to look at himself in the mirror again, studying his reflection with a mixture of horror and disbelief. The pale stripes stared back at him, like a permanent reminder of his own hubris.
"Everyone's going to see this tomorrow," he realised. "Everyone at school, all my friends, all your friends."
"Absolutely," you said cheerfully. "I'm already thinking about all the photos I’m going to take."
"Y/N, you can't—"
"I can and I will. This is too good not to share."
He turned to face you, his expression a pleading mess of embarrassment and desperation. His cheeks were flushed—more flushed than they already were—and his eyes were wide with alarm.
"Please don't show anyone," he begged. "I'll do anything. I'll buy you dinner every day for a month. I'll carry your books. I'll—"
"You'll wear sunscreen next time," you interrupted.
He blinked. "What?"
"You'll wear sunscreen," you repeated, stepping closer to him. "Every time we're outside. You'll let me put it on you yourself if you have to. You'll stop being an idiot about your own health."
He considered this for a moment, then sighed, a long, defeated sigh. "Fine," he said. "I'll wear sunscreen. You win."
"I know I win," you said sweetly. "Now come here."
You reached up and grabbed his face gently, turning it from side to side to examine the tan lines. He let you, too tired and too defeated to resist.
"You know," you said thoughtfully, "it's kind of cute. In a pathetic, cute way."
"I'm literally in pain," he deadpanned. "My skin is on fire. This is the worst day of my life."
"It's the best day of mine," you countered. "I'm going to remember this forever."
He tried to glare at you, but he couldn't quite manage it. The corner of his mouth kept twitching, his smile fighting its way through despite his embarrassment.
"You're so smug," he said.
"I'm right," you corrected.
"Same thing."
You laughed, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek—one of the pale parts, just to be safe. He made a sound of protest, but it was weak, half-hearted.
"I love you," you said softly, your eyes meeting his. "Even when you're a sunburnt raccoon."
"Raccoon?"
"Raccoon. The stripes, you know. It's a good look, very trendy."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
He sighed, but his eyes softened, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against yours. "I do," he admitted. "I really do."
"Good," you said, pulling away and grabbing your phone. "Now, say cheese. I need documentation for future blackmail purposes."
"Y/N, wait—"
You snapped a picture before he could stop you, capturing his horrified expression for all eternity. His face was a perfect combination of embarrassment, disbelief, and a hint of amused resignation.
"Perfect," you announced, already scrolling through the photo. "This is going in the group chat."
"Y/N!"
"I'll give you a ten-second head start before I click send," you offered.
He stared at you, then at your phone, and then made a decision. In one smooth motion, he grabbed the phone out of your hands and held it above his head, out of your reach.
"You're going to have to fight me for it," he said, a grin finally breaking through his embarrassment.
"I will," you threatened, lunging for the phone. He dodged, laughing, and the two of you started a ridiculous chase around your room.
But he was tired and sunburnt, and you were faster. You tackled him onto your bed, pinning his arms down and grabbing the phone from his hand. He lay there, defeated, staring up at you with that familiar, infuriatingly fond smile.
"Fine," he said. "You win."
"Obviously," you said, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. "I always do."
You spent the rest of the evening on the bed, you scrolling through the Sports Day photos while Keonho alternately groaned and laughed. He insisted he was going to wear a hat for the entire next month, and you insisted you were going to bring this up at your wedding.
When the laughter finally died down, he turned to look at you, his eyes soft despite the exhaustion and pain. "Baby."
You glanced up from your phone. "Yeah?"
He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, guiding you closer. "You’re so pretty," he murmured. "Even when you’re annoyed at me."
Before you could respond, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was slow and tender, a quiet promise beneath all the teasing. His hand cradled your jaw like you were something precious, and when he pulled back, his eyes were shining.
"I love you," he said softly. "Even when you're insufferably right."
"I love you too," you whispered back. "Even when you're a sunburnt raccoon."
He laughed, pulling you into his side and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm never going to live this down, am I?"
"Never," you confirmed, snuggling into him. "I'm bringing this up at our graduation, our ten-year anniversary, our retirement—"
He groaned, but he was smiling. "I've created a monster."
"The photos are going to be shown too," you added. "I’ll make sure of it."
"I wouldn’t expect anything less."
You both fell quiet, the comfortable silence settling around you like a warm blanket. His hand found yours, fingers interlacing, and you felt the heat still radiating off his skin.
"You're going to be so sore tomorrow," you murmured.
"Don't remind me."
"You're going to peel."
"Y/N."
"And you're going to have to explain the tan lines to everyone at school."
He turned his head, giving you a look. "Are you done?"
"Not even close," you said sweetly. "I'm going to be making comments about this for years."
He sighed dramatically, but he was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and his expression softened into something unbearably tender.
"Good," he said quietly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Your heart swelled. You leaned up and pressed another kiss to his lips: quick, soft, full of everything you couldn't quite put into words.
"I love you," you said again, because you could never truly say it enough.
"I love you too," he replied, his voice warm. "Even when you're smug."
"Especially when I'm smug," you corrected.
"Especially when you're smug," he agreed, pulling you closer.
He was an idiot. A complete, utter, stubborn idiot.
