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Seonghyeon’s words ring heavy in Martin’s ears – look, although Martin hadn’t dated before, he does think he can flirt. He’s seen the discourse online.

Sure, was it a little corny sometimes? Yeah… a little. But most of the fans were eating it up, and Martin was more than happy to oblige if it meant that he would be making a little bit more money. Money didn’t fall from trees, and those clothes that Martin’s been eyeing for ages weren’t going to pay for themselves. 

“What?” Seonghyeon asks, laughing as he hugs his pillow a little tighter. “Come on, the fanservice barely counts. I know everyone’s been saying that you’re a fanservice king, but they're all basically in love with you anyways!” 

“Us,” Keonho pipes up. “They’re not only in love with Martin hyung. Also, you’re right – Martin, do you really know how to flirt?” 

Martin narrows his eyes at Keonho. “I think I know what you’re insinuating, and I don’t like it.” 

Seonghyeon and Keonho’s loud laughter somehow summon both James and Juhoon in the room, and Martin’s already preparing himself to become the laughing stock for the next 30 minutes. The life of a leader, he thinks. It's truly so difficult. 

It also wasn’t like Martin didn’t want love. He wanted it more than anything – he just didn’t exactly have the time for it right now, like most idols. He had so much to do every single day, from dance practices, to music shows, to producing music. Martin Edwards, despite having so much love to give, simply didn’t have time to do so. 

“James hyung, Juhoon hyung – do you think Martin can flirt?” 

James snorts. Juhoon makes a noise that’s a mix of a strangled laugh and a cough. At their reactions, Keonho laughs so hard his pillow falls right off his bed. 

Martin groans, turning his phone off and shoving it back into the pocket of his sweatpants. 

“I rest my case,” Seonghyeon says, grinning triumphantly. 

“I can flirt!” Martin says, defensively. He doesn’t know why he’s arguing so passionately for this – it wasn’t even that big of a deal. "Trust me, my flirting works on anyone."

He crosses his arms, letting out a deep breath as Seonghyeon lets out another laugh. He knows that the younger boy isn’t being malicious – they were just teasing each other like usual. 

"Anyone is a bit brave, Martin." Juhoon jokes. Martin rolls his eyes.

“Okay, Mr. Confident. Let’s see if you can make someone – a non-fan, by the way – fall for you before promotions end here in Korea,” James says, jokingly. But Martin can see the gears turning in Keonho’s head before that shit-eating smirk spreads across his lips. 

“James hyung, you’re a genius!” Keonho says, jumping up from his bed. “That’s 10 shows. Martin, if you get a girl to fall in love with you in 10 shows, we’ll officially say that you can flirt.” 

Martin furrows his brows. “That’s all I get out of it?” he frowns. “Seems like a pretty bad trade-off for something so risky, considering that we’re… idols?” 

“Fine. We’ll say that you can flirt, and Seonghyeon will pay for all your clothes the next time you buy something.” Keonho says, and Seonghyeon suddenly gets up from his bed. He looks at Keonho, shaking his head. 

“Me? You’re the one doing the bargaining, you pay!” Seonghyeon protests, and Keonho rolls his eyes. 

“Okay, new proposal. We all pay for your next shopping haul and we say that you can flirt. We’ll all chip in an equal amount so it’s fair, and so Hyeon can stop complaining,” Keonho grumbles. Seonghyeon sighs, nodding as he gives in to Keonho’s bargain. 

“Works for me,” James replies, putting his hands up. “I for one, don’t think I’m gonna lose any money.” 

“Oh, don’t be so confident,” Martin scoffs. Wow, his friends really had zero belief in him. It really made him all the more determined to prove them wrong. “You guys are so losing your money.” 

Keonho looks at Juhoon, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Juhoon hyung… you’re the only one left,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Come on, it’s not even going to be that hard. It's easy money, let's go.” 

“10 shows is still technically a lot, you know. It’s three weeks,” Juhoon hums, thinking it through. “Three weeks… well, Martin needs all the help he can get. Yeah, whatever – I’m in.”

“Juhoon!” Martin exclaims. 

The boy looks at him, shrugging. “I’m sorry! I’m just too curious to see how this will pan out – we need a little bit of excitement in our lives! Performing is exciting enough, but this is like a whole new level. I’m going to be entertained for weeks.” 

Juhoon drags the last word out, and Martin sighs. The air is thick with anticipation as the four of them look at Martin expectantly. 

