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──── ZHAO YUFAN .ᐟ 赵雨凡 .✦ ݁˖ 0.4k wc

fight and flight.

much like his bursting personality, his anger comes in explosions. you two rarely fought, always easily coming up with compromises to meet in the middle. so when you had fought over something that was bubbling for sometime, it wasn't very nice.

you sighed at him through the phone when he clearly forgot about about what day it was. a series of frustrated texts came after from james, until he came through your door with a hardened expression, a demanding "what's that about earlier?" that eventually escalated into yelling, the walls of your apartment rattling.

just as you were about to yell again, angry tears brimming your eyes, he mumbles "enough. I need fresh air." and ultimately leaves you hanging in your own unshed tears. it shattered your heart that he had left at the heat of a fight that was his fault to begin with.

so when he returned after a couple of hours, you no longer had the energy to even look at him, completely exhausted from crying on your own. he sighs at the sight of your detached expression, his arms already snaking around you from behind, head buried on your shoulders.

the both of you stay like that for a while, just heavy breathing, until james began speaking "I'm sorry, baby. It's my fault" he whispered "I forgot and yet I was the one who got angry" and all it took for your shell to crumble was the feeling of hot, wet, droplets on your shoulder, james' own shaking uncontrollably against your back "I've just been so stressed and it slipped my mind. let me make it up to you, please"

you turned and held his wet face in your hands, eyes so extremely tired from the crying, "you shouted at me, and then left me, james. I cried and cried thinking you wouldn't come back" his face was painted in guilt, his hands gripping the sweatshirt you wore from behind "I know, I'm sorry. I'd never leave you"

and really, you just hadn't had enough will power to get angry even more, finally bringing him into your arms, a hand combing through his hair "stop crying, you're drenching my shirt" and that brings a wet chuckle out of james, the faint ghost of his smile on your collarbones, "happy anniversary baby, I'm sorry for forgetting"

──── MARTIN EDWARDS PARK .ᐟ 박우주 .✦ ݁˖ 0.5k wc

fight.

small disagreements were common since you dated martin. he was so strongly opinionated, and so were you. but you always made it work, somehow. except this time. you had reiterated multiple times over and over again precise instructions to martin, knowing he would raw-dog everything. and yet, you had came home to the smell of burnt food and a kitchen messier than a toddler's bedroom left unsupervised.

and maybe martin was an unsupervised six foot tall boy. you approach with careful steps, eyes wide and scanning the place "martin.." the sound of your voice startles him to a flinch, but he smiles nonetheless "okay, don't be mad"

you look at him with disbelief. a mix of a scoff and a laugh falling from your lips "I'm quite mad right now, actually" it was calm, a small comment to neutralize your emotions, a lopsided smile on your face.

and maybe he had taken it the wrong way. like you were condescending. because now he's wide eyed and defensive, his voice slowly raising a tad bit more. you scoff "I gave you instructions to follow" your tone firm but not quite matching his pitch "not display it on your ipad"

from there, martin hadn't only doubled up, but his hands were flying everywhere. palms clapping in sharp on the marbled table, banging dishes down in the sink and angry throwing of aprons. and sometimes, hurtful words too "you never appreciate the things I do!" and that alone leaves in you in disbelief, because you do. you always do. but really, it's hard when he makes a mess everywhere "and you never listen to what I tell you!"

the apartment was a series of yelling and smacking things down on any flat surface, anger-flushed faces and heavy breathing. martin stomps up to you, barely a centimeter apart, hot angry breathing mingling with one another as you looked up at him. you knew he would never hurt you, or lay a finger on you. but the prolonged silence had hot tears brimming your eyes, your frown deeper than when you two had began fighting.

that must've done it for martin, his expression instantly softening to something more worried "oh baby, don't cry" he lifts a tentative hand to your warm cheeks, unshed tears finally falling free "why can't you just say sorry?" you sob wetly, finally allowing yourself to lean into his touch "all you had to do was follow what I sent you, and say sorry for making a mess" you hit on his chest, albeit futile with how little energy you had left "and you said I don't appreciate anything you do? really?"