But he was your idiot, and you were never, ever going to let him forget it.
SYNOPSIS :: After a stupid fight that was blown way out of proportion, Seonghyeon turns up at your window with a mixtape and a dream. (TAGLIST)
W.C :: 8.2k
CONTAINS :: 80s!seonghyeon, angst with comfort, argument, resolution, yearning seonghyeon, stubborn reader, established relationship, kissing, cliché’s
PLAYLIST :: Baby come back - Player; Out of touch - Daryl Hall & John Oates; Under the milky way - The Church; With or without you - U2; Listen to your heart - Roxette; Right here waiting - Richard Marx
You and Seonghyeon had fought. Badly.
It wasn't supposed to blow up like that, that was the worst part. If it had been something big that was worth the screaming, silence, and days of not speaking, maybe it would've made sense. But it wasn't big. It was small and stupid, the kind of thing that shouldn't have mattered, except it did, because it was never just about the one thing.
He'd forgotten. Again.
A study date. You had a biology test coming up, and he'd promised to help. You'd waited for him in the library for an hour, watching the door, watching the clock, watching the light shift from gold to grey. He never showed.
You found him at the arcade.
"I'm sorry," he said when he saw you. "It slipped my mind."
"It slipped your mind."
"Yeah. I'll make it up to you."
"You always say that."
"Because I always mean it."
"Then why does it keep happening?"
He shrugged.
That was what did it. Not the forgetting or the lateness. The shrug. His shoulders going up and down like it didn't matter, and your time didn't matter, and you hadn't sat in that library for an hour and a half watching the door like an idiot. Like you weren't worth remembering.
"Forget it," you said.
"Come on, don't be like that—"
"Like what? Upset? Sorry for expecting my boyfriend to show up when he says he will."
"I said I was sorry."
"And I said forget it."
You turned around and walked out. The arcade door swung shut behind you, cutting off the noise, and suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet. The evening air hit your face, cool and damp, and you realised your hands were shaking.
He called your name once. Twice. His voice was muffled through the glass, distant, like he was calling from underwater.
You didn't look back.
That was three days ago.
The first day, you were furious.
The kind of furious that felt good, felt right, felt like armor. You wore it everywhere: to class, to lunch, to bed. You rehearsed speeches in your head while you brushed your teeth, while you walked to class, while you lay in bed with the lights off. Sharp, cutting things, all the words you should have said at the arcade but had been too hurt to think of in the moment.
You don't get to make me feel like I'm asking for too much.
I'm not crazy for wanting you to show up.
I deserve someone who remembers.
You told yourself you were right and he was wrong. You told yourself you didn't need him. You almost believed it.
The second day, you were stubborn.
The anger had cooled overnight and settled into something harder that felt more deliberate. You weren't shouting anymore, not even in your head. You were just... done. Done explaining. Done hoping. Done waiting for him to change.
You walked past him in the hallway like he wasn't there. He said your name. You kept walking, your eyes fixed straight ahead, your bag heavy on your shoulder. He fell into step beside you, his hands in his pockets, his voice careful like he was approaching something that might bite.
"Can we talk?"
"No."
"Just for a minute—"
"I said no."
You turned down another hallway by the science wing and he didn't follow. Good. You didn't want him to follow. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to hear his excuses or his apologies or his promises to do better. You'd heard them all before, and they'd never stuck. They were like water off a raincoat: shed easily, leaving nothing behind.
At lunch, Mina asked where he was. You said you didn't know. She gave you a look—the kind that meant she knew you were lying but wasn't going to call you on it. She passed you a fry instead. You ate it. It tasted like cardboard.
That night, the phone rang constantly. You didn't pick it up.
The third day, you were still stubborn.
But it was heavier now. It had become a weight you had to carry. Your shoulders ached. Your eyes burned from lack of sleep.
You saw him again between second and third period as he was standing by your locker, waiting. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wall like he was trying to make himself smaller. His hair was a mess—unwashed, sticking up in the back—and there were dark circles under his eyes that matched your own. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.
You didn't care. You told yourself you didn't care.
"Hey," he said.
You walked past him and spun your lock. The combination felt wrong under your fingers, too many turns and too much fumbling on your part. You could feel him standing behind you, the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, the space between you feeling like a physical thing, thick and heavy.
"Can you just—please. Just listen for a second."
You didn't answer. Your lock clicked open and you reached in to grab your book, though not really paying much attention to which one your hand latched onto.
"I messed up. I know I messed up. I should've been there. I should've called. I—"
You turned and walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the tile. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you heard him behind you. Heard his footsteps, faster than yours, closing the gap.
He caught up in three steps. His hand reached forward to hold your elbow, but he stopped himself beforehand, unsure on if he was allowed to touch you anymore.
You shook your head, refusing to meet his eye. "Stop trying to talk to me."
"Then stop walking away from me."
"Then stop following me."
"I'm trying to apologise."
"I don't care."
The words hung in the air and you still didn't look at his face. You couldn't. Because you knew if you looked at his face, you'd see the hurt there, and the hurt would make you falter, and you couldn't afford to falter. Not yet.