Honestly, getting all his clothes paid for by his friends wasn’t exactly a bad trade-off. He’s just going to make sure to throw in a couple more expensive things in there for some payback before he officially starts the bet. And the girl would surely understand that dating an idol was difficult, and if it ended a little earlier… that was sort of to be expected, right? In three weeks he would be going to New York City anyways. No harm, no foul? 

“Fine,” Martin groans in exasperation, giving in. “Let’s see where this goes.” 

Keonho pumps a fist in the air triumphantly, and Martin rolls his eyes. “Okay, and if you don’t get a girl to fall in love with you in 10 shows… you pay for our clothes. And publicly say that you’re shit at flirting and have zero game.” 

“One piece of expensive clothing each. You’re four people, I’m one. If I paid for all of your clothes, I think I’d probably go broke.” Martin shoots back. Keonho shrugs, seemingly deeming it reasonable enough. 

“It’s a deal,” Keonho says, holding his hand out for Martin to shake. Martin does, albeit a little reluctantly. What the hell did he just get himself into? 

The room erupts into cheers so loud Martin thinks he’s suddenly transported back to MAMA. 

Seonghyeon’s already immediately searching for a new pair of shoes that he wants to buy. James has rushed back into his room to grab his phone to go on Gentle Monster to see which pair of glasses will suit him. Juhoon’s already pulling up photos of this jacket that he’s been talking about for ages. Keonho makes it a big show out of telling Martin the price of this bracelet that he wants. 

At their antics, there’s a fire lit up in the pit of Martin’s stomach. 

He was going to win this bet. Even if it was stupid. 

Your internship at Stereo is about to come to an end. 

You’re distraught. Most people would love for their internships to end – no more shitty coffee from the 10-year old dispenser that someone brought in as an ‘office gift’, no more tapping away at a dim-lit cubicle, and no more measly half-assed articles to write that are assigned haphazardly. But you’re not most people. 

Being a journalist at Stereo is your dream job. You get to write about the music that you love, review new albums, and you get exclusive perks and invites to music award shows every single week. You’ve been interning at Stereo for one and a half months now, and in just two weeks, you’re just going to be a high schooler in your final year. 

You’ve heard stories of Jisoo, your boss, giving an offer for a full-time job to interns before. You desperately want to be one of those people. 

You’ve heard her complaints behind closed doors about how Stereo’s latest content was becoming a little drab and boring, and that Stereo wasn't getting enough clicks online anymore. The most reads the publication had gotten recently was a review on Taylor Swift’s new album, but come on – it was Taylor Swift. 

You needed to find a way to write the most eye-catching, niche and exclusive article that the music world had ever seen. That way, Jisoo had to give you the job. 

Yoonchae, another intern who you’ve befriended, rolls her chair over so she’s sitting next to you. She taps her nails on your desk to get your attention. “So… last two weeks. How are you feeling?” 

Yoonchae started around the same time as you, but unlike you, Yoonchae wanted to get the hell out. She was tired of writing the weekly ‘Songs You Need To Know’ article. “I’m a gatekeeper,” she had said. “I don’t want people discovering the artists I like!” 

“Stressed,” you sigh, taking a sip out of your mug. “I’m trying to rack my brain to figure out how to write something so… fresh, I guess. Something that no other publication will be able to write.” 

Yoonchae raises a brow. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with keeping this job, (Name). What we’ve been writing really isn’t that interesting, is it? I just had to review some album from a rookie group that I don’t think anyone’s heard of yet,” Her voice drops low into a whisper. “It was like nails on a chalkboard. I threw away that pair of company-provided earphones because the memories of listening to it were so traumatic.”

You look at Yoonchae like she’s insane before diverting your eyes back to your laptop screen. You’ve just finished a review on ILLIT’s new album – you skim through your article, making sure that there’s no spelling mistakes or other errors before sending it to Lily, the in-house copy editor. 

“I love it though,” you say honestly. “I love music, I love writing about it – plus, Stereo’s the best place to get off the ground running if you want to work in this industry. I was at ILLIT’s comeback showcase literally last week – do you know how many people would die to have this opportunity?”

“I have to get that job offer from Jisoo.” Your voice is laced with determination, and despite Yoonchae not understanding why in the world you’d want to stay, she gives you a nod in support. 

In the cubicle across, you hear a loud noise from another intern – you can’t tell if it’s a screech or a wail, or something in between. You and Yoonchae’s eyes snap towards the direction of the noise. It’s Yuna, and she looks towards you two with absolutely zero shame on her face, even if the entire office was startled by the sound. 

“It’s my favourite idol! He’s dating someone! How could he?” She’s saying it like it’s the end of the world.

