㉨

"I was eight," he protests, but he's smiling despite himself. "And you're the one who dared me to eat them all."

"I dared you to eat five. You're the one who couldn't stop."

“They were really good gummy bears.” He tips the crinkled bag towards you. The scent of sugary fruit wafts up, mixing with the faint warmth of the air. You reach in and pick out a green one, its translucent surface catching the light like a tiny jewel. "Worth the stomach ache."

"You cried during the laps."

"I did not cry—"

"You absolutely cried. You had this little face—" You scrunch up your nose and make your eyes big and watery, mimicking his expression from all those years ago. "—like a sad puppy."

There it is—that brief flicker in his expression. It’s not quite annoyance, and not quite embarrassment, but tangled between the two. His jaw tightens for a heartbeat, muscles clenching as if trying to hold back more than just words. Then, almost abruptly, he forces out a laugh, rough around the edges, a little self-deprecating. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he says, voice lighter now but carrying the weight of years. “I was a mess of a kid.”

"Not a mess. Just really, really cute." You reach over and ruffle his hair without thinking, fingers running through the soft strands. It's such an automatic gesture that you don't even register doing it. "Still are, honestly. Some things don't change."

Keonho goes completely still under your touch. When you pull your hand back, he immediately smooths down his hair carefully, deliberately, like he's fixing a flaw you caused.

"I've changed," he says, and there's an edge to his voice you don't quite recognize. "I'm not that eight year old anymore."

"Well yeah, obviously. You're like a whole foot taller now." You bump his shoulder with yours. "But you're still the same Keonho who gets excited about gummy bears and can't catch food in his mouth to save his life."

"That's—" He stops, jaw working like he's chewing on his words. Then he sits up straighter, squares his shoulders. "That's not fair. I'm way more mature now. I'm practically an adult."

You can't help it—you laugh. "Practically an adult? Dude, you still sleep with that stuffed penguin your mom got you in fifth grade."

His ears turn red. "Pengu is a comfort object, not a—that's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. You can practically see him trying to figure out what to say, how to explain whatever he's feeling. Finally, he just shakes his head and shoves another gummy bear in his mouth.

"Nothing. Never mind."

But it's not nothing. You can tell by the way he won't quite look at you, by the tension in his shoulders, by how he's gripping the bag of gummy bears just a little too tight. Something shifted, and you're not sure what.

"Keonho—"

"We should head back," he says abruptly, standing up and brushing off his pants. "Don't you have student council stuff?"

You do, actually. Budget meeting in twenty minutes. But you're not done with this conversation, even if you're not entirely sure what this conversation is about.

"Are you mad at me?" you ask, tilting your head back to look up at him.

"What? No. Why would I be mad?" His smile is too bright, too forced. "I'm totally fine, completely fine, one hundred percent fine."

"You said 'fine' three times."

"Because I am!" He's already backing away, towards his bike. "I'll text you later, okay? Good luck with your meeting!"

And then he's gone, pedaling away fast enough that you'd have to sprint to catch up. You watch him disappear around the corner, a little confused and a lot concerned.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from Keonho : “Sorry that was weird. All good though! 👍”

Which is somehow more concerning than if he hadn't texted at all.

You look down at the bag of gummy bears he left behind and notice an odd detail—he left all the ones with your favourite flavor, like always.

“Some things don't change.” You whispered to yourself.

But looking at the abandoned gummy bears, at the spot where Keonho was sitting just moments ago, you're starting to think that's exactly the problem.

DAY 1 

Keonho's new strategy begins on Friday morning.

You meet him at your locker before first period like always, already in the middle of telling him about how your neighbor's cat somehow got stuck in a tree at 2am and woke up the entire building. You're so caught up in the story that you don't immediately notice how different he sounds when he responds.

"That's... crazy." 

You stop mid-sentence. "Are you okay? You sound weird."

"I don't sound weird." Except he does—his voice is at least an octave lower than normal, gravelly and strained like he's trying to impersonate a movie trailer narrator. "This is just my voice."

"Since when?"

"Since always?" Even the question comes out in that weirdly deep register. He clears his throat. "This is how I talk."

You stare at him. He stares back, maintaining the most serious expression you've ever seen on his face, brows slightly furrowed, mouth set in a firm line, chin tilted up. If you didn't know him better, you might think he was genuinely trying to look intimidating.

"Keonho, you sound like you swallowed gravel."

"I sound mature," he corrects, still in that ridiculous voice. "Masculine. This is my natural speaking voice."

"Your natural speaking voice is way higher than that."

"No, it's—" He cuts himself off, and you watch him physically force his voice to stay low. "This is how I always talk."

Before you can argue further, James appears beside you, slinging an arm around Keonho's shoulders. "Yo, why do you sound like Batman?"

Keonho's eye twitches. "I don't sound like—"

"You totally do," Martin adds, coming up on Keonho's other side. He's grinning, clearly delighted by this new development. "Dude, are you sick? Do you have a cold?"

"I'm not sick."

"Then why—" James stops, eyes widening with understanding. Then he's grinning too, that mischievous look that means he's about to make Keonho's life difficult. "Oh my god. Are you trying to sound cool?"

"No!"

The word comes out in Keonho's normal voice, higher, slightly panicked, and he immediately slaps a hand over his mouth like he can retroactively stop it from escaping.

Martin loses it. He's laughing so hard he has to lean against the lockers, and James isn't far behind. You're trying not to laugh, you really are, but the combination of Keonho's mortified expression and his hand still clamped over his mouth like a cartoon character is too much.

"I'm sorry," you manage between giggles. "I'm sorry, but—"

"It's not funny," Keonho mutters, hand dropping to his side. His voice is back to normal now, and his ears are bright red. "I was just trying something different."

"Why though?" Martin asks, wiping tears from his eyes. "Your normal voice is fine."

"It's not about being fine, it's about—" Keonho stops, glancing at you, then away. "Never mind. Forget it."

The first period bell rings, and Keonho takes the opportunity to escape, mumbling a quick excuse about getting to class early. You watch him go, and James catches your eye, raising an eyebrow.

"What was that about?" he asks.

You shake your head. "I have no idea."

But you're starting to form a theory.

DAY 2

Saturday morning, you get a text from Keonho : “Want to get lunch?”

You respond immediately : “Yes! Usual spot?”

Keonho : “Actually, can we try that new burger place downtown?”

Which is slightly unusual, Keonho is a creature of habit, and "usual spot" means the ramen shop you've been going to since freshman year, but you agree. The burger place has been getting good reviews, and you've been meaning to check it out anyway.

You arrive first, snagging a booth by the window, and you're scrolling through your phone when the door opens and—

Is that Keonho?

It has to be Keonho. You recognize his face, his walk, the way he scans the restaurant before spotting you, but everything else is different.

He's wearing all black. Black jeans—not the comfortable, slightly worn ones he usually favors, but stiff, dark denim that looks new. Black shirt with some kind of graphic design you can't quite make out. Black jacket that's trying very hard to look like leather but is probably pleather. Even his shoes are black, some brand-name sneakers you're pretty sure cost more than your entire outfit.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the booth across from you. He's trying to look casual, but you can see the nervous energy in the way his fingers drum against the table.