He stopped walking and you kept going. You could feel him watching you, could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, heavy and sad. You chose to not look back.
But your hands were shaking. And your eyes were burning. And when you turned the corner and disappeared from his view, you had to stop for a second, lean against the lockers, and breathe.
He tried again at lunch.
You were sitting with Mina and Martin at your usual table by the window, your tray sitting in front of you, untouched except for the few bites you'd forced down to make Mina stop giving you that look. You were pushing a piece of broccoli around your plate, mashing it into the plastic with the tines of your fork, not really seeing it.
You saw him approach before they did. The familiar jacket with that familiar walk, and that easy swagger he didn't even know he had, except today it wasn't easy. Today his shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his whole body folded in on itself like he was trying to take up less space. The familiar way he ran his hand through his hair when he was nervous, messing it up even more than it already was.
"Incoming," Martin said, nodding toward Seonghyeon. He didn't sound surprised, none of them were surprised anymore.
You didn't look up. Just stabbed a piece of vegetable with your fork and put it in your mouth. It tasted like nothing, everything had tasted like nothing for days.
"Hey," Seonghyeon said. He was standing at the end of your table, his hands in his pockets, his weight shifting from foot to foot like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stand still. His voice was careful, quiet, the way you'd talk to a stray cat you didn't want to scare off. "Can we talk?"
"No."
"Just for a minute."
"I'm eating."
You weren't eating. You were pushing food around your plate. The broccoli had turned into mush, and the chicken was getting cold, and everyone at the table knew you hadn't taken more than three bites. But he didn't call you out on it, he just stood there, looking at you and waiting.
Mina shot you a look from across the table—her way of saying just talk to him, please, for the love of God, just talk to him—and you ignored her. Your jaw tightened. Your fingers tightened around your fork.
"Please," he said. His voice cracked on the word, just slightly, and you hated the way it made your chest ache.
You picked up your tray and stood up. The plastic was cold against your palms, and you could feel everyone's eyes on you: Mina's worried glance, Martin's careful neutrality, the other kids in the cafeteria staring and whispering like you were a show they'd paid to see.
"I'm done," you said. You didn't look at him. You couldn't.
You walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, your tray balanced on your palm. You could feel his eyes on your back, heavy and sad, but you didn't turn around.
He didn't follow this time.
He tried again after school.
You were walking toward the front entrance, your bag slung over your shoulder, your headphones on, connected to a mixtape you had made. You'd turned the volume up loud enough that you couldn't hear anything else. Loud enough that you almost didn't hear him calling your name.
Almost.
He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. You stopped walking and pulled the headphone off your ears.
"What?"
"Can you please just—"
"No."
"You won't even let me explain?"
"There's nothing to explain. You forgot. You didn't show up. You shrugged. End of story."
"I know. I know I messed up. But it's not—it's not the end of the story. It doesn't have to be."
You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in three days. He looked tired: dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual, his jacket rumpled like he'd been sleeping in it.
You didn't care.
"Move," you said.
"Not until you listen."
"Move, Seonghyeon."
"No."
You stepped around him. He reached for your arm. You pulled away.
"Don't touch me."
"Then stop ignoring me."
"I don't have to stop anything. You're the one who messed up. You're the one who should be trying to fix it."
"I am trying. You won't let me."
"You're not trying hard enough."
You walked away. He didn't follow.
That night, he called.
Your phone rang at 8pm. Then 8:30. Then 9. You let it ring. You watched it from your bed as the receiver shook in its cradle.
Your mother poked her head in. "Are you going to get that?"
"No."
"It might be important."
"It's not."
She looked at you for a long moment and you could see her trying to decide whether to push.
"Okay," she eventually said, still eyeing you suspiciously. "Dinner's in an hour."
She closed the door, and the phone’s ringing soon halted. A minute later, it started again.
You turned over and faced the wall.
The next morning, there was a note on your locker.
It was folded in half, your name written on the front in his handwriting. You recognised it immediately—how he looped his letters and pressed too hard with the pen. You'd seen it on a hundred notes before. Meet me after school. I love you. Don't forget to eat lunch.
You unfolded it.
I'm sorry. I know I keep saying it. I know it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I'm sorry. I messed up. I'll do better. Just give me a chance.
You read it twice. Then you folded it back up, tucked it into your pocket, and walked to class.
You didn't write back.
He left another note on your locker the next day. And the next. Each one shorter than the last, like he was running out of things to say.
I miss you.
Can we please just talk?
I'm not going to stop trying.
You read each one. You kept each one, folded small, tucked into the back pocket of your jeans where no one could see. But you didn't respond. You didn't call. You didn't stop ignoring him in the hallways.
Your friends noticed. Mina asked you about it at lunch, her voice careful, her eyes searching.
"He keeps trying to talk to you," she said.
"I know."
"And you keep ignoring him."
"I know."
"Aren't you going to eventually—"
"No."
She was quiet for a moment before she then she sighed. "You're so stubborn."
"I know."
She didn't push and neither did Martin. They could see it on your face, you were serious this time around.
By the fifth day, Seonghyeon was running out of ideas.
