࿔*:･°❀⋆.ink-stained versions of you.ೃ࿔
°❀⋆.bsf!martin & fem!reader ˚｡⋆ he has a box full of unsent letters, to people he lost, people he loves, people he wishes he could be. you find the box by accident and get to see the version of him no one else does.
A/N🌷𓇢𓆸 fluff, friends to lovers, heartfelt convos, kissing 🤭🤭 introspective/character study, emotional vulnerability, and as always fic was written on zero sleep, please enjoy <3
wc:2109
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
SEGMENT 1
martin had always been the gentle kind.
always gave you the bigger piece of the kitkat bar, always walked on the street side of the road, always blushed when you gave him even the slightest bit of a compliment.
you met him in a tiny bookstore just 10 minutes away from your house, the kind of bookstore with warm lights and the ‘ding’ sound when you came in. he worked there. you were the girl who came in every wednesday “just to browse,” but somehow always left with a book he recommended.
his co-workers teased him about you and he pretended he didn’t hear them.
you pretended your heart didn’t kinda flutter.
your friendship grew in a very slow speed, it started from arguing about how pride and prejudice is better than the notebook, to movie nights, walks that lasted hours and silent coffee dates.
and somewhere along the way, his room became your safe place too.
you didn’t go in there often, it felt too precious, too him.
soft carpet. a shelf full of books he loved so much he refused to lend them to anyone. a desk cluttered with notebooks. a window that stayed cracked open even in winter because “fresh air is a personality trait.”
you helped him clean sometimes because he… was not great at it.
he’d get distracted by a trinket and suddenly he’d be telling you a whole story about how he found it when he was nine.
SEGMENT 2
today was one of those days.
the two of you were supposed to go out for lunch, but it was raining and you suggested that you could hang out at his place.
he agreed, so now you were on the floor, sitting cross legged, folding his clothes, while he was in the kitchen making tea
“don’t touch the black box under the bed!” he called out.
you blinked. “what box?”
“the black one! under the - just don’t open it!”
you smirked. “why? what’s in it? tax evasion?”
“it’s just - just leave it alone!”
his voice cracked.
cute.
you had zero intention of checking it until you tried to shove a sweater under his bed and the corner of something cardboard scraped your hand.
black box.
medium sized.
dusty.
old.
martin’s tea making was slow. like really slow.
you had time.
you didn’t mean to open it… actually, okay, fine, you did,
but the lid practically slipped off on its own.
inside there were envelopes.
dozens.
maybe more.
every one addressed in martin’s handwriting
some to people you knew, his sister, an old teacher, a cousin he didn’t see anymore.
some to people you’d never heard of:
“to the boy i used to be,”
“to the friend i should’ve apologized to,”
“to the girl from the train,”
and then one stopped your heart for a second
your name.
you froze.
your stomach dropped into your ankles.
you knew this was wrong.
you knew this was private.
but the envelope looked so worn, like he’d touched it a hundred times and never dared open it again.
before you could think your way out of it, the paper was already in your hands.
you didn’t read it yet.
you just held it, you weren’t supposed to see this. you know it could be just a friendly letter about how much he appreciates you and cares for you, as a friend.
but then why does it feel like this?
you heard his footsteps before you saw him.
you panicked, shoved everything back in the box, pushed the lid down, slid it under the bed, and jumped on his bed pretending to text a friend.
martin walked in with two steamy mugs, cheeks red..
“so..”
his eyes flicked to the bed, then to you.
he furrowed his eyebrows.
“you didn’t move anything, right?”
you looked at him, annoyed.
“no, martin” you said. liar.
he let out a tiny breath, relieved but suspicious.
he handed you a mug and sat beside you on the bed, knees almost touching.
for a second, you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat.
you sipped your tea, pretending everything was normal.
he talked about something funny that happened at work, and you nodded along, but your mind was on the black box.
the letters.
your name.
you wanted to read it.
you needed to.
but martin could never know you saw.
SEGMENT 3
you didn’t sleep that night.
every time you closed your eyes, you saw that envelope.
your name in his handwriting.
not his usual handwriting, this one was softer, curved, like he’d been nervous writing it.
you didn’t open it.
you swore you wouldn’t.
you were trying to be a decent human being for once.
but also…
you kinda wanted to know if he wrote nice things about you or if it was him calling you out on your bullshit.
SEGMENT 4
a few weeks had passed, you have been unintentionally avoiding martin, you did miss him so you decided to meet up at his house, you’re not letting that thing ruin your friendship.
martin was acting normal.
he greeted you with that tiny smile at his front door, the one that starts on one side, climbs up his cheek… and you felt your insides liquefy.
“hey,” he said.
“hey,” you replied, trying to sound normal and not guilty.
you both walked to his room and he opened the door with a soft sigh like this was his sanctuary.
he froze. and then sighed.
“y/n did you…” he said slowly, staring at the bed, “open the box?”
your soul left your body.
“what box?”
your voice cracked.
amazing.
very convincing performance, oscar worthy.
“the black one,” he said. “the one i told you not to touch.”
you widened your eyes dramatically. “oh that?? no i didn’t even look at it.”
your poker face was terrible.
he could read you like a receipt.
he walked past you, crouched down, and pulled the box out.
there was no reason for him to be suspicious.
except-
the lid was rotated the wrong direction.
HORRIBLE. TRAGIC. YOU DIDN’T REMEMBER WHICH SIDE WAS THE FRONT.
martin stared at it.
then at you.
then back at it.
his mouth tightened a little.