the echo of his words make martin wince, clearly he hadn't mean that, just a spur of his emotions "I didn't mean that, I know you do. always" another broken cry and martin is pressing you to his chest, not caring about the tears and snot "I'm sorry, no more yelling, I promise" he murmurs on your hair "and I promise to do as you say, too"

──── KIM JUHOON .ᐟ 김주훈 .✦ ݁˖ 0.3k wc

flight.

you and juhoon rarely fight. like. never. it just so happened it wasn't quite your best day that juhoon had fooled around a little too much. you were hunched over your desk, typing away on your laptop and occasionally writing things down on the notepad next to you. juhoon had seen you— has been watching you— work nonstop for the past hour and decided, why not be a great boyfriend and take away your stress?

wrong choice. when he walked over behind your laptop screen, an attempt to distract you, he knocks over the coffee that had long gone cold, staining your notes. all of it. juhoon is startled out of his wits, eyes wide and lips stammering as he tries to pull an apology out. it never comes. he never says sorry and it ultimately brings you to a frown.

a sorry would’ve made it better. hell, an attempt to salvage it would've made you feel less angry. but no. juhoon watched it all happen, hands unmoving and body still. you couldn’t help the frustrated groan that falls from your lips, a sound so primal and raw juhoon might’ve thought it sounded from an invisible animal.

"juhoon, really, what the fuck is your problem?" you push yourself off the table, the legs of the chair screeching against on the floor, hot tears of frustration brimming red against your eyes, chest heaving at a pace that yelled anger. but juhoon never spoke a word, he pushes himself away and exits, leaving you behind in your own rage.

by the time juhoon comes back, you had already passed out on your bed, face blotchy from the dried tears and pillow soaked. the sight breaks his heart but he doesn't want to bother the only peace you've had the whole night.

so when you wake up the next day tucked in, desk cleaned and notes rewritten neatly with a sticky note that scribbled a messy 'I'm really sorry :( I was just trying to cheer you up. I love you. -jju' then who were you to stay angry at him? he was never one for words, anyway.

──── EOM SEONGHYEON .ᐟ 엄성현 .✦ ݁˖ 0.5k wc

fight and flight.

it was never supposed to get serious. gamer boyfriend and all. a little jest here and a little jest there. so when he beat you in a game he played since he learned to type for like, the millionth time, he quips a rehearsed "loser again?" it makes you roll your eyes because "is that all you can say, eom?"

maybe it really is all he could say because he's queuing up to another round, already half expecting to win again. so when he ends up losing, godforbid, he shakes his headphones off and turns to you "beginner's luck" he shrugs, a coy grin on his lips. but he started the jest, why not continue it "or," you mock a pout "you're just a sore loser" and he probably is because now there's a frown on his face— a genuine one— a retaliation that flies over your head because all that registered was his tone. annoyed and the slightest bit angry.

that in itself was enough to turn your mood sour. why the hell was he upset? you've had the same back and forth with him multiple times. before you even knew it, it was condescending comments over condescending comments. insults basked in sarcasm thrown at one another until he pushes himself off, the gaming chair rolling weakly at the force as he stomps out of the room. the entire exchange makes you scoff wetly, scalding tears leaving a wake on your cheeks, more hurt than anything else. no way that just happened and no way seonghyeon just insulted you over and over again over losing a game.

you turn both monitors off, making a beeline to the bathroom, needing to wash all those awful words off of you before it consumes you whole. just as you were at least 3 big steps away from the bathroom, a quiet voice from down the hall stops you dead in your tracks, "hey.." nope. absolutely not. you don't turn, in fact you don't acknowledge at all, already making that three steps to the bathroom but ultimately fails anyway. damn him and his long legs.