He'd tried talking to you in the hallways and you'd walked away. He'd tried calling and you hadn't picked up. He'd tried notes and you hadn't written back.
He stood by your locker between classes, waiting. You turned the corner, saw him, and kept walking.
"Come on," he said, falling into step beside you. "You can't ignore me forever."
"Watch me."
"I'm trying to apologise."
"You already did."
"Then why won't you talk to me?"
You stopped walking and turned to face him. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you didn't care. Let them hear.
"Because I'm tired," you said. "I'm tired of you forgetting. I'm tired of you apologising and then doing the same thing over and over. I'm tired of waiting for you to show up and being disappointed when you don't."
He flinched. "I know. I know I've been—"
"You know? Then why haven't you changed?"
He didn't have an answer. You could see him searching for one, see the words dying on his tongue.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned and walked away. He didn't follow.
And you felt bad for it. How could you not? Watching the shine slowly disappear from his eyes every time he saw you—it did something to your chest. He looked smaller now than he used to. That easy confidence he always carried around like a second skin had cracked, and underneath it, he just looked... tired.
But you were tired too.
Tired of him forgetting. Tired of making excuses for him. Tired of telling your friends he's not usually like this when he was, actually. He was usually like this. That was the problem.
The study date wasn't the first thing he'd forgotten. It was just the last straw.
He'd forgotten your friend's birthday party last month. Shown up two hours late with a half-hearted apology and a bag of chips he'd grabbed from the corner store on his way over. You'd let it slide because he'd looked sorry, because he'd kissed your forehead and promised to make it up to you.
He'd forgotten the movie you'd planned to see the weekend before. Texted you at 7pm to say practice ran late, he'd catch the next showing, don't wait up. You'd waited anyway. Sat in the dark theater by yourself, watching the previews, saving the seat next to you like an idiot.
He'd forgotten to call you back that time you'd had a bad day. You'd sat by the phone for hours, waiting, replaying the conversation in your head where you'd told him you needed him, you really needed him, and he'd said I'll call you tonight, I promise.
He hadn't called.
And every time, he said sorry. Every time, he looked at you with those big brown eyes, and you forgave him. Because you loved him, and you wanted to believe him, and you thought maybe this time would be different.
It wasn't different. It was never different.
So yeah, you felt bad. You weren't a monster. You saw the way his face fell when you walked past him without a word. You saw the way his friends clapped him on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up, and the way he'd nod along and pretend he was fine.
But feeling bad wasn't enough anymore. Feeling bad didn't fix anything. Feeling bad didn't make him show up.
That night, you lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
The phone sat on your nightstand, silent. He hadn't called tonight. Maybe he was finally giving up. Maybe he'd realised you weren't worth the effort and had decided to move on to someone who was easier, and didn't expect him to remember things, or would get upset when he forgot.
The thought made your stomach hurt.
Your eyes drifted across the room, landing on your desk and spotting the stacked crooked tower of tapes that were held together by sheer will and lack of anywhere else to put them.
Cassette tapes. Dozens of them. Spines lined with Seonghyeon's handwriting, the title always underlined twice because he said it looked more official that way.
For you. Volume 1.
Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2).
Late night driving mix (for when you can't sleep).
The one with all the love songs. You know the one.
You'd listened to every single one of them. Some of them so many times the tape had started to wear thin, the sound warbling in places, the songs skipping in the way that meant you'd played them too much and your brother had told you to buy a CD player already, it was the 80s, not the Stone Age.
Each tape had a story. You could trace your relationship through them like a timeline.
Volume 1 was given to you the night he asked you out. Tucked it into your hand with stolen cornflowers tied with kitchen string. You'd played it that night in your room, lying on your bed, the volume turned down low so your parents wouldn't hear.
Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2) was left in your locker with a note that just said "Hi." You'd played it on repeat for three days straight, until your brother threatened to throw your stereo out the window.
The third one. The fourth. The fifth.
They were everywhere now. Spilling off your desk, stacked on your nightstand, crammed into the drawer of your bedside table. You'd find them in your coat pockets sometimes, tucked into your textbooks, hidden under your pillow. He left them like breadcrumbs, like love letters, like proof that he was thinking about you even when he wasn't there.
You sat up, swung your legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to your desk.
Your fingers brushed the spines of the tapes, one by one. The plastic cases were warm from sitting in the sun. The handwriting blurred in the dim light, but you didn't need to read it. You knew every word.
For you.
For you.
For you.
You pulled one out—The one with all the love songs. You know the one.—and held it in your hands. The case was worn, the edges soft, the plastic cracked at the corners. You'd played this one so many times it probably had permanent grooves in the tape.
He'd made this one for you last month. Not for any special reason, just because. He'd shown up at your door with it and a bag of your favourite snacks and a grin that made your heart do something stupid in your chest.
"What's this for?" you'd asked.
"Does there have to be a reason?"
"There's always a reason with you."
You'd played the tape that night, lying in bed with your headphones on, and you'd listened to every single song. Some of them you knew: ones he'd played for you before and had gradually become yours. Some of them were new, songs you'd never heard that he'd found just for you.
He'd spent hours on this. You knew he had. Sitting in his room with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing right. His mother had probably yelled at him to turn it down a dozen times. His father had probably asked him why he was wasting his time on something so silly.