“it wasn’t like this,” he whispered.
your heartbeat started doing zumba.
“maybe it shifted on its own? gravity?” you said.
“gravity,” he repeated, deadpan. “yeah. the lid… turned itself around.”
“exactly,” you said, sweating.
he didn’t speak.
not immediately.
he just… looked at the box, like it was a wounded animal that trusted the wrong person.
then, softly:
“did you open it?”
you swallowed. hard.
the right answer was “yes.”
the honest one.
the mature one.
the human-one-with-a-functioning-moral-compass answer.
but you said,
“no.”
then immediately wanted to pass away because you were terrible at lying.
he stared at you for a long time, not angry, not sad, just… studying you.
and then, in the smallest voice:
“there was… an envelope sticking out. i didn’t leave it like that.”
you almost screamed.
you shoved everything too fast when you panicked that day.
“oh,” you said.
he nodded, jaw tight, eyes sharper now.
“and,” he added quietly, “that envelope had your name on it.”
game over.
you died.
roll credits.
you wanted to sink into the carpet and dissolve.
your silence was basically a confession.
martin’s breath wavered.
just a little.
barely a tremble.
“did you read it?”
“what? no.” your mouth was basically a desert at this point.
you didn’t know if he believed you, but after a moment he sat down on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, box resting near his feet.
he wasn’t mad.
he was… something else.
embarrassed?
vulnerable?
like you’d seen him without his armor on.
“i’m not… angry,” he said eventually. “i just… those letters aren’t real. they’re just… thoughts. things i didn’t want to say out loud. things i didn’t want anyone to hear.”
“i didn’t read it,” you whispered. this time… honest.
he looked up.
your eyes met.
and something… softened. melted.
relief and fear mixed together in his expression like swirls of warm and cold water.
“okay,” he said. “thank you.”
you nodded.
but the tension didn’t leave.
not really.
you could feel him wondering what you saw.
wondering if you knew.
wondering how much of his heart was already in your hands.
he closed the box gently, slowly, like it was fragile.
then he pushed it under the bed again, but this time he kept his hand on the edge of the mattress for a second, staring at the shadows.
“you weren’t supposed to see that,” he said softly.
you stepped closer.
you didn’t touch him.
you just stood there, close enough your shoulders brushed.
“i know,” you whispered.
he inhaled sharply.
slowly, carefully, he looked at you, and for the first time ever… he didn’t look away.
“just… don’t treat me differently,” he muttered, cheeks going pink. “i don’t want you thinking i’m- weird or- too much.”
martin,” you said quietly, “you’re not too much.”
he blinked fast, like he was trying not to hope too loudly.
you stepped a little closer.
his breath hitched.
“you’ve never been too much,” you repeated, softer this time, “if anything… you’ve been exactly right.” you say, standing infront of him.
martin swallowed like his throat suddenly forgot how to be a throat.
“i- what does that mean?” he whispered, voice too thin to carry.
you didn’t answer right away,
because you were looking at him.
really looking.
the way his eyes darted to your lips then away.
the way he curled his fingers into the blanket like he needed something to hold onto.
the way his entire chest was rising like he’d been running even though you both hadn’t moved.
you sat down next to him on the bed, close enough your shoulders brushed.
he froze.
you could feel the warmth blooming off him in waves.
“martin,” you said, turning slightly toward him, “why do you think i come here so much?”
his brows knit. “because we’re… friends?”
you smiled. painfully soft.
“friends,” you echoed, “yeah. but also… because you make life feel quieter. softer. better.”
he stared at you like you had just handed him a galaxy.
“me?” he whispered.
“yeah,” you said, nudging his knee with yours. “you. the one who drinks tea like it’s a ritual. the one who overthinks everything but still shows up. the one who writes letters he never sends.”
his face flamed pink.
you continued, voice barely above a hum:
“you think i’d ever treat you differently for feeling too much? that’s literally my favorite thing about you.”
he inhaled sharply.
you could see the moment it hit him,
the moment all the quiet longing he buried finally rose to the surface.
“you… like me?” he asked, eyes wide, voice sharp, like he was saying something forbidden.
you leaned in just a tiny bit closer.
“i think,” you said softly, “i’ve liked you longer than i realized.”
martin’s lips parted.
he looked stunned.
stunned and beautiful and so unbelievably him.
“but, the letter-” he stuttered.
you smiled. “i didn’t read it. but i didn’t have to.”
his breath was shaky now.
he reached up, hesitated, then let his fingers gently brush yours, barely touching, like he was scared you’d move.
you didn’t.
you curled your fingers around his instead.
he looked down at your hands like that single touch rewired his entire existence.
“so… you’re not gonna run?” he asked quietly, voice breaking on the last word.
“i might,” you said with a grin, “but im running toward you.”
his laugh came out like a breath he’d been holding for months.
relieved. disbelieving. soft.
and then, in the sweetest, slowest, most martin way possible, he whispered:
“can i…?”
you nodded before he finished the question.
he leaned in, careful, gentle, almost scared,
and kissed you like he was opening something sacred.
his hand slid up to hold your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he was memorizing it.
you leaned into him.
he melted, literally melted, like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he’d ever admit.
when you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“you’re sure?” he breathed, still a little shaky.
“positive,” you whispered. “and if you ever write me another letter… you can give me that one.”
he smiled, not shy, not confused, but full.
full of you.
full of everything hes been holding back.
“okay,” he said softly. “i can do that.”
and just like that, the slow burn finally found its spark
and you and martin stopped pretending you weren’t already each other’s favorite place to land.