"Hey yourself." You're trying not to stare. "New clothes?"

"These? No. I've had these forever." He's lying. You can tell by the way he tugs at the jacket, by how he's sitting just a little too carefully, like he's afraid of wrinkling the fabric.

"Uh huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. You just look... different."

"Different good or different bad?" There's an eagerness in his expression that he's trying to hide, and it makes your chest feel warm and confused at the same time.

"Different... interesting?" You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Very dark. Very... is that a skull on your shirt?"

He looks down at the graphic—which is, in fact, a skull with roses—and a flicker of pride crosses his face. "Yeah. Cool, right?"

"It's definitely a choice."

His face falls slightly. "You don't like it."

"I didn't say that!" You backtrack quickly, even though you're not sure how you feel about seeing Keonho—sweet, adorable Keonho who wears bright colours and cartoon character socks—dressed like he's about to join a motorcycle gang. "It's just... new. I'm not used to seeing you in all black."

"People can change their style," he says, a little defensive now. "It doesn't mean anything."

"I know, I just—"

You're interrupted by the waiter coming to take your orders. Keonho orders a burger with his favourite extras (some things don't change), and you order the same. Once the waiter leaves, you expect to fall into your usual comfortable conversation, but there's a weird tension now.

Keonho keeps adjusting his jacket. You keep sneaking glances at his outfit. Neither of you seems to know what to say.

Finally, you can't take it anymore. "Okay, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"The voice thing yesterday. The outfit today. You've been acting weird all week." You lean forward, lowering your voice. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." There it is again—that word. "Can't a guy just want to try new things?"

"Of course you can, it's just—" You struggle to find the right words. "It doesn't feel like you, that's all."

A flash crosses his face—hurt, frustration, and an emotion you can't quite place. "Maybe that's the point."

"What?"

But before he can answer, your food arrives, and the moment is lost. You eat in relative silence, occasionally commenting on the quality of the burgers (pretty good) or the restaurant's decor (trying too hard). It feels wrong, though. Forced, like you're two acquaintances making small talk instead of best friends who usually can't shut up around each other.

When Keonho reaches for the ketchup, his jacket sleeve rides up, and you notice something on his wrist.

"Is that a watch?" you ask.

He pulls his sleeve down quickly. "Yeah. So?"

"You never wear watches. You always just check your phone."

"Well, I'm wearing one now." His voice has an edge that makes you sit back.

You finish your burger in silence, and when the check comes, Keonho grabs it before you can. "I got it."

"We usually split—"

"I said I got it." He's already pulling out his wallet—also new, also black—and placing cash on the table. "My treat."

You want to argue, but the set of his jaw suggests that would be a bad idea. So you let him pay, and you walk out of the restaurant together, and the whole thing feels weird, uncomfortable and nothing like how things should feel between you.

On the cracked sidewalk, Keonho shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his worn jacket, his shoulders slightly hunched like he's carrying a burden heavier than just the chill in the air. His eyes avoid yours, fixed on the uneven pavement ahead.

"So. I'll see you on Monday?" His voice is casual, but there's a tightness beneath the surface you can't ignore.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Yeah. Monday." Your fingers fidget with the edge of your sleeve, words caught somewhere between wanting to speak and biting your tongue. Finally, you force it out : "Are we okay?"

"Why wouldn't we be okay?"

"I don't know… you just seem—different, like something's off."

Keonho’s jaw tightens. He steps back a fraction, the space between you suddenly feeling too wide. "I'm fine," he cuts in quickly, voice low but firm. "Seriously. Everything's fine."

That word again. The one you’re starting to hate because it never sounds true coming from him. You want to reach out, to ask again, to break through that wall, but the silence swells instead, wrapping around you both like a stubborn fog.

He leaves first this time too, and you stand on the sidewalk watching him go, trying to figure out what you're missing. The pieces are all there, the weird behavior, the new clothes, the defensiveness, but you can't quite make them form a complete picture.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from Juhoon : “Did Keonho show you his new outfit yet?”

You type back : “Yeah, just had lunch. Why?”

Juhoon : “He spent TWO hours at the mall yesterday trying on clothes. TWO. HOURS. I’ve never seen someone have an existential crisis in an H&M before.”

Juhoon : “Seonghyeon and I had to stage an intervention in the dressing room.”

Then, a moment later : “He's trying really hard at... whatever this is. Not sure what. Thought you should know.”

You stare at the messages, and suddenly the pieces start clicking together. The voice. The outfit. The defensiveness. The way he reacted when you called him cute.

Oh.

Oh.

DAY 3

Monday morning, Keonho is leaning against your locker when you arrive.

He’s back to his normal clothes—a relief—but there’s a difference in his posture. He’s standing with his arms crossed, chin up, one shoulder against the metal in a pose that you think is supposed to look casual but actually looks kind of awkward.

"Morning," he says when he sees you.

"Morning." You approach slowly, suspicious. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you. I always wait for you."

"Yeah, but not like that." You gesture at his pose. "You look like you're trying to hold up the locker."

His confident expression falters. "I'm just standing."

"You're standing weird."

"There's no such thing as standing weird—"

"Keonho, your shoulder has been in the same position for so long it's probably fallen asleep." You poke his arm, and he immediately straightens, nearly losing his balance in the process. You have to grab his elbow to steady him. "Careful!"

"I wasn't going to fall," he protests, but his ears are red again.

"Sure looked like you were."

"I was just—" He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I was trying to look cool, okay?"

There it is. Confirmation of what you've been suspecting.

"Why?" you ask gently.

"Why what?"

"Why are you trying so hard to look cool?" You're still holding his elbow, and you give it a gentle squeeze. "You're already—"

"Don't say cute," he interrupts quickly. "Please don't say cute."

You blink. "I was going to say 'you're already you.' What's wrong with cute?"

His expression twists, a mix of frustration, embarrassment, and vulnerability all at once. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” He pulls away from your grip, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can we just drop it?”

"Keonho—"

The bell rings sharply, slicing through the tense silence just as the words start to form on your lips. Keonho visibly relaxes, a flicker of relief softening his features.

“Gotta get to class,” he says quickly, glancing towards his classroom like he’s eager to escape the conversation. His voice carries a hopeful edge. “See you at lunch?”

"Yeah… lunch."

He's gone before you can say anything else, disappearing into the crowd of students flooding the hallway. You're left standing at your locker, more confused than ever.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from Martin : “Keonho's being weird again right?”

“SO weird!” You respond.

Martin : “James and I have a theory.”

Martin : “Want to hear it?”

You type back quickly : “YES!”

Martin : “We think he's trying to impress someone.”

Martin : “Probably you.” 

Martin : “Definitely you actually.” 

Martin : “James says he's being "embarrassingly obvious about it"

You stare at the messages, heart doing a weird flip in your chest. You type and delete three different responses before settling on : “Why would he need to impress me???”