But he'd done it anyway. For you.
You looked at the tape in your hands. The label was smudged now, the ink fading, but you could still read it. "You know the one."
He'd written that. For you.
You thought about the study date. The hour and a half you'd spent in the library. The way he'd shrugged when you confronted him. The way you'd walked away.
And then you thought about the tapes. Dozens of them. Hours of his time. Proof that he loved you, even when he forgot. Even when he messed up. Even when he made you want to scream.
You put the tape back on the stack, then climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling.
You still weren't going to call him. But you weren’t going to throw the tapes away either.
Across town, Seonghyeon was going mad, to put it lightly.
He lay in his bed, staring at the same ceiling he'd been staring at for four nights.
He hadn't slept at all. He'd dozed off here and there, in brief, fitful bursts, but his dreams were filled with your face: the way you'd looked at him in the arcade, the way you'd spoken to him like you’d finally given up, the way you'd walked away and he hadn't followed.
His room was a mess: clothes on the floor, empty glasses on his nightstand, jacket still rumpled and draped over the back of his chair
He picked up the phone again, held it in his hand and stared at the rotary dial.
He'd called you every night for three nights. Every night, you hadn't picked up. The first night, he'd let it ring fifteen times before he gave up. The second night, ten. The third night, five. Tonight, he hadn’t even tried, because what was the point? You weren't going to answer. You'd made that clear.
He put the phone back and dropped his arm over his eyes, breathing a sigh.
He knew you weren't going to forgive him. He knew it was his fault. He'd been a complete idiot let you walk away when it was entirely his fault. He'd done all of it, and now he was lying in his bed at—he glanced at the clock—almost 2am, staring at the ceiling, going slowly insane.
He thought about the tapes.
Dozens of them. Hours of his time. He'd made them in his room, late at night, when his parents were asleep and the house was quiet. He'd sat on his floor with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing just right. He'd wanted them to be perfect. For you.
"You're wasting your time," his father had said once, watching him from the doorway. "She's not going to care how many tapes you make if you can't remember to show up on time."
He'd been right. His father had been right, and Seonghyeon hadn't listened, and now here he was.
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to his desk.
His desk was a mess too: apers scattered everywhere, a half-empty mug of coffee that had gone cold days ago, and stacked in the corner, a pile of blank cassette tapes, still wrapped in plastic, waiting to be filled.
He'd bought them last week, before the fight had even occured. He'd had plans: songs he wanted to put on them that had made him think of you and that he'd been saving for a special occasion.
He picked up one of the blank tapes. Turned it over in his hands and watched as the plastic crinkled.
He thought about making you another one and filling it with all the songs he should have been listening to instead of being at the arcade. Even thought about leaving it on your doorstep with a note that just said "I'm sorry" over and over until you believed him.
But what was the point? You wouldn't listen to it. You'd probably throw it away without even opening it.
He put the tape back. Ran his hands over his face. Breathed.
He missed you. That was the worst part. He missed you so much it felt like someone had reached into his chest and pulled something vital out that he couldn't live without. He missed your laugh. He missed the way you said his name. He missed the way you'd look at him when you thought he wasn't paying attention, like you were trying to memorise his face.
He missed you and it was his fault.
He turned his head, closing his eyes as he breathed a sigh. Then his eyes caught on something.
A lone cassette tape. Sitting on the corner of his desk, slightly hidden behind a stack of notebooks. And stuck to the front of it was a sticky note, yellowed at the edges, the adhesive long since dried. Written on it in his own handwriting, messy and rushed: ‘for when you need it.’
He stared at it for a long moment. His brain felt sluggish, slow to catch up. And then the memory dawned on him, rising up from somewhere deep that he'd tucked it away and forgotten about.
Months ago you’d had anothet fight that wasn’t as bad as this one, but had still bruised him just as deeply. You'd been angry at him for something stupid, something he couldn't even remember now. You'd ignored him for a whole day, a full twenty-four hours of silence, and he'd practically gone insane.
He'd sat in this same room, at this same desk, and he'd made you a tape full of songs that made him think of sorry, I miss you, please come back. He'd spent hours on it, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the order just right. He'd wanted it to be perfect. He'd wanted to give it to you and have you listen to it and understand everything he couldn't say out loud.
But he never gave it to you.
You'd forgiven him before he had the chance. Shown up at his door the next morning with a bag of his favourite snacks and a small smile, and he'd kissed you, and the fight was over, and the tape sat forgotten on his desk. He'd meant to put it away, meant to save it for the next time—because there was always a next time, wasn't there?—but he'd forgotten. He'd shoved it behind his notebooks and let it collect dust.
Until now.
His hand reached out, almost without his permission, and picked up the tape. The case was dusty. The sticky note was peeling at the corners. He turned it over in his hands, reading his own handwriting again. For when you need it.
He needed it now more than he'd ever needed anything.
He sat down at his desk, the chair creaking under his weight. He brushed the dust off the case, opened it, pulled out the tape. The label on the cassette itself was smudged, but he could still make out the tracklist: song titles he'd chosen carefully and deliberately, each one a message he'd been too scared to say out loud.