"baby.. I'm sorry, okay?" he mumbles, hesitant fingers playing with the hem of the shirt you wore, fearing skin to skin contact might make him explode into ten million pieces "I don't know what got into me, I got so upset"

whatever. screw the game and screw eom seonghyeon. "yeah, no shit, seonghyeon" he winces at the tone and full name, the fidgeting on your shirt worsening tenfold "I'm not one of your game bros or whatever for you to lash out like that" you hear him hum, a sign he was listening "and I'm sorry if calling you a sore loser hurt your feelings but everything else you said was so out of line"

he lowers his head, the fidgeting turning into gripping at your shirt, his socked foot kicking air dusts on the floor "I'm really sorry, y/n. I didn't mean to" and all it took was the shake in his voice to break whatever anger had brewed in your chest. you sigh long and firm, tugging at the hand wrinkling your shirt and pulling him into a hug "don't ever do that again. I'm still hurt but I forgive you"

──── AHN KEONHO .ᐟ 안건호 .✦ ݁˖ 0.5k wc

fight.

what could possibly go wrong with a lego date? with keonho, absolutely everything, apparently.

it started out fine, though. splendid, even. he was bouncing off of his own skin the moment he entered your apartment, two boxes of legos in his arms. his a helicopter, yours a sports car. you barely had the time to grab both him and you a glass of water before he's urging you to sit next to him on the carpet, pushing the coffee table out of the way and laying belly flat down.

he sprawls out on your apartment floor and unceremoniously clatters plastic bags of different lego pieces out, already skimming through the step by step manual it came with. you could tell from how untouched the manual was that he was raw dogging the whole piece. whatever. It's none of your business how he decides to do his.

what was, in fact, your business, was him poking and probing at you peacefully and tediously following your manual. when did this turn into a competition? "ahn keonho, I'm warning you" he mocks your words, playful and childish.

he kicks on your shins gently at first, just provoking you to retaliate and probe at him too. it never comes. you don't probe and simply roll your eyes, actually determined to finish your car. until keonho started to get a little more rough, shoving your shoulders causing you to drop the pieces in your hold, irritation already coming at the edges of your patience. it continues a little bit more before he relents.

thinking he finally stopped and grew tired, you were proven wrong by the pillow flying at record speed towards you, landing with a heavy thud on your piece, crushing whatever progress you had, "keonho!" you shriek, irritation bubbling up your throat. he has the nerve to point and laugh, saying something along the lines of too slow loser. "what is your problem, actually?"

the shift in tone makes him sit up, an eyebrow quirked and raised, "what?" the absolute nerve this boy has.

"what do you mean, 'what?' you just crushed my work!" he tilts his head like what you said was the most confusing thing he's ever encountered, "so? that was the point. I threw the pillow to stop your progress"

and really, it's hard to be patient when your supposed cutesy date just purposely ruined your progress, "and you thought I'd be okay with that?" the tone change immediately turning every logical switch inside keonho's head off, the words coming out faster than they are processing in his brain.

banter turned into yelling and yelling turned into throwing lego pieces at one another. the final straw being the most hurtful thing he's said yet, "whatever! you're a boring loser anyways" the moment the words landed your mouth fell shut, shoulders deflating "oh.." and keonho must've noticed— definitely— because in a blink of an eye he was crawling closer to you, mouth zipped in a tight line but his arms were already bringing you into his embrace.

"I lied..." he whispered "I don't think you're a boring loser" his voice small and barely audible. he was never one for apologizing, the guilt in his eyes and the way he held you oh so dearly was an apology in itself. so much for a lego date, huh?

oh my holy fuck bro I'm not even joking I've been working on ts since january and cannot for the life of me finish it immediately 😭😭😭 but SIIGHHHHHHH here it is my longest work yet !!!! hope anon likes it or I might D word #tbh

also !!!! I plan on making a permanent taglist wdygt???? #biggestfear is I make a permtaglist and no one wants to be on there oaauuhhhhh 😣😣 lmk if I should #interestcheck

update! I did make a perm taglist so if u wna be on that u can go to this post yappeeee k bye mwa

university’s annual sportsfest and you’re running. no, not because you're in a sport, but you're running, a camera slinged around your neck, notebook in your right hand, your phone in the other. a tote over your shoulder with your laptop.

there are students running equally as fast as you, some in the same direction, some the opposite. by the time you reach the double doors of the gymnasium, there were already people piling up, waiting to be allowed inside.

thank god for student council privileges, you mutter under your breath, pushing through the crowd, protecting your camera more than yourself. you were let in easily, the campus journalist's I.D. clipped on the front of your shirt serving as enough identification.

inside the gymnasium was cold. like, skin crawling, spine chillingly cold. what on earth do these basketball players need the gym to be so cold for?