You’re looking at Yuna like she’s insane. You can’t tell if she’s being serious or not, and you blink at her. “Um… are you okay?” 

Suddenly, her demeanour changes, and she smiles brightly at you. “Yeah! I was literally just being dramatic, I couldn’t care less,” she says, and you let out a sigh of relief. You didn’t really want to be working with someone who was so incredibly parasocial over some guy who barely knew her. “It’s just crazy how he even has the time with how busy his schedules are.” 

You hear the sound of heels clacking on the marble floor, and your eyes widen. It must be Jisoo. 

“Was that you?” Jisoo asks, pointing at you. “The one who screeched?” 

“Oh,” you stammer. “No, Jisoo – it was Yuna.” You felt bad for throwing her under the bus, but you weren’t going to lie to Jisoo and take the fall. Jisoo's eyes divert towards Yuna, who gulps. 

“What happened?” she asks. Jisoo doesn’t sound like she really cares. She does have better things to be doing than partaking in conversations with interns who she probably won’t remember the names of in two weeks. 

“Oh, just some… idol… dating,” Yuna says, acting like she doesn’t care at all. It’s hard for her to pretend that she doesn’t when a photo of said idol in question is in a picture frame sitting on her desk. “Maybe we should report on it briefly, or something…” 

Jisoo takes in a sharp breath, sucking her teeth. You can hear the disapproval just from the noise, as if she’s already prepared to get rid of you three. “Alright. Get back to work.” 

You turn your head quickly back to your laptop, not wanting to be berated by Jisoo. The disapproving tone was already enough, and you feel embarrassed under her gaze. You click onto your calendar to see what you’ve got going on next week. You’ve got two comeback showcases to attend with Yoonchae – IVE and CORTIS, along with a couple of music shows. You pencil them in your notebook, along with the words ‘remind Yoonchae to bring the camera!’ 

“You know,” Yoonchae hums. “Speaking of dating idols, I do wanna know what it must be like to date one. It’s like Yuna said – they’ve always got so much going on, how would they have the time? Hey, maybe you should write an article on this.” Her words aren’t meant to be serious, but you take it as such. 

You can hear your pulse in your ears as your brain processes what Yoonchae has said. She’s tapping away at her laptop like she hadn’t just pitched the most amazing idea in the world. 

“Wait,” you pipe up, dropping your pencil on the desk. It clanks to the ground, and you don’t even bother picking it up. Your eyes snapping up from your notebook to look at her. “You’re onto something.” 

Yoonchae’s idea, if put into action, would give you an inside scoop that no journalist had ever had access to before – even if you were cordially invited to the shows and showcases of every group on the planet. Everybody wanted to know what it was like to date an idol, there was no doubt about that. 

If you turned this into a piece, you knew it would tick all the boxes. Exclusive? Check. Daring? Check. Eye-catching? Check. Three big fat checks. It was perfect.  

This… this was exactly the pitch that would land you a full-time job at Stereo. For someone who said they hated working in the news publishing industry, Yoonchae had just given you a golden ticket to a full-time job at Stereo. You’re just upset that you hadn’t come up with it first.

“What it’s like to date an idol,” you hum under your breath as you brainstorm, drumming your fingers on your desk. “Sure, it may be gossipy and scandalous, but Jisoo was saying that we’re not getting enough clicks, right? And after… I don’t know. 10 shows, maybe? I could just… dump him. Or find a way for him to dump me.” 

You say that so casually, and you wince when you’ve realised what you’ve said. You’ve never been one to be a heartbreaker, or one to get into casual relationships with an ulterior motive, but you really wanted this job. 

Finding someone to even be able to “date” for this article would probably be difficult. And once you got them to fall in love with you, getting them to dump you would likely be easy. Idols barely had time for relationships anyways, right? You wouldn’t necessarily be heartbroken at the prospect of losing him, because you had a job to do, and he wouldn’t really care that much. No harm, no foul. 

“That’s brilliant,” Jisoo breathes out. “That’s absolutely brilliant.” 

You thought she had gone back to her office by now. Your head snaps to look at her, fear evident in your eyes until her words register in your brain. Jisoo had just said the idea was brilliant. Your heart is beating so incredibly fast you think it might jump out of your chest. 

“Write it,” Jisoo says, and her lips quirk up into a smile. It’s like she can see the thousands, if not millions of views that your piece will bring in to Stereo already. 

“If you can, of course. You’ve got two weeks left here, but I’m more than happy to extend your internship if you need more time to work on the article. And if it goes well…” she trails off, and you swear that if you could read her mind right now, you’re sure she’s about to say something along the lines of: you have a place here permanently. 