He held the tape in his hands for a long moment and the plastic was cool against his palms.
He thought about making you a new, better one that had songs from the last few months, songs that had made him think of you since then. But there wasn't time. He couldn't wait and spend hours in his room, fast-forwarding and rewinding, while you were out there somewhere, still ignoring him, still hurting.
He stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, shoved the tape into his pocket, and grabbed his keys from his nightstand. His shoes were by the door; he shoved his feet into them, didn't bother with socks.
His parents were asleep. The house was dark. He crept down the stairs, his hand trailing along the wall for balance, until he arrived in front of the back door, clicking it open before he slipped through.
The night air hit his face, cool and damp, smelling like cut grass and distant rain. He sucked in a breath and started to run.
His sneakers pounded against the pavement. His lungs burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The streets were empty, the houses dark, the streetlights casting pools of orange on the pavement like stepping stones leading him toward you. None of that mattered. None of it registered. Because to him, time felt like a ticking bomb, each second another excuse for you to decide he wasn't worth it, each moment he wasted giving you more reason to leave him for good.
He thought about what he'd say when he got to your house. Rehearsed the words in his head, over and over, like a song he couldn't quite get right. I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I'll do better. Please. Just give me one more chance. But the words felt small, inadequate, nothing compared to the weight of what he was feeling.
He thought about whether you'd even let him in. Whether you'd even open the window. Whether you'd take one look at his face and close the curtain, lock the latch, walk away.
He reached your street. Your house sat at the end of the block, the porch light on, the way it always was—a warm glow spilling across the front steps, a beacon he'd followed a hundred times before. Your parents' car was in the driveway. Your brother's bike was on the lawn, lying on its side where he'd left it. Everything was the same. The same house, the same street, the same familiar shape of your bedroom window at the side of the building.
But everything felt heavier, ike the air itself was thicker, harder to breathe.
He didn't go to the front door. He knew your father would open it, and he'd take one look at Seonghyeon's face—the dark circles, the desperation, the four days of sleeplessness written all over him—and close it again without a word. So he went around the back, to the side of the house, to the window he'd climbed through a hundred times before that you always left unlocked on nights when you were expecting him.
He didn't know if it would be unlocked tonight. He didn't know if you wanted to see him. He didn't know if you'd even let him in.
But he had to try.
He stood beneath your window, his chest heaving, his hands shaking at his sides. His breath fogged in the cold air, small clouds that disappeared as quickly as they came. The curtain was drawn so he couldn't see anything, or even tell if you were awake or asleep or somewhere in between, lying in your bed with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling the way he'd been doing for four nights straight.
He reached up, fingers curling around the ledge beneath the window before he hauled himself up, his sneakers scraping against the siding, his muscles straining. The ledge was narrow, just wide enough for his feet. but he'd done this before. He'd done it a hundred times. He knew exactly where to put his weight, exactly how to balance.
He steadied himself. Pressed one hand against the glass to keep from wobbling. Then he raised his other hand and knocked three times, harder than he intended.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound echoed through the quiet night, louder than he meant it to, louder than it should have been. The glass rattled in its frame but he didn't care. Let your parents hear. Let the whole street hear. Let the whole world know he was here, outside your window, begging.
He waited. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers where they pressed against the glass. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.
The curtain moved. Just slightly, just a flicker, like someone was peeking through the gap.
Then, all at once, it was shoved aside, and you were standing on the other side of the glass.
Your hair was a mess: tangled, falling across your face in waves you hadn't bothered to brush. Your eyes were puffy, ringed with dark circles that matched his own, proof that you hadn't been sleeping either. You were wearing his gray t-shirt that he’d left at your place after a sleepover, and always made his chest ache every time he saw you in it.
For a long moment neither of you moved, just staring at each other. The streetlight caught the side of your face, illuminating the shadows under your eyes, the slight frown on your lips, the way your brow was furrowed like you were trying to figure out if he was real.
"You've got to be kidding me," you said, sliding the window ajar for him to hear you.
"I'm not kidding."
"It's two in the morning, Seonghyeon."
"I know what time it is."
"My parents are asleep."
"I know."
"You could have woken them up."
He swallowed. "I know."
You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained unmoving.
"What do you want?" you asked.
"You know what I want."
"No, I don't. That's the problem. I never know what you want. One minute you're making me tapes and leaving notes on my locker, and the next you're forgetting I exist."
"I don't forget you exist."
"You forgot our study date."
"That's not the same thing."
"It feels the same from where I'm standing." You crossed your arms over your chest, your jaw set. "You forgot, Seonghyeon. Again. You were at the arcade with your friends while I sat in the library like an idiot, waiting for you."
"I know. I know, and I'm sorry—"
"You're always sorry."
"Because I'm always messing up."
"Then stop messing up!"
The words hung in the air between you, loud and sharp. You blinked, like you hadn't meant to shout, but you didn't take it back. You just stood there, your arms crossed, your chest heaving, your eyes bright with something that looked like tears.
He pressed his forehead against the glass. The cold bit into his skin, but he didn't move. He couldn't.