you make your way to the side of the players, a bench labeled ‘journalist’ two seats away from the benches for the players. you go over your little notebook, skimming over the other sports you needed to cover for this morning.

soon enough, the double doors are being opened and the buzzers are blaring through the speakers, students fill the venue and the players are warming up. you look around the players, all new, before landing on a familiar face.

same guy last year on the team, perfect! that was the perfect journalism material, past mvp’s playing again for the same sport.

by the time the game comes to an end, the sports science department wins again. when did they ever lose anyway? you’re already making your way out of the gym, double checking your phone for the schedule and sighing in defeat when you read over needing to be at the open field, capturing the football game.

you make your way across the campus, godforbid they make the venues closer. with all the running you're doing, you might as well be playing in a sport, sigh.

there on the field were players warming up, some stretching and some running laps. you settle yourself somewhere lower, needing close up shots of the players.

and just as you were preparing a shot, camera pressed to your face, hands fiddling with the focus, the glimpse of a familiar guy sporting the same surname and jersey number catches your attention. basketball’s mvp?

how odd. you snap a couple pictures of him and his teammates, needing shots of all the players. as you bring your camera down, your eye catches the same guy from basketball looking at you. it was fleeting, almost only two seconds short but still.

It would be less weird if he wasn't practically everywhere.

the blare of the buzzer rings one last time. you slump down on your seat, sighing in relief that your next game isn’t until later that evening. you take advantage of this free time, pulling your laptop out to export the rest of the pictures you took.

it was relatively peaceful until, “do you follow all athletes like this? or just me?” what the fuck.

you crane your head up to look at the voice, your heart dropping to your ass when you see the same guy from the basketball game standing in front of you, hand on his hip with a playful smirk on his lips, “what?”

he bends down to a crouch, making himself eye level with you from where you sat on the bleachers, “I said, do you follow all–”

“I know what you said!” you cut him off with a frustrated groan, “I’m saying, what?”

he chuckled at that, pushing himself to stand up again, “I saw you taking pictures of me last game and this game”

the insinuation makes you raise a brow at him, shutting your laptop close and tucking it back inside your tote, “that's literally my job” you say with a bite of irritation in your voice, because genuinely who the fuck even is he?

the boy in front of you hums, raising a finger to his chin, a mock of pondering, “which? to follow me or to take pictures of me?”

and that alone makes your brows knit together, rising from your seat and opting to leave instead, “I am leaving” stomping your way out of the field.

evening comes faster than you’d like. your reminder app buzzes your phone with a notification ‘ice hockey - outside rink @ 7pm’ at 6:30pm and a series of things to make sure you have inside your bag.

the rink is too far out the campus, easily a ten minute walk if you're taking your time. the air at this hour makes the still of night not too bad, never too humid but neither bitingly cold.

but of course, your whole romanticizing-night-walks shatters when you reach the rink and open the double doors, the cold air hitting you right smack in your face.

apparently two layers wasn't even close to shielding yourself from the icy air. bad luck.

you situate yourself at the lower bleachers, your laminated I.D. clipped right where your heart sits. the tote on your shoulder goes on the chair and the camera is pulled out of your bag.

“let me guess” the voice makes you violently flinch, nearly dropping the camera in your hands. holy shit. you twist your head to the source, an annoyed expression taking over your face. no way it was him again.

“coincidence?” he muses, not even looking at you but at the rink. you opt not to respond, biting back a quip far too sharp and mean for his easy tone.

somewhere between taking pictures and making frustrated stomps at the game, the corner of your eyes catch a glimpse of juhoon smirking at you from across the rink, behind the acrylic barrier.

you make a mental note to text him about it.

and when the game ends, you're rushing to get the fuck out of there. running into the same guy was horrible on its own. but with juhoon into the mix its hell.

much to your awful luck, you just to had bump into him. like, literally bump into him. head to his chest, nearly falling your ass kind of bump “aw, leaving already?”

literally just kill me now. is what the voice in your head supplies. you’ve learned from juhoon alone that keeping quiet is the best fix to his friends being assholes.

you glare up at james, momentarily getting distracted at the way his hair is sticking to his forehead and the fluorescent lights casting shadows from his sharp features.

god was he so attractive. focus!