You look at her, bright-eyed and with determination. “Of course, Jisoo. I’ll get right to it,” you stammer. Jisoo nods at you approvingly before she walks back to her office, heels clicking on the floor with a certain enthusiasm that wasn’t there before. She’s excited about your article. Your boss – the one who was notoriously difficult to appease, was happy with an article pitch of yours. Well, Yoonchae gave you the idea, but technically, you’d be the one to flesh it out. 

Yoonchae looks at you, eyes wide with a look of bewilderment. “What… what have you gotten yourself into?” she asks, her tone laced with disbelief. She wheels her chair over to you, grabbing onto your shoulders and shaking you. 

“How… How the hell are you going to go bag an idol in the two weeks that we have here? Are you crazy?” she hisses, and the realisation of how difficult your task was actually sinks in. Thinking about it was fine and seemed easy enough, but now… now you actually had to do something. 

“I… I’m going to figure something out, Yoonchae,” you say. “I have to.” 

You wanted this job. You were going to make it work. 

Jisoo would get that article, and it's going to be the best article that she’s ever read in her life. 

The CORTIS comeback showcase is buzzing with people. 

You scan your media pass at the entrance and wait at the side before Yoonchae comes through. You’ve got your notebook, pens and laptops in your bag, and the two of you head towards your designated seats at the front. 

The plastic chairs are arranged in an orderly fashion, with yours and Yoonchae’s names printed out on paper and stuck to the chair to tell you where you both will be sitting. Much to your delight, you two are seated in the front row. 

When the two of you sit down, you pull out your laptop, setting it on top of your lap. It’s been three days since you told Jisoo that you’d be writing that article, and as the days have gone by, you think you might’ve been a little too confident.

Music Bank was at the end of the week, and you think that you probably have your best shot there, but waiting was making you incredibly nervous. You didn’t want Jisoo to scrap the idea before you even started. 

“So… found an idol to date yet?” Yoonchae almost reads your mind, and you groan as you open up your notes app. You click to the note titled ‘CORTIS comeback’, and all the questions that you have prepared pop up right in front of you. 

“No, I haven’t,” you sigh, tapping your foot on the ground. “Thank you for reminding me, Yoonchae.” 

Yoonchae smiles with amusement, as if she’s somewhat entertained by the predicament that you’ve put yourself into. You groan as you think about the article once again, and you scan through your options. You really could only take your pick from some 4th gen groups and the 5th gen groups. 

This assignment was way easier in your head. The dating and dumping part was easy. The part where you had to get an idol to want to get to know you enough to move on to the dating stage was the hard bit. 

Backstage, Martin peeks behind the curtains to get a good glimpse of the crowd. Although their new album just released today, Keonho just had to remind him of the bet as they were getting dressed. 

Now, Martin has to actually find someone to make them fall hopelessly in love with him. Keonho had been ever so gracious to say that the comeback showcase didn’t technically count as a show, so in reality, Martin kind of had 11 shows. One more show couldn’t possibly make much of a difference, but 11 was a little less daunting than 10. 

So now, he's searching amongst the crowd to see if he can find someone who he thinks would help him win the bet.

Keonho joins him, and it's like he can read Martin's mind, because he instinctively does the same. “Okay, let’s see. Which girl…” he hums. His eyes are scanning the crowd with hawk-like concentration. 

“Okay, what about her?” Keonho says, motioning towards a brunette girl sitting in the second row. 

“No,” Martin replies quickly, shaking his head. “Looks like she’d ghost me, but tell all her friends that we dated for a month.” 

“Hard to argue with that,” Keonho replies. Seonghyeon catches wind of what’s going on and decides to join the two of them. Seonghyeon’s eyes land on a girl sitting not far away from the brunette, and she’s got dyed pink hair. He tilts his chin towards her. 

“Her?” Seonghyeon proposes.

“Nope,” Martin says. “Feel like she’d ask me if I can give her BTS’ phone number. Which I also wish I had.”

“Fine,” Keonho says, and his eyes land on Yoonchae. “What about her?” He gestures towards her, but Martin’s eyes land on you. 

You’re typing away at your laptop with determined focus, and Martin doesn’t know why he finds it so intriguing. You’ve got one earphone in your ear, the other dangling as you talk to Yoonchae. You’re wearing a striped zip-up jacket and jeans – you’re not trying to be noticed at all, but it makes you stand out even more to Martin. You’re sitting in the front row with a media pass around your neck, so Martin knows that you’re definitely not a fan. 

That checks the box. 