Martin : “Idk but he's been acting crazy all week.”

Martin : “Yesterday he tried to do a pull-up in the gym and nearly fell on his face.” 

Martin : “The day before that he asked james for "advice on being cool"

Martin : “JAMES. for COOL ADVICE.”

Despite everything, you laugh. James is many things, but a source of wisdom on coolness is not one of them. “What did James tell him?”

Martin : “To be himself lmao.”

Martin : “Keonho did not appreciate that advice.”

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean against your locker, mind spinning. If Martin and James are right, and the more you think about it, the more sense it makes, then Keonho is trying to impress you. Which means...

Which means he sees you as someone worth impressing. Someone worth changing for.

And you're not sure how you feel about that.

DAY 4

You're walking out of school Tuesday afternoon when you hear it—a rumbling engine sound that's definitely not a car. You turn, and your jaw drops.

Keonho is sitting on a motorcycle.

Except—wait. You look closer. It's not a motorcycle. It's a scooter. A black scooter that someone has clearly attempted to make look more motorcycle-like with stickers and modifications, but it's still very obviously a scooter.

He's wearing a helmet, also black, also trying too hard, and he pulls up beside you with what you're sure he thinks is a smooth stop but is actually kind of jerky.

"Hey," he says, flipping up the visor. "Want a ride?"

You stare, eyes narrowing at the sleek machine parked nearby. “Is that a scooter?”

“It’s a motorcycle.”

“Keonho, I can literally see the—”

“It’s a motorcycle,” he cuts in, voice a little sharper this time, the edge of defensiveness creeping in. “Want a ride or not?”

There’s that familiar stubbornness beneath the words, like he’s daring you to challenge him. You hesitate, caught between amusement and annoyance, but the set of his jaw makes you pause.

You should say no. You should definitely say no. This is clearly part of whatever weird phase he's going through, and encouraging it probably isn't the best idea.

But he's looking at you with those hopeful eyes, and you've never been good at saying no to him.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Yeah, sure."

His entire face lights up. He hands you the spare helmet—pink, which somewhat undermines the cool image he's going for, and you climb on behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Hold on tight," he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

He pulls away from the curb, and for about five glorious seconds, you think this might actually work. The scooter is moving smoothly, Keonho seems confident, and the wind in your face is actually kind of nice.

Then he tries to turn.

The scooter wobbles. Keonho overcompensates. The wobble gets worse. You grip his waist tighter, and he makes a panicked sound, and suddenly you're both tumbling slowly, gracefully almost, like the scooter is gently laying down for a nap—onto the grass beside the sidewalk.

You land in a tangle of limbs, Keonho half on top of you, the scooter's engine puttering sadly beside you. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you start laughing.

You can't help it. The absurdity of the situation, Keonho's mortified expression, the ridiculous scooter, the fact that you're lying in the grass in front of school where everyone can see—it's too much.

"Are you laughing?" Keonho asks, sounding betrayed.

"I'm sorry," you gasp between giggles. "I'm sorry, it's just—"

"It's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

He rolls off you, sitting up and pulling off his helmet. His hair is sticking up in every direction, and there's a grass stain on his shirt. He looks utterly defeated.

"I can't do anything right," he mutters.

Your laughter fades. You sit up too, brushing grass off your clothes. "Hey. You okay?"

"I'm fine." But he's not looking at you, staring at the fallen scooter instead.

"Keonho—"

"I should take you home," he says, standing and hauling the scooter upright. "Walking. We'll walk. The scooter is... I'm returning it anyway."

"It's not yours?"

"I borrowed it from Seonghyeon." He won't meet your eyes. "Thought it would be cool."

"It was cool! The falling part was just—"

"Embarrassing. The word you're looking for is embarrassing." He starts walking, pushing the scooter beside him, and you have to jog to catch up.

"I was going to say unexpected," you offer.

He doesn't respond.

You walk in silence for a block, and you can practically feel the frustration radiating off him. His knuckles are white where they grip the scooter's handlebars, and his jaw is clenched so tight you're worried he's going to crack a tooth.

"Why does this matter so much?" you finally ask.

"Why does what matter?"

"The motorcycle—sorry, scooter. The clothes. The voice. All of it." You step in front of him, forcing him to stop. "Why are you trying so hard?"

He looks at you, and for a second you think he's going to tell you. The words are right there, you can see them forming. But then he shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "Clearly, I'm failing anyway."

He steps around you and keeps walking, and you're left standing on the sidewalk, watching him go.

DAY 5 

Wednesday after school, Keonho corners you at your locker with an expression of determined confidence. "Movie night at my place," he announces. "This evening. You, me, horror movies."

You blink at him. "Horror movies?"

"Yeah. I've been really into them lately." He's using that casual tone that's trying too hard to be casual. "I thought we could watch a few. If you're not too scared, I mean."

This is suspicious for several reasons. 

First, Keonho has never been "really into" horror movies. In fact, the last time you watched anything remotely scary together, a PG-13 thriller in eighth grade, he spent half the movie "going to the bathroom" (hiding in the hallway). Second, that little challenge at the end, the "if you're not too scared" bit, is so obviously bait.

"I'm not scared of horror movies," you say.

"Good. Me neither. Obviously." He shifts his weight, trying to look relaxed and failing. "So... later? Seven?"

"Sure. Should I bring snacks?"

"I'll handle everything." He's already backing away, like he's afraid you'll change your mind. "It'll be fun. Totally fun. Not scary at all. I mean—scary, but fun scary. You know what I mean."

"Keonho—"

"Gotta go! See you this evening!"

And he's gone, leaving you standing at your locker wondering what you've just agreed to.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

That evening, you show up at Keonho's house with a bag of gummy bears (for old times' sake) and a growing sense of anticipation. His mom lets you in with a knowing smile that makes you suspicious.

"He's been preparing all day," she tells you, eyes twinkling. "He’s very serious about the movie selection."

You find Keonho in the living room, and it's clear he has, indeed, been preparing. The curtains are drawn, blocking out the early evening light. There are blankets and pillows arranged on the couch, way more than necessary for two people. Snacks are laid out on the coffee table : popcorn, candy, sodas. The TV is paused on the menu screen of what looks like a particularly intense horror movie, all dark colours and ominous music.

"Hey!" Keonho stands up when he sees you, and you notice he's dressed differently again. Dark clothes, like he's going for some kind of "tough guy who watches horror movies regularly" aesthetic. "Ready?"

"Ready. What are we watching?"

He gestures at the TV with what he probably thinks is casual confidence. "This new one. It’s supposed to be really scary. Lots of jump scares and psychological horror and—" He's rambling now. "—and I heard it's really good. Critics loved it. Very sophisticated horror."

"Sophisticated horror?"

"You know. Smart scary. Not just cheap thrills." He sits down on the couch, and you notice how he's positioned himself—bolt upright, shoulders back, trying to look completely unfazed. "Come on, let's start."

You settle onto the couch next to him, and he presses play with a flourish.