"I don't know how," he said. His voice was quiet, barely audible. "I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be better. I don't know how to be the person you deserve."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I can't—I can't just—" He pulled back, looked at you. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking. "I can't lose you. I can't. I know I mess up. I know I forget things. I know I'm late and I don't call and I make you feel like you don't matter. But you do. You matter more than anything. And I don't know how to fix it, but I have to try. I have to."
You were quiet for a long moment. Your arms were still crossed, your jaw still set, but your face had shifted to something softer.
"What's that?" You asked, nodding toward his hand.
He looked down. The tape was still clutched in his fingers, the plastic case warm from his palm. He'd almost forgotten he was holding it.
"I made this for you," he said. "Months ago. After our last fight when you ignored me for a day and I thought I was going to lose my mind."
Your eyes flicked down to the tape, then back up to his face.
"I never gave it to you because you forgave me before I had the chance. And I was relieved, so I shoved aside and forgot about it." He swallowed. "But I found it tonight. And I thought—I thought maybe you'd listen to it. If you still wanted to."
"Baby Come Back," you said, reading the tracklist through the glass. "Really?"
"It's a good song."
"It's cliché."
"Clichés exist for a reason."
You shook your head, but your lips twitched just slightly, just enough for him to notice. "You're impossible."
"I know."
"You're standing outside my window at two in the morning holding a cassette tape like some bad movie."
"I know that too."
"You don't even have socks on."
He looked down at his feet and realised you were right. His sneakers were loose, his bare ankles visible above the heels. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed anything except the need to get here.
"I didn't have time for socks," he said.
You stared at him for another long moment. Your hand moved from the window frame to the latch. You hesitated and he held his breath.
Then you unlocked the latch and slid the window open fully.
The night air rushed in, cool and damp, and you stepped back, just enough to give him room. Your arms were crossed again, your face guarded, but you'd opened the window and let him in, and that had to mean something.
He didn't wait. He hauled himself over the sill, his sneakers scraping against the frame, and landed on your bedroom floor with a soft thud. The tape was still clutched in his hand as he was now standing in the middle of your room, his chest heaving.
You closed the window behind him, pulling the curtain shut before turning to face him.
The room was dark except for the orange glow of the streetlight filtering through the fabric, casting long shadows across the floor.
"Play it," you said.
He blinked. "What?"
"The tape. Play it. If you came all this way, you might as well."
He crossed the room to your stereo, the same one he'd used a hundred times before. He slid the tape into the deck, pressed play, and stepped back.
Static. Silence. The soft hiss of the tape spinning.
Then music.
The opening notes of 'Baby Come Back' filled the room and the words hung in the air between you like a confession he couldn't make himself.
‘Spending all my nights, all my money going out on the town
Doing anything just to get you off of my mind, yeah
But when the morning comes, I'm right back where I started again
And tryna forget you is just a waste of time’
"You're such an idiot," you finally spoke again, but your voice was softer this time. Quieter.
"I know."
"This doesn't fix anything."
"I know."
"One song doesn't make up for four days of silence."
"I know."
"And I'm still mad at you."
He nodded. "I know."
‘Baby come back, any kind of fool could see
There was something in everything about you’
You took a step closer. Then another. Your arms fell to your sides. Your face was still guarded, but your eyes were wet, and your hands were shaking slightly.
"You forgot," you said. "You forgot, and you were late, and you shrugged at me like it didn't matter."
"It did matter. It does matter. You matter."
"Then why do you keep doing this?"
He didn't have an answer. He'd been asking himself the same question for days, and he still didn't have an answer. He was scared, maybe. Or stupid. Or both.
‘Baby come back, yeah, you can blame it all on me
'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’
"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know why I keep doing this. I don't know why I can't just—remember. I don't know why I keep hurting you when you're the last person I want to hurt."
"Then figure it out."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
The song played on. He could see you fighting it—fighting the way your eyes kept dropping to his lips, the way your hands kept twitching at your sides like you wanted to reach for him.
"I'm scared," he said.
You blinked. "Of what?"
"Of you. Of this. Of how much I need you." His voice cracked. "I've never needed anyone the way I need you. And it terrifies me. Because what if I'm not good enough? What if I keep messing up? What if one day you wake up and decide I'm not worth the trouble?"
You stared at him. "Seonghyeon—"
"That's why I forget things. Not because I don't care. Because I do. I care so much it scares me, and I don't know how to handle it, so I just—shut down. And then you're upset, and I'm upset, and I don't know how to fix it."
‘All day long, wearing a mask of false bravado (false bravado)’
You crossed the room in three steps. Your hand found his face, your palm cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing away a tear he hadn't even realised had fallen.
"Idiot," you whispered.
"I know."
"You should have told me this days ago."
"I didn't know how."
‘Tryna keep up a smile that hides a tear (hides a tear)’
You were close now, close enough that he could see the way your breath hitched when his hand came up to cover yours.
"I'm still mad at you," you said.
"I know."
"Like, really mad."
"I know that too."
"This doesn't mean I forgive you."
He nodded. "I know."