“what are you covering tomorrow?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious that you can't help but respond “why?” and then the smirk is back on his face. great. “just checking if I should be worried”

yeah okay you're leaving. the was your cue to push past him and walk out. no way were you dealing with that at this late hour and the lack of rest you've had. somewhere on the way out you hear james’ voice and what sounded like juhoon’s too yelling see you tomorrow!

tomorrow comes and you are not excited. at the last basketball game, he was there. at the championships of soccer, he was there. back at the rink, of course he was there.

hell, even during your lunch break he was there. it was like the universe was playing some kind of gag on you.

surely enough, at the awarding ceremony the next day he was there too. all athletes were, actually. but that doesn't eradicate the fact that he was also there.

he goes up the podium exactly three times. once for getting the best stats in basketball, twice for getting the most goals in soccer, and thrice, for receiving the trophy on behalf of the hockey team because apparently none of them had the energy to show up.

in all those three times he received an award, you were the one taking the picture by the front of the stage. reluctantly so. the smirk on his face never leaving.

by the time the ceremony ends and your packing away your equipment, you deliberately ignore the figure approaching ypu.

“so,” james says once he's in front of you, getting a whiff of his perfume. he smelled nice.

what? what the hell am I saying?

“you weren't stalking me” he says matter of fact, on his neck were three medals dangling and a trophy on his arm. you deadpan at him “I’ve said that”

“yeah, but this is less fun, isn't it?” annoyingly enough, he was right. it was fun. the banter, the adrenaline of whether he’d be there or not. you don't answer him, though. the silence being enough without giving him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud.

he waits for you to finish up, standing patiently still. so when you turn back with all your equipment packed, it was a surprise to you when he wears a medal on you “for your hard work”

you shake your head at him, rolling your eyes but the flush in your ears gives you away.

“come, I’ll walk you back”

and meet him at halftime you did. you talked. and talked. and talked again. and maybe even ate out after the game. whatever. juhoon is going to have a field day when he finds out. matter of fact, his whole gang would. but that's a problem for another day.

haiiilooww!!!! aoi here !! procrastinated this fic for long (as I have in all my fics) and wasn't rlly planning on finishing it since it wasnt a request anyway but I literally had the worse day ever (mark left nct, gradball was cancelled, my nail broke) and was in dire need of a distraction, thus, this fic !!!! first time trying out a little mixing w written fic and smau inserts (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) I hope u guys like it as much as I do mwehehehe k babye

my permanent taglist and masterlist ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

© cortiins 2025 | all rights reserved. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or share my work on other platforms.

the first time someone called it a situationship, you laughed.

now, you just let them.

“again?” someone says when you walk in. not quiet enough to be polite. “thought they were done this time.”

you don’t react. you’ve learned not to.

the studio is dim. it always is this late. low lights, equipment humming softly in the background. familiar enough that you don’t have to think about where anything is.

he’s already there.

martin doesn’t look up when you step in. headphones half on, fingers tapping against the desk, counting. he does that when he’s thinking.

you close the door behind you with a click. he notices. of course he does. “didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

you shrug, setting your bag down. “you said you needed a verse.”

he hums, “I did.”

silence settles. not awkward, just there. “you're still ignoring me,” he adds, like it’s nothing. you glance at him over your shoulder, “you stopped calling.”

“after you said we should.” his response makes you quirk a brow up, “that was two weeks ago.”

“and?”

“you listened?” he never does. you say more of a statement than it was a question.

you walk past him close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. it doesn’t. it could have. you don’t miss the way he shifts, just slightly, like he felt it too.

he exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half something else, “right.”

the track starts playing before either of you say anything else. heavy bass, unfinished, but you can already hear where you’d fit. where he expects you to fit.

you step up to the mic. he moves behind you without asking. he always does that, not asking before doing. “come in after the second bar,” he says, adjusting the levels. his voice is closer now, low and steady in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else.

you nod, even though he can’t see it properly from where he’s standing. the beat loops and you miss your cue. “you're distracted,” he says, the truth out loud makes you wince.

“maybe your timing’s off” it wasn’t. you knew it wasn't and it never will be off. the corners of his lips curl up just the slightest, not noticeable if you weren't staring, “no it's not”

the sureness in his tone makes you roll your eyes, “you sure about that?”