The first ten minutes are fine. Establishing shots, character introduction, creepy atmosphere building. Keonho is doing a good job of looking relaxed, even bored. He's got one arm stretched along the back of the couch, legs crossed, the picture of casual confidence.

Then the first jump scare hits.

Keonho jumps so hard he nearly falls off the couch.

"You okay?" you ask, trying not to laugh.

"Fine! Totally fine. Just—caught me off guard. I was distracted." He settles back into his position, but you notice he's sitting slightly closer to you now. "Won't happen again."

It happens again, and again. By the thirty minute mark, Keonho has abandoned all pretense of relaxation. He's sitting rigid, eyes wide, flinching at every shadow on screen. When a particularly tense scene starts building, slow music, dark hallway, the protagonist walking towards certain doom, you feel him grab your arm.

"Keonho."

"Shh, this is an important part."

"You're cutting off my circulation."

He loosens his grip but doesn't let go. On screen, something jumps out with a horrifying screech, and Keonho makes a sound that can only be described as a squeak. He immediately tries to cover it with a cough.

"You sure you want to keep watching?" you ask gently.

"What? Yes. Why wouldn't I?" His voice is slightly higher than normal. "This is great. I'm having a great time. This is exactly how I like to spend my nights."

"Keonho, you're shaking."

"I'm not—" Another jump scare. This time he practically climbs into your lap, face buried in your shoulder. You can feel his heart hammering against your arm.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The movie continues playing, more screaming and ominous music filling the room. Very slowly, Keonho realizes the position he's in and pulls back, face bright red.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Reflex."

"Some reflex."

"I wasn't scared. I was just... testing your reflexes. Making sure you'd protect me—I mean, making sure you were paying attention." He's scrambling now, trying to salvage whatever cool-guy image he thought he had. "Part of the horror movie experience is the, uh, the physical reactions."

"Uh huh."

"I'm totally fine. See?" He sits up straight again, putting a very deliberate amount of space between you. "I’m completely unfazed."

On screen, a door creaks open slowly. Keonho's eyes are glued to it, and you can see him bracing himself. When something jumps out, he doesn't scream this time—but his hands grip the couch cushions so hard his knuckles turn white.

"This is fun," he says through gritted teeth.

"You look like you're in pain."

"That's just my concentrated face. I'm very into the plot."

"What's the plot?"

"Uh." He stares at the screen. "There's... a house? And... scary things?"

You can't help but laugh, and he shoots you a betrayed look.

"I'm trying here," he protests.

"I can see that."

Another particularly scary scene comes on, and this time Keonho grabs the nearest pillow and holds it in front of his face. He's peeking over the top of it, eyes wide, looking exactly like a scared kid despite his best efforts.

"Very brave," you comment.

"Strategic viewing," he corrects, voice muffled by the pillow. "I'm just... analyzing the cinematography from different angles."

"From behind a pillow."

"It's an artistic choice."

When the scene passes, he lowers the pillow but keeps it in his lap, clearly ready to deploy it again at a moment's notice. You notice he's migrated closer to you again, though he's trying to make it look casual, like he's just adjusting his position.

"You know," you say carefully, "we could watch something else."

"No!" The response is immediate and almost panicked. Then he clears his throat, trying for that deeper voice again. "I mean, no. I'm enjoying this. Horror movies are great. I watch them all the time."

"You've been hiding behind that pillow for ten minutes."

"Tactical pillow usage," he insists. "Totally normal."

The movie continues, and Keonho's "tactical pillow usage" becomes more frequent. Every scary scene has him ducking behind it, and every jump scare makes him flinch. At one point, he grabs your hand without seeming to realize it, squeezing tight during a particularly tense moment.

You don't pull away. His hand is warm and slightly sweaty, and his pulse is racing under your fingers. When the scene ends and he realizes he's holding your hand, he drops it like it's burned him.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I didn't mean to—that was—"

"It's okay."

"I wasn't scared or anything. Just a... a solidarity hand hold, like teammates."

"Teammates?"

"Horror movie watching teammates." He's not looking at you now, staring determinedly at the screen even though his eyes are squeezed half-shut. "It's a thing."

It's definitely not a thing, but you don't call him out on it.

By the time the movie ends, finally, mercifully ends, Keonho looks exhausted. His hair is sticking up from running his hands through it, the pillow has a permanent indent from his death grip, and there are candy wrappers everywhere from his stress eating.

"So," he says, trying one last time to sound casual. "That was fun, right? Good movie. Very enjoyable. We should do this again sometime."

"Keonho, you look traumatized."

"I look cool and unbothered."

"You look like you're never going to sleep again."

He deflates slightly. "Was it that obvious?"

"You screamed 'oh my god we're all gonna die' during the climax."

"That was... method acting. I was getting into the spirit of the film."

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. "You're ridiculous."

"But did it work?" The question comes out before he can stop it, and his eyes widen like he's surprised he asked. "I mean—never mind. Forget I said that."

"Did what work?"

"Nothing. I should clean up." He's already gathering candy wrappers, avoiding your gaze. "Thanks for coming over. Sorry if the movie was too scary for you."

"Too scary for me?"

"Yeah, I know horror isn't everyone's thing. I'm just used to it, so—" He's rambling again, and you realize he's trying to rewrite the entire evening in his head, trying to convince himself he pulled off the cool, brave thing he was going for.

You could call him out. You could tell him you know exactly what he's doing, that the whole evening was transparently an attempt to seem tough, mature and impressive.

But looking at him now—hair messy, eyes still wide from fear, clutching a handful of candy wrappers and trying so hard to maintain his dignity, you find yourself just smiling.

"Yeah," you say softly. "Thanks for protecting me from all the scary parts."

His ears turn red, but he nods seriously. "Of course. That's what I'm here for."

You help him clean up, and when you leave, he walks you to the door. 

"See you tomorrow?" he asks.

"See you tomorrow."

You're halfway down the driveway when you hear him call your name. You turn back, and he's standing in the doorway, backlit by the house lights.

"I really do like hanging out with you," he says. "Even if the movie was... even if I wasn't..."

"I know," you say. "Me too."

His smile is small but genuine, and for a moment he's just Keonho—not trying to be cool or tough or anything else. Just himself.

Then he seems to remember himself, straightening up and giving you what he probably thinks is a casual wave. "Cool. Good. Stay safe out there."

"You too. Try not to have nightmares."

"I won't have nightmares," he calls after you. "I'm not scared!"

You're pretty sure you hear him yelp when a car backfires down the street, but you don't turn around.

Your phone buzzes as you're walking home. It's from Keonho : “That wasn't that scary right?”

Keonho : “I mean it was scary but like not THAT scary.”

Keonho : “I definitely wasn't scared.” 

Keonho : “Okay maybe a little scared...”

Keonho : “Do you think leaving the bathroom light on is childish?”

You laugh and type back : “Good night Keonho :)” 

Keonho : “Sweet dreams 😊”

His response comes immediately : “I'm NOT going to have nightmares!!!”

He absolutely had nightmares.