‘But as the sun goes down, I get that empty feeling again
How I wish to God that you were here’
But you didn't step back. And neither did he. The song played on, soft and sad, and you stood there in the middle of your room, your hand on his face, his hand over yours, neither of you willing to be the first to let go.
"Well," you said finally, "are you going to kiss me or not?"
He blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I thought you were still angry at me."
"I am."
"So why—"
"Because I'm also tired, and I missed you, and you're standing in my room at two in the morning with a cassette tape like some lovesick fool, and it's kind of pathetic, honestly."
"Gee, thanks."
"But it's also kind of sweet." You shrugged, but your eyes were soft, and your thumb was still tracing circles on his cheekbone. "And I've been lying awake for four nights wondering if you were going to show up. So are you going to kiss me or not?"
He kissed you as the chorus finally swelled once more.
The moment his lips met yours, something in him broke open.
They were chapped from the cold, from the wind, from four days of not taking care of himself. They were rough against yours, almost unfamiliar, and he tasted like salt from the tears he'd shed running through the dark, and the ones that still clung to his lashes.
He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like he'd been holding his breath for four days and you were the only thing that could save him. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly at your sides, slid to your waist and pulled you flush against him. There was no space between you now, just the warmth of his chest pressing against yours, the rapid thrum of his heartbeat echoing through his ribs into your own.
Your fingers slid to tangle through his hair. The strands were soft at the nape of his neck, curling around your knuckles the way they always did.
His hands slid up your back, fingers splaying wide, spanning the space between your shoulder blades. He pulled you closer, closer, until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.
Your hands slid from his hair to his jaw, cupping his face like you had moments ago. His skin was cold from the night air, and you could feel the muscles working beneath your palms as he kissed you: the way his jaw moved, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. The song was still playing, soft and sad, the words washing over you both like a wave.
‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me
I was wrong, and I just can't live without you, no’
His forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and you could see the tear tracks glistening in the dim light. His breath was warm on your lips, uneven, hitching, and you felt his hands lower back down to your waist.
"Seonghyeon," you whispered.
He opened his eyes. They were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and there was something in them that made your breath catch—something that looked like awe, like wonder, like he couldn't quite believe you were real.
"I'm not going to forgive you just because you showed up with a tape."
He nodded. "I know."
"But I'm also not going to pretend I didn't miss you."
His hands tightened on your hips. "I missed you too."
"So much it hurts."
"So much I couldn't breathe."
You looked at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, the ones that matched your own. At the way his hair fell across his forehead, messy and unwashed. At the way his lips were red and slightly swollen, parted like he was still trying to catch his breath.
"You look terrible," you said.
"I feel terrible."
"Have you been sleeping?"
"A little."
"Eating?"
He hesitated and you raised an eyebrow.
"A little," he said again.
You sighed and shook your head, but you didn't let go of his face, and he didn't let go of your hips.
"Idiot," you said.
"Your idiot."
"My idiot," you repeated. The words felt heavy in your mouth, weighted with everything you hadn't said in four days. "But only if you stop being an idiot."
"I'm going to try."
"That's not a promise."
"It's the best I can do."
You were quiet for a moment. The song played on, a hum in the background.
‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me
'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’
"I guess that'll have to do," you said.
And you kissed him again as the electric guitar soared, blurring your every sense as all you could feel was him.
This time, it was slower. You kissed him like you were trying to tell him something you didn't have words for that had been sitting in your chest for four days waiting to come out.
I love you. I hate you. I missed you. Please don't leave again.
He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Like this moment, right here, was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Your hands slid from his jaw to his chest, pressing flat against his heart. It was pounding under your palm: fast, uneven, the same rhythm as yours. His hands slid from your hips to your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
He broke the kiss first. Not because he wanted to—you could see it in his eyes, the way they were still dark, still desperate, still fixed on your lips—but because he couldn't breathe. His chest was heaving, his shoulders shaking, and his forehead dropped to yours again, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
"I love you," he said. His voice was wrecked: raw and rough, like he'd been screaming, or crying, or both. "I love you so much. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it."
You brushed your thumb across his lower lip. It was still wet from the kiss, still chapped, still trembling just slightly.
"I know," you said.
"I'm going to do better."
"I know."
"I'm going to remember."
"I know."
"I'm going to—"
You kissed him again, soft this time, just a brush of your lips against his. "Stop talking," you whispered.
He nodded and swallowed, pressing his forehead to yours.
The song ended and the tape clicked off, waiting for you to confirm the next track. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the stereo and the sound of both of you breathing.
"I missed this," you admitted quietly, your thumb lowering to trace his jaw. "I missed you. Even when I was angry. Even when I didn't want to."
His breath hitched. His hands, still resting on your back, tightened just slightly. "I missed you too," he said, his voice rough. "Every second. Every minute. I couldn't breathe." He pressed his forehead harder against yours, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. "Don't ever shut me out again. I can't—I can't do that again."
You didn't promise. You couldn't. But you let your forehead rest against his, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders, and you stayed there. Breathing the same air. Feeling his heart beat against your palm where your hand had settled on his chest. The clock ticked past three and the tape still waited. But neither of you moved. You just stood there in the dark, holding onto each other, and for the first time in four days, you finally felt back home.
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
titsay