“I'm always sure about timing” and something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten. like he isn’t just talking about the track.

you turn fully this time. that was your first mistake. he was already looking at you, not like this is work. not like this is nothing.

the air shifts to something heavy. or worse, familiar. like you’ve toed this line before. “you gonna record,” he asks, quieter now, “or just stand there?”

“depends,” you say, leaning back against the console. “you planning on hovering the whole time?” a small smile pulls at his mouth. “does it bother you?”

you shrug, “should it?”

he steps closer anyway. close enough that it’s noticeable. close enough that it isn’t. the track continues playing in the background, for a second, neither of you move.

it’s quiet again. not empty, just full of things neither of you can ever say out loud. you speak before you can stop yourself, “this is still casual, right?” it comes out lighter than it feels.

that was your second mistake.

he takes a second. long enough that it was an answer in itself. but you wait anyway, needing to hear it from him. then, finally, he nods, “yeah.”

casual. you nod too, like that settles it.

it doesn’t.

it never does. in fact, it makes it ten times worse. but it was never enough to dwell on, never enough to make a difference. it happened far too often for it to do so.

and maybe it was meant to stay that way. because when he gets too close, you pull away first, always hesitating. when he gets busy, you stop showing up. stop coming by his studio to bring him meals, stop staying until he's done tweaking beats for the night.

and then he stops reaching out. no ‘just because’ calls, no texts to come over and record verses for him. no voicemail snippets of his songs. and really, it's always been like that. a cycle you've both grown accustomed to, comfortable to.

the first time he brought it up caused a messy back and forth.

“we keep ending it like it means something,” martin pushes himself off the mixing board, “then starting again like it doesn’t.”

it sets something off inside you, “you said we were done, martin” you point at him, accusing “but you still called first”

“why would you answer?!” he yells, the soundproof walls of his studio rattling, emphasizing the anger brewing in your chest.

“why wouldn't I?!” you yell back, his mouth falling shut. exactly, why wouldn't you?

you grab your bag and swing it over your shoulder aggressively, heading for the door, stopping just as you held the knob “we only work when we’re not trying to define it” you mumble loud enough for him to hear, “so you don’t have the right to miss me, martin”

and you haven't touched that topic since.

was it because it was easier that way? keeping you close enough to stay but never enough for it to have a label.

the next time you're making your way to his studio, you’ve already pep-talked yourself to not think about it, don't mention it like a desperate dumbass.

the building in front of you is humongous, but you know your way around, coming by way too often that you’ve memorized your steps to the familiar frosted door locked with a fingerprint. yours and his.

for easy access, he said. so you don't always have to knock and wait for me to open it for you. whether he meant that just as it is and nothing else. whatever.

after pressing your finger against it, the lock clicks open softly, making your way inside only to find martin hunched over his computer, both ears of his headphones on, your presence going unnoticed.

you sit on the sofa waiting, looking around his studio for the first time. you notice the posters on the walls, radiohead, paramore, chet baker, and a bunch of others you could no longer name.

then his desk, an array of picture frames, him and his childhood best friend, his family, his dog, then it catches you off guard. he had a picture of you framed next to his monitor, so close that you're sure it catches his peripheral whenever he's working.

was that meant to mean anything? probably not, a voice in your head answers.

you choose not to dwell, just sitting there, staring a second too long before looking away like it might mean something if you don’t. it shouldn’t.

he shifts behind you, chair scraping lightly. you hear the click of something pausing, “when did you get here?” you glance up, “a while ago”

martin pulls his headphones down around his neck, eyes flicking to you, then briefly to where you were just looking. you don’t point it out, and he doesn’t either.

“you didn’t say anything” he says like a matter of fact, “you looked busy” smiling small and genuine, martin returned it just a tad bit more playful “I’m always busy”

“exactly” you scoff.

a small pause settles between you, thinner this time. he leans back in his chair, studying you in that quiet way he does. not intrusive, just, there. observing. like he's studying a track he can't complete.

“you eat?” he asks, a curious brow quirking up. you blink, “what?”