DAY 6

Thursday morning, you smell Keonho before you see him.

It's not a pleasant smell. It's overwhelming, musky and vaguely reminiscent of what you imagine a lumberjack might smell like if that lumberjack had never heard of subtlety.

"Oh my god," you say when he approaches your locker. "What is that?"

"What's what?" He leans against the locker next to yours, more carefully this time, having learned from previous attempts, and you're hit with another wave of scent.

"That smell. Keonho, did you bathe in cologne?"

"It's not that strong."

"I can taste it. I can literally taste your cologne in my mouth." You step back, eyes watering slightly. "How much did you use?"

"The normal amount."

"The normal amount is like, two sprays. You smell like you emptied the entire bottle."

His ears turn red. "The guy at the store said it was supposed to be strong, masculine."

"It's strong, I'll give you that." You fan your hand in front of your face. "But masculine? You smell like a pine tree crashed into a spice factory."

"It's not that bad," he insists, but he's looking less confident now.

"Keonho, I'm getting a headache."

"Really?"

"Really."

He deflates visibly. "I'll go wash it off."

"Please."

He disappears in the direction of the bathroom, and you lean against your locker, breathing in the cologne-free air gratefully. Juhoon appears a moment later, wrinkling his nose.

"Why does it smell like someone murdered a forest?" he asks.

"Keonho's new cologne."

"Ah." Juhoon nods knowingly. "Still in his trying-too-hard phase?"

"Apparently."

"You know why, right?"

You sigh. "According to everyone except Keonho himself, yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

"How do you feel about it?" Juhoon leans against the locker beside you, studying your face. "About him trying to impress you?"

You're saved from answering by Keonho's return. His hair is damp and his shirt looks slightly wet, like he tried to wash off the cologne in the sink. He smells significantly better—just like soap now, which is a relief.

"Better?" he asks hopefully.

"Much better," you confirm. "I can actually breathe around you now."

He manages a smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay. Live and learn, right?"

The bell rings, and you all head to class. But throughout the day, you find yourself thinking about Juhoon's question.

How do you feel about it?

You're not sure. Keonho has been your best friend for so long that you've never really considered him as anything else. He's just... Keonho. Constant, familiar and always there.

But lately, you've started noticing things. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. How he always walks on the street side of the sidewalk. The fact that he remembers your favourite everything—colour, food, song, movie, ice cream flavor.

The way your heart does a weird little jump when he smiles at you.

Which is ridiculous. This is Keonho. Your best friend Keonho. Your best friend who currently smells like soap and defeat.

Your best friend who's trying desperately to change himself for... for what? To be someone you'd like more?

But you already like him.

Wait—

… oh…

DAY 7

Friday afternoon, the school is buzzing with excitement about the upcoming talent show. You're sitting in the cafeteria with the group when Keonho makes his announcement.

"I'm signing up for the talent show."

Everyone stops eating.

"You're what now?" James asks slowly.

"The talent show. I'm going to perform." Keonho's voice is determined, but you can see the nervousness in the way he's gripping his lunch tray.

"Perform what?" Martin asks.

"Guitar. I'm learning guitar."

"Since when do you play guitar?" you ask.

"Since I started learning this week."

"This week?" Seonghyeon looks alarmed. "Keonho, the talent show is in two weeks."

"That's plenty of time."

"That's absolutely not plenty of time," Juhoon says. "Learning guitar takes months. Years, even, if you want to be good."

"I'll be good enough." There's that stubbornness again, the set of his jaw that means he won't be talked out of this no matter what anyone says.

You exchange worried glances with the others. This is going to be a disaster.

NEXT TWO WEEKS 

The next two weeks are a special kind of torture.

Keonho practices constantly. You hear him through his bedroom window when you come over to study—discordant notes and frustrated sounds as he tries to master even basic chords. His fingers develop blisters that turn into calluses. He stays up late watching tutorials, falls asleep in class, and walks around with this permanent look of exhausted determination.

"You don't have to do this," you tell him one afternoon when you find him in the music room, bent over his guitar with a look of intense concentration.

"Yes, I do," he says without looking up.

“Why?”

He finally looks at you, and the shift is immediate, his expression stripped of the usual confidence, leaving a raw, unguarded honesty behind. His fingers still on the guitar strings, hovering like he’s afraid to touch them.

“Because I need to prove…” His voice falters, trailing off into the quiet.

You don’t move. You don’t press. You just wait, giving him space he rarely takes.

He exhales slowly, shoulders sinking. “I need to prove I can be impressive,” he says at last. “That I’m not just… that I’m more than…”

“More than what?” you ask gently.

But he just shakes his head, a tiny, frustrated movement. The shutters come back down. Without another word, he drops his gaze and returns to his guitar, fingers picking at strings that suddenly sound a little sadder than before.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

The auditorium is packed.

You're sitting in the third row with James, Martin, Juhoon, and Seonghyeon, all of you vibrating with nervous energy. Keonho is performing near the end—slot number fifteen out of twenty.

"He's going to die," James whispers.

"He's not going to die," you whisper back.

"He's going to wish he was dead when this is over."

You elbow him. "Be supportive."

The performances before Keonho's range from actually impressive (a senior who does classical piano) to entertainingly bad (a sophomore who tries to juggle and drops every ball). Each one makes you more nervous for what's to come.

Finally, the MC announces : "Next up, Ahn Keonho!"

The curtain opens, and there's Keonho, sitting on a stool with his guitar. The stage lights make his face look pale, and you can see his hands shaking from here.

"Hi," he says into the microphone. His voice cracks. Someone in the back giggles. "I'm... I'm going to play a song."

He doesn't say which song. He just starts playing.

And it's... not terrible?

It's not good either. His fingers fumble on some of the chords, and his tempo is inconsistent, but he's actually producing music. You find yourself leaning forward, silently willing him to succeed.

He's halfway through when it happens.

A string breaks.

The sound is sharp and discordant in the quiet auditorium. Keonho freezes, staring at his guitar like it's personally betrayed him. The broken string dangles uselessly.

For a long moment, nobody moves. The silence is excruciating.

Then Keonho looks up, directly at you in the audience. His eyes are wide and panicked, and you can see him making a decision in real-time. He could walk off stage. He could give up.

Instead, he keeps playing.

With one less string, the song sounds strange and incomplete. But he pushes through, adjusting his fingering, doing his best to make it work. It's messy, imperfect and honestly kind of painful to listen to.

But he doesn't stop.

When he finally finishes, there's a moment of stunned silence. Then someone starts clapping—it's Martin, you realize, standing up and applauding loudly. James joins in, then Juhoon and Seonghyeon, and then you're on your feet too, and suddenly the whole auditorium is applauding.

Not because it was good. But because he didn't give up.

Keonho stands, bows awkwardly, and practically runs off stage.

You find him afterwards in the hallway outside the auditorium, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, the broken guitar beside him.

"Hey," you say softly, sliding down to sit next to him.

He doesn't look at you. "That was the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me."

"It wasn't that bad."

"The string broke."

"But you kept going."

"Because I'm stubborn and stupid."

"Because you're brave," you correct. "And determined. And actually kind of impressive."

He finally looks at you. "Impressive? I sounded like a dying cat."

"You sounded like someone who practiced for two weeks straight and didn't let a broken string stop him from finishing." You bump your shoulder against his. "That's impressive."

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the guitar like he’s afraid to look anywhere else. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft enough that you almost miss it. “Did it work?”

"Did what work?"

"Any of it. The clothes, the voice, the scooter, the guitar—" He gestures vaguely. "Did any of it make you see me differently?"

Here it is—the question he’s been trying to ask all along, sitting heavily in the space between you.

You take a slow breath, letting the truth settle on your tongue before you speak. “Yeah, actually. It did.”

His head snaps up immediately, eyes wide and hopeful, like he’s afraid to believe you but can’t stop himself from trying.

"It made me realize," you continue slowly, "that you've been trying so hard to be someone else when I already—"

"Ahn Keonho?" A teacher pokes her head into the hallway. "You're needed backstage. There's an award announcement."

"An award?" Keonho looks confused.

"Come on!"

He looks at you helplessly, and you wave him away. "Go. We'll talk after."

He nods and follows the teacher back into the auditorium. You lean your head back against the wall, heart pounding.

You were about to tell him. You were actually about to tell him.

And you're not even sure what you were going to say.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

It turns out Keonho won "Most Persistent Performance" —a made-up award the teachers created specifically for him. When they hand him the certificate, he looks so genuinely pleased that your heart gives a sudden, embarrassing leap again.

After the show, the whole group ends up at the convenience store, celebrating with ramyeon and cheap ice cream. Keonho is quieter than usual, still processing everything, but he's smiling more easily now, less forced.

"That was legendary," James says through a mouthful of noodles. "The string breaking and you just... continuing. You were like some kind of guitar hero."

"More like guitar survivor," Keonho mutters, but he's grinning.

"Seriously though," Seonghyeon adds. "That took guts."

"Or lack of brain cells," Martin offers. "One or the other."

They bicker good-naturedly while you watch Keonho. He's laughing at a joke Juhoon said, and his shoulders are relaxed in a way they haven't been for weeks. He catches you looking and raises an eyebrow in question.

You just smile and shake your head.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Later, after everyone else has headed home, it's just you and Keonho walking back together. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the night air is cool and comfortable.

"You never answered my question earlier," Keonho says suddenly. "Did any of it work?"

You stop walking. He stops too, turning to face you.

"Do you want the truth?" you ask.

"Always."

"The truth is... all of it made me see you differently. But not in the way you wanted." You watch his face fall and quickly continue. "I saw you struggling to be someone you're not. I saw you uncomfortable, trying so hard and... it made me realize I don't want you to be different, Keonho."

"But—"

"I like when you catch gummy bears in your mouth—or try to. I like your normal voice. I like that you sleep with a stuffed penguin and get excited about convenience store snacks. I like..." You take a breath. "I like you. The real you. The one you've been trying so hard to hide."

He's staring at you like you've just told him the sky is purple.

"You... like me?"

"Yeah. I really, really do."

"Like... like-like? Or friend like?"

You laugh, nervous and giddy all at once. "Is there a difference anymore?"

"There should be. I need to know which one. Because if you mean friend like, then I can deal with that. But if you mean like-like then I—" He stops, takes a breath. "I've liked you since we were kids. I think about you all the time and my day is better when you're in it and I'd do stupid things like learn guitar in two weeks just to try to impress you, well… which I've already done."

Your heart is hammering. "The guitar thing was sweet, ill-advised, but sweet."

"So... which kind of like?"

Instead of answering, you step forward and kiss him.

It’s brief, just a quick press of your mouth to his, soft and a little clumsy, and it tastes like convenience-store ice cream—sweet, cold, familiar, a taste that melts before you even realize it’s there.

When you pull back, Keonho is frozen in place. He’s staring at you with wide, startled eyes, as if the kiss short-circuited him. His lips are slightly parted, the faintest smear of pink where yours touched his, and he looks like he’s trying to figure out whether he imagined the whole thing.

His fingers twitch like he almost wants to reach for you, but he’s too stunned to move. There’s a breathless silence between you, warm and charged, as he blinks once, twice, still processing.

"Oh," he breathes. "That kind."

"Yeah. That kind."

The smile that spreads across his face after is the most genuine one you’ve seen in weeks—bright, unfiltered, the kind that pushes his cheeks up and crinkles the corners of his eyes. It’s happy in a way that feels earned, like you finally cracked through every stubborn wall he built. It’s completely, utterly Keonho.

“Cool,” he says, but his voice is softer than the word suggests. Then, after a tiny pause, one where he gathers courage and steals a quick glance at you—“Wait, does this mean you like me even when I’m being cute?”

“Especially when you’re being cute.”

His eyes go wide, horrified. “But I’m trying not to be cute!”

“Too bad.” You reach out and grab his hand, your fingers sliding perfectly between his. The moment your palms touch, he goes still, like he’s rebooting. “You’re stuck being cute. It’s terminal.”

He groans dramatically, tilting his head back like he’s experiencing great suffering, but the sound collapses into a laugh he can’t hold back. His hand squeezes yours, warm and certain. “You’re terrible.”

“You like me anyway.”

He looks at you then, the laughter fading gentler, almost shy. The world seems to quiet around him. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I really do.”

For a second, neither of you move. You just stand there, fingers laced, his thumb brushing your knuckle like he didn’t mean to but can’t stop. His cheeks are a little pink, yours probably are too, and everything between you feels new, warm and ridiculously perfect.

You walk home hand-in-hand, and when you pass the playground where this all started, Keonho pulls you towards the swings.

"Want to hang out for a bit?" he asks.

"Like old times?"

"Like new times," he corrects. "New, different times where I'm allowed to hold your hand, kiss you and be cute without having an existential crisis about it."

"That sounds perfect."

A FEW WEEKS LATER

The convenience store is playing terrible pop music, and Keonho is trying—once again—to catch gummy bears in his mouth.

"Got it!" he announces right before a blue one bounces off his forehead.

"That's the eleventh one," you observe, laughing.

"I'll get the next one for sure."

He doesn't. The twelfth gummy bear lands in your lap, and you pop it in your mouth while he pouts.

"You know," you say, "you never actually needed to change anything. I liked you just fine the way you were."

"I know that now." He leans over and kisses your cheek. "But I had to go through the whole embarrassing phase to figure it out."

"The cologne incident was particularly memorable."

"We agreed never to speak of the cologne incident."

"I never agreed to that."

He steals a gummy bear from your hand in retaliation, and you're laughing, and he's grinning, and everything feels right.

"Hey," Keonho says suddenly. "Want to know something?"

"Always."

"I'm glad I'm still cute to you." His ears are turning slightly red, but he's smiling. "Turns out, it's not so bad being your cute boyfriend."

"Just cute?"