“you usually bring food,” he says, like it’s obvious. “didn’t see anything”

“oh” you glance down at your hands “I didn’t” he looks at you with eyes that yelled duh, “why not?”

you shrug, a little too quick. “didn’t feel like it.”

he hums, unconvinced, but he doesn’t push either. instead, he turns back to his screen, clicking through something until the speakers crackle softly and the track starts again. you recognize it immediately.

the same one from a week or two ago, the one you missed your cue on.

“come here,” he says, not even looking at you.

you hesitate for half a second before getting up anyway. force of habit. you stop beside him, close enough to see the timeline on his screen. layers of sound, your name typed on one of the tracks like it belongs there.

he taps the spacebar and the beat fills the room, “you hear that?” he asks, his work tone slipping on the edges of his words, “yeah” you hum, “you’re late” he comments casually.

you had to physically stop yourself from rolling your eyes, biting back a retaliation laying heavy on your tongue, “I know”

“you’re always late on this part”

you cross your arms, leaning slightly against the desk “then fix it”

“I can’t fix your timing” lie. he easily could, dragging your recording to where he really needed it to be, “you just said you’re always sure about it”

he smiles without looking your way, the sides of his cheeks rising from where you stand next to him “I am.”

and who would you be if not challenge martin in his own element? “then help me” that gets him to look at you. like, really look this time.

there’s something quieter in his expression now, less teasing, more focused. he studies you for a second before turning back to the track, “count it out,” he murmurs.

was he fucking joking right now? “I know how to count”

“then do it” he glances at you over his shoulder, serious but never unkind. you hold his gaze for a second longer before looking back at the screen. the track loops again.

“how?” you knew how. of course you do, you’ve done it more times both your hands could count. but where's the fun in that?

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he presses pause and stands, the movement slow enough that you notice it. you don’t step back, giving him the permission to move closer.

“like this,” he says, softer now. his hand comes up, hovering near yours on the edge of the desk. not touching, just close enough that you feel it anyway. the heat radiating off of his skin enough to burn yours “don’t rush it”

“I’m not–” you protest immediately, but somehow martin knew you would, “you are”

you swallow, eyes flickering briefly to his hand before forcing them back up. whatever.

“just listen first” he presses play again. the beat fills the room, slower when you actually pay attention to it, more deliberate than it felt before. you nod faintly, counting in your head this time.

he watches you so intently you can feel it.

“you feel that?” he asks. no shit, “yeah”

“then come in when it makes sense, not when you think you should” you glance at him, a scoff of disbelief mixed with a laugh falling from your lips, “that doesn’t really help”

“it does”

“it doesn’t”

he huffs out a quiet laugh, “you overthink it” and really, it's beyond you how he could read you like an open book, because you do. you always do, “I don’t.”

“you do” and damn him for knowing.

you turn fully toward him again, closer now than you meant to be “maybe I wouldn’t if you weren’t standing this close”

“then tell me to move” he challenges. you don’t. you never did. he notices. of course he does, taking full advantage of how much effect he has on you.

the space between you feels different now. not smaller, just heavier. more aware. like you could count the air dusts floating around and feel his breath fanning your face “you always do that,” he says.

“do what?”

“act like it bothers you” he points at himself, then at you, “it does” martin laughs at that, teeth and all “but you don’t do anything about it”

what the hell is funny? you hold his gaze, “neither do you” that lands heavier than it should, the smile on martin’s face fading just a little bit, subtle but there. the track loops again in the background, neither of you paying attention to it anymore.

“you could’ve stopped coming,” he finally says after a moment, “you could've stopped calling”

so much for not talking about it.

another pause settles in, quieter this time. then, softer, “we keep doing this” you don’t ask what he means. you already know, “yeah”

“we stop,” martin takes a step back, finding his way back to his chair, “then we don’t” you look away first this time, “it works.”

“for who?” you don’t answer, because you don’t have one. the beat cuts off when he pauses it again, and the silence that follows feels louder than before. you step back, just enough to put space between you.