"Devastatingly cute," he amends. "Terminally cute. Incurably, impossibly, permanently cute."

"That's more like it."

He throws a gummy bear at you, you throw one back, and before long you're both laughing so hard you can barely breathe. Some people passing by give you odd looks, but neither of you care.

This is what you wanted all along, Keonho being exactly himself, without any of the pretense or trying. Just the boy who's been your best friend since childhood, who still can't catch food in his mouth, who looks at you like you're the best thing in his world.

"Still think you're not cute anymore?" you tease.

He turns to face you, and there’s a noticeable shift in his expression—more confident, but in a real way, not forced like before. “What if I told you I’m starting to think cute isn’t the worst thing in the world?”

"Character development," you say approvingly.

"But," he continues, leaning closer, "I'm also really handsome. And charming. And an excellent boyfriend."

"Debatable."

"Which part?”

"All of it."

He gasps in mock offense. "Take that back."

"Make me."

It's a challenge, and he takes it—kissing you right there on the curb outside the convenience store, tasting like sugar and victory. When he pulls back, he's grinning triumphantly.

"Still debatable?" he asks.

"Hmm. I might need more evidence."

"I can work with that.”

As he kisses you again, you think that maybe Keonho was right about one thing : he's not that kid anymore. He's someone who's grown and changed but kept all the parts of himself that made you fall for him in the first place.

He's still cute, but he's yours now too.

@coriihanniee ᯓᡣ𐭩

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

The words still rang in his ears as he walked away from your porch, the door slamming shut between him and your father's scowling face.

He couldn't blame the man, really. Martin knew what kind of person he was: a teenage delinquent that only gets himself into trouble, and would likely drag you straight into it sooner or later.

He himself still couldn't quite understand what about him had actually managed to win you over initially. You were everything he was not: a rule follower, an academic, someone with a much more promising future than the one Martin possessed. So how you found him to be anything other than a walking red flag was a mystery that kept him up at night.

He remembered the first time you'd spoken to him behind the gym in your second year of high school, his knuckles were bloody and his temper was still running hot. You'd appeared out of nowhere, holding out a crumpled napkin from the cafeteria.

"You're bleeding," you'd said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Not your problem," he'd muttered, trying to brush past you.

But you'd grabbed his wrist before he could fully turn the corner and pressed the napkin into his palm. "Just clean it up," you'd said. "You'll get blood on your shirt."

You then walked away, leaving him standing there with a bloody napkin and a strange feeling in his chest that he'd never quite managed to shake.

Martin had tried to push you away at first. He knew what people said about him: the troublemaker, the burnout, the kid who'd end up in juvie before graduation. He'd heard your father's warnings from across the street, loud enough to carry, "Stay away from that boy, Y/N. He's nothing but trouble."

Despite all of that you kept appearing.

You showed up at the diner where he worked, sitting in his section and ordering coffee you barely touched, just so you could talk to him during his break. You showed up at the auto shop, claiming your car needed an oil change, even though it was perfectly fine. You showed up at his apartment after he got suspended the second time, bringing takeout and a stubborn expression that said you wouldn’t leave under any circumstance.

"Why?" He’d finally asked you, exhausted and confused. "Why do you keep doing this? You know what I am. You've heard what everyone says."

You'd looked at him then, really looked, and said, "I see something they don't."

"What?"

"Someone who's trying."

And that was it. That was the moment Martin knew he was a goner.

It hadn't taken long for your father to work out that you had ignored all his prior warnings, though truly he should have realised it sooner.

You had been staying out much later than before, coming home with an almost lovesick grin. Your father knew you were in love—that wasn't hard to tell. Just in his own mind, the thought of you falling in love with the one boy he had forbidden you from even talking to was a concept so foreign, so utterly incomprehensible, that he simply refused to entertain it.

But the signs were all there. You'd rush through dinner just to get to your room and stare at your phone, waiting for a message whilst also deflecting his questions about your day with vague answers and quick subject changes.

It was only when your father found the crumpled napkin in your laundry with Martin's name scrawled on it in your handwriting, surrounded by tiny hearts, that the truth finally crashed down on him.

He'd confronted you that night, voice shaking with barely contained fury.

"Are you seeing that Martin boy?"

You'd looked at him, and for a moment, he only saw defiance in your gaze. "Yes," you'd said quietly. "I am."

The argument that followed was the worst you'd ever had. Your father had shouted until his voice went hoarse, listing every reason why Martin was wrong for you: his record, his reputation, his lack of prospects. You'd shouted back, defending him with a passion that only made your father angrier.

"He's not who you think he is, Dad. He's trying so hard. He's working two jobs, he's studying for school as best he can, he's—"

"He's a delinquent, Y/N. He's always been a delinquent, and he always will be. I won't let you throw your life away for someone like him."

"He's not a delinquent. He's just... he's just someone who never had anyone believe in him. Until me."

Your father had gone silent at that. Not because he agreed, but because he realised something crucial: you were in too deep. No amount of arguing would change your mind.

So he'd done the only thing he could think of. He'd banned you from seeing Martin, forbade you from leaving the house except for school and work, and took your phone, your laptop, everything that connected you to the outside world.

For a few weeks, it seemed to work. You and Martin had never shared a class at school, so he didn’t need to worry about that. Additionally, with so much surveillance surrounding you, you had practically given up even thinking of trying to find a way around it.

That was until one night a few weeks later when you were laying under the covers of your bed, staring at the ceiling with not a thought on your mind when the sound of something knocking on your window echoed through the room.

You sat up, heart pounding, and stared at the window. The blinds were drawn, but through the slats, you could make out a familiar silhouette you knew all too well crouched on the fire escape.

You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket tangled around your ankles, and yanked the blinds open. There he was—grinning like an idiot, dirt smudged on his cheek, a small bag of takeout dangling from one hand. He was wearing that worn leather jacket you loved with the torn sleeve he refused to sew back together.

"Hey, princess," he whispered through the glass. "You miss me?"

You fumbled with the lock, pushing the window open as quietly as you could. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and city streets.

"What are you doing here?" You hissed. "My dad could hear you!"

"Your dad's probably knocked out asleep right now." He climbed through the window with practiced ease, landing silently on your bedroom floor. 

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his jacket. "I thought I'd never see you again," you whispered, your voice cracking.

"Hey." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I told you. Nothing's keeping me away from you. Not your dad, not the cops, not anyone."

"Martin—"

"Three weeks, Y/N. I spent three weeks without you and I was going insane." He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "I thought about calling your house, but I knew your dad would just make it worse. I had to wait until I could figure out a way to see you."

"You figured out the fire escape."

"I figured out the fire escape." He grinned, but there was something softer underneath it. "Took me two days to find the right route. Nearly fell off the third-floor landing, but hey—" He shrugged. "Worth it."

You laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "You're insane."

"Only for you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled back to hold up the takeout bag. "I brought food. Your favourite dumpling place with the spicy sauce you like. Figured you probably haven't been eating much."

You hadn't. The past three weeks had been a blur of forced dinners and silent meals, your father's disapproving gaze boring into you from across the table. You'd lost weight, and Martin had noticed it the moment he climbed through your window. 

"You're too good to me," you said.

"Not possible." He set the bag on your desk and pulled you over to sit on the bed. "Now eat. I'll keep watch."

You sat together in the darkness, sharing dumplings and whispered conversations. 

"One day," he said, "I'm going to have a real place with a good job and be something your dad can't complain about."

"I don't care about any of that."

"I know." He smiled, but there was something serious in his eyes. "That's why I want to give it to you anyway. You deserve the world, Y/N. I'm going to figure out how to give it to you."

"I just want you," you said softly.

"Good." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "Because you've got me. For as long as you want me."

It was reckless and dangerous and every time you heard a floorboard creak, your heart stopped. But as you sat there in the dark, wrapped in Martin's arms, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Your father never caught the two of you, and gradually he granted you back your privileges, though that also stemmed from your absolute refusal to even look at him until he did so.

A part of you secretly knew that your father had probably worked out you were still seeing Martin. He wasn't stupid—he'd raised you, after all. He knew the stubborn set of your jaw, the defiant glint in your eyes when you were hiding something. He'd seen the way you'd started leaving your window unlocked again, the way you'd come downstairs with pillow creases on your cheek and a sleepy smile that had nothing to do with a good night's rest.

But he never said anything and you remained in this strange stalemate situation for the following couple of years.

It was an unspoken agreement, really. Your father pretended not to notice the faint smell of motor oil that sometimes clung to your clothes in the morning. He pretended not to hear the soft thud of footsteps on the fire escape at midnight. He pretended not to see the way your eyes lit up whenever your phone buzzed. And you, in turn, pretended not to notice the way your father started leaving the back door unlocked, or the way he'd conveniently be in the living room with the TV turned up too loud whenever Martin was climbing the fire escape.

It was a strange kind of peace. Fragile, particularly tenuous. But it was peace nonetheless.

Then, finally, graduation day arrived.

You walked across the stage in your cap and gown, your father watching from the front row with a carefully neutral expression. Martin was a few students behind you, wearing his best clothes underneath the gown that you had bought for his birthday, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face.

After the ceremony, you found him in the parking lot, still in your gown, your diploma clutched in your hands.

"We did it," you said, laughing. "We actually did it."

"We did." He pulled you into his arms, spinning you around. "High school graduates. Can you believe it?"

"I can't believe you didn't drop out."

"Me neither." He set you down, his hands still on your waist. "But I had a good reason to stay."

"And what was that?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "You."

You and Martin had separated before your father emerged between the cars with the promise of seeing each other tomorrow, however you failed to fully notice the strange glint in Martin’s eyes as he parted with you

The next morning, Martin showed up at your door, his hands shaking as he knocked.

You answered, still in your pajamas, your hair a mess. "Martin? What are you—"

"I'm here to ask your father for permission to marry you."

You stared at him for a few seconds. "Now? At eight in the morning?"

"Time's ticking." He tried to smile, but it came out nervous. "I've waited long enough. Three years. I'm not waiting anymore."

Your father appeared behind you, coffee mug in hand. He looked at Martin, then at the suit, then at the determined set of Martin's jaw.

"Y/N, go to your room," he said, his voice flat as you gave Martin a wary look before retreating, "you again."

"Yes, sir." Martin straightened his spine, watching you disappear into the background. "I'm here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Your father set down his coffee mug, and for a long moment he just looked at Martin. "You must be out of your damn mind," he said slowly, "if you think I'd let you marry my daughter."

"Sir, I know I'm not what you wanted for her. I know I've made mistakes. I know I don't have much—"

"You've barely got a diploma, an unsecure job at an auto shop, and a reputation that makes me want to lock my daughter in her room until she's thirty-five."

"I know, sir. But I love her. I've loved her since I was fifteen, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of her."

"You think that's enough?" Your father's voice was rising. "You think love is enough? You have no future, no prospects, no—"

"I'm going to marry her anyway."

Your father stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

"I said I'm going to marry her anyway." Martin lifted his chin, his voice steady. "With or without your blessing. With or without your approval. I love her, and she loves me, and we're getting married. I'm just sorry you won't be there to see it."

"Get out." Your father's voice was ice. "Get out of my house before I call the cops."

Martin nodded slowly. He'd expected this. He'd prepared for this. It still stung. He turned and walked down the steps, the door slamming behind him.

Five hours later, Martin stood in front of you at the courthouse, him having snuck you out of your room through the very window he had spent years crawling through.

You'd changed into a simple white dress that you had worn a few times in the summer. Martin was in his navy suit from the graduation, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Dearly beloved," the officiant droned, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."

Martin barely heard the words. He was too busy memorising the way you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

"Martin," you whispered, "you're crying."

"Am not."

"You totally are."

"It's allergies."

"You're such a liar."

He laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Fine, maybe I'm a little emotional. You're marrying me, Y/N. Me. The guy who couldn't even pass English without your help."

"I think you're pretty great," you said softly. "I always have."

The officiant cleared his throat. "The rings?"

Martin fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the simple silver bands he'd saved up for. He slid one onto your finger—it was a little too big, but you didn't seem to care, you just stared at it like it was the most expensive piece of jewelry in the world.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Martin’s lips were on yours before you could fully process the words.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. He was savouring the reality of this, you in his arms finally calling yourself his. Gradually it deepened, the years of longing and wanting pouring into every second your mouth remained on his.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless and grinning like idiots.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice rough and cracking. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you more than anything. More than I ever thought I could love anyone."

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "I love you too. Even though you're insane."

A wet laugh escaped him, his shoulders shaking. "Especially because I'm insane?"

"Especially then." You smiled, soft and radiant. 

He kissed you again, softer this time, because he felt he had all the time in the world, and, really, he did. Nothing else mattered to him except the way your lips moved against his, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way your heartbeat matched his own.

When he finally pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot, tears still tracking down his cheeks. "Mrs. Edwards," he said, testing the words. "That has a nice ring to it."

You laughed, bright and beautiful. "Mr. L/N. That would have an even nicer ring to it."

"Hey." He poked your side. "I proposed first, that means you take my name."

"Fine." You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "But only because I love you."

"That's the only reason I need."

The courthouse was small and dingy, the officiant was already shuffling papers, clearly eager to leave, the neon sign outside flickered and buzzed. It wasn't the wedding either of you had dreamed of. There were no flowers, no guests, no white dress with a long train.

But it was yours.

And as Martin pulled you into his arms, his lips pressed against your temple, he knew he'd never regret a single moment of it. "I'm going to give you everything," he whispered against your skin. "I don't have much now, but I will. A home, a future, a life you can be proud of. I promise."

"I already have everything I need," you whispered back. "I have you."

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his smile shaky, his heart laid bare on his sleeve. "You really mean that?"

"Every word."

He kissed you one last time: deep, slow, full of all the promises he'd spend the rest of his life keeping.

Your father was going to be absolutely livid when he found out, though Martin didn't care.