“I should record,” you finally say, his eyes watching you for a second longer before nodding “yeah”

you move back to the mic, adjusting the headphones slowly, buying yourself a second. the track starts again, filtered through the speakers, “one, two–”

you come in on time this time. clean, easy. you don’t look at him, but you can feel it when he notices “better”

you nod, focusing forward as the verse flows smoother, less forced. like you stopped trying to control it. like you stopped thinking so much. when the track ends, you pull the headphones down, turning slightly toward him.

“see,” he says, quieter now, “you just had to stop overthinking” you meet his gaze for a second before looking away again, “whatever”

he smiles, small and brief. this time, when you look away, it lingers.

but that was days ago. you haven't seen or spoken to him since. the usual. he had texted you a message that went something along the lines of ‘gonna be busy this week’ like it matters what reason he has for disappearing.

so the shock your body felt when a song came on the radio of your car on the way home and by the middle of it you heard your own voice.

and it would've been fine if it was the song you had recorded a verse for, but no. it was a totally different song with totally different lyrics. did martin just use my voice as his producer tag?

right as you reach your house, you stepped out of your car and there stood martin in all his glory, one hand holding a bouquet of flowers, the other holding his phone. just then, before you could walk over, your phone rings, watching martin’s contact name on your screen.

the whole thing makes you giggle, he's calling you and you're quite literally ten steps away. you answer anyway, “hey”

“uh, hey?” martin stutters, watching him pace around in front of your house from where you're leaning against your car “it's been days” you hum, sure enough the smile on your face is heard through the phone

you watch martin stop dead in his tracks, his hand with the bouquet coming up to face, staring at it before answering back “yeah, I know, sorry”

then there was silence. martin chewing on his bottom lip, another habit he has when he's nervous, looking at the flowers then at your front door and then back at the flowers, “are you home?”

that was your cue to push yourself off of your car, “hm, no. why?”

“oh” you hear martin on the phone and watch his shoulders drop to a comical level of disappointment, a hand flying to cover your mouth from giggling, “nothing. where are you?”

you take a few steps closer, far enough he doesn't hear you, but closer than where you stood with your car, “I don’t know” and you have to physically stop yourself from doubling over in laughter from the way martin’s face contorts in both confusion and worry so quick “what do you mean you don't know? are you safe? where–”

you stop his worried rambles with a giggle, “look to your left, by the front porch” martin flicks his head to the direction, gasping and nearly tumbling over himself rushing over to you.

the call ends and you meet him halfway, afraid if he walked any closer he’d fall face flat, “hey” martin breathes, standing tall and panting in front of you, “hi”

he fumbles over his words, a mess of uh’s and uhm’s, before he purses his lips in a straight line, taking a deep breath through his nose and exhaling the same, “the song,” he smiles crooked, teeth and all, “have you heard?”

you raise a teasing eyebrow at him, “yeah, heard you using my voice as your tag” and something about the way martin is flushed down to his neck compels you to tease him further, “I could sue you, you know. we had no contract for that” the way martin’s face falls is absolutely hilarious.

godforbid a boy try and impress his year long situationship, damn.

martin raises the flowers up to your chest, not quite pushing but offering nonetheless “please don't” he pouts, a shy hand coming up to scratch at his nape the moment you take the bouquet, “uhm…. so–”

“just ask, martin, you're overthinking this” you reassure, his words from back then now echoing back at him. that visibly helps him relax, ears a little less flushed, “go out on a date with me, please?”

you stare at him dead in the eyes trying to read him, date like the usual? or a real date? martin seemed to have understood the silence, always better at reading you than you were to him “a real one, where I can properly ask you out”

and sigh of relief that you exhale felt like a huge weight lifted off of your chest, your arms reaching out to engulf martin in a bone crushing hug, “yeah, I’d like that”

the thought of finally being more than just something with martin brings tears to your eyes, hugging him even tighter it makes him chuckle. was it worth the year of constant on and off’s with him? hell no.

but sometimes you’ll meet a boy who thinks casual is enough until he doesn't and that's fine as long as it was martin.

omdddd haii aoi here >< super duper belated happy birthday martin !!! ≽^•⩊•^≼ this took so long to finish bc I kept getting interrupted and busy in between writing this auuuuehhhh (｡•́︿•̀｡) also !!!! if you want to be a part of my perm taglist you cant go this post !! (✿◠ᴗ◠) k bye mwaaaa

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