For him to actually win the bet, he should’ve made it easy for himself. But there’s something about you that makes Martin want to actually get to know you better. And truthfully, he did like a challenge.

Keonho notices how Martin’s gone silent. He’s looking in the direction that Keonho had originally pointed towards, but he sees that Martin’s looking at you, rather than Yoonchae. “Ah,” Keonho hums. “The one sitting next to her’s caught your eye.” 

“Sure,” Martin replies casually. “You could say that. You said any non-fan, right? She fits the bill.” 

“Alright, Martin hyung,” Keonho grins in amusement. “10 shows. It’s all you’ve got to make her fall in love with you.” 

“That's all I need,” Martin replies. 

Martin prays he’s right.

The comeback showcase goes well. 

You enjoy the music a lot – you liked CORTIS’ debut album anyways, so you weren’t really surprised that they had released something good again. Their stage presence was always insane from the videos you’ve watched online, and witnessing it in person was no different. 

However, you did seem to notice one of the members’ – Martin’s – eyes on you a little too often. You also had a hunch that perhaps they had talked about you, because whenever there was someone asking a question from your direction, Keonho would elbow Martin with a knowing smirk on his lips. 

“So, what was that?” Eight out of ten?” Yoonchae asks you as she begins to pack up her things. The fans have been told to leave by now, and the only people really left are media and industry professionals. You look at what you’ve written down, and you’ve practically given five stars to all of the songs. The lowest is a 4.5, and you’d like to think that you have a pretty high bar for greatness. 

“I mean… nine?” you hum. “There’s always room for improvement, right?” 

“High praises,” you hear a voice that’s not Yoonchae interrupting your conversation. It’s also a voice that you’ve heard far too many times tonight. You turn to look at the stranger, and you meet eyes with none other than the Martin Edwards. “It means a lot. Thank you.” 

Yoonchae opens and closes her mouth like a fish, stunned at Martin’s sudden presence. But then she remembers something the same time you do – the article. She purposely moves to stand behind him, mouthing at you: ‘he’s the one!’

You know Martin Edwards is exactly who he thinks he is. 6 '3, gorgeous dyed blonde hair, impeccable music-making skills and the coolest fashion sense in the industry right now. If you hadn’t seen more of him on your social media, you’d be genuinely a little intimidated by him.

But you know that he’s a sweet guy. He’s also a little bit of a goofball too – loud, likes making his friends laugh, and often gives in to a little too much of his fans’ requests. The fan call videos were certainly something, and you’re really wondering how much he gets paid to tell someone else ‘I love you, you’re my girlfriend.’ 

He’s still in his clothes from the showcase – silver jewellery hangs around his neck, with three rings on each finger. You observe his features for perhaps maybe a little too long, and his lips curl up in the slightest hint of a smirk.  

Yoonchae clears her throat, giving you a wink. “So, I’m gonna go grab something for us at the convenience store nearby. (Name), I’ll be back in about 15 minutes.” 

Before you can protest, she’s already darted off. You curse under your breath before looking back at Martin, who’s eyeing you with a mischievous glint in his eye. You can’t quite place your finger on why that is, but maybe he caught you staring. 

“So… (Name),” he says. His voice is smooth, and his name rolls off your tongue like he’s testing the waters. There’s a certain cadence in his tone that sends butterflies straight to your stomach. “I’m glad you liked the album. We worked hard on it.” 

“I’m sure you did,” you beam. “Do you go thanking every member of the media after the showcase?” 

Martin’s airy laughter rings through the air, and his smile grows even wider. “Oh, no,” he says breezily, waving you off. “Just the pretty ones.” 

You’re knocked off your feet for just a split second. Was Martin Edwards flirting with you? And was it… dare you say… working? 

And suddenly, the article doesn’t feel so difficult anymore. With Martin Edwards standing right in front of you, you realise that you have the perfect candidate. 

His group was still new on the scene, but everybody wanted to get to know CORTIS just a little bit better. Your article would do that. Even if fans said that Martin was practically an open book, the boy standing in front of you now wasn’t necessarily the one you saw on stage mere minutes ago. 

Sure, he was still confident and assured. But there was the slightest difference in the way he carried himself – a little less guarded, a little less… idol-like. Perhaps it was the flirting, honestly. 

You come to your senses, quirking a brow at him. “Oh, so you think I’m pretty?” 

The air is electric, and usually you’d be nervous, but just this once, you think that it’s perfect. Martin’s grin somehow grows wider before he nods. 

“I do,” he hums. “Thought I said that before. And if my eyes didn’t deceive me just before your friend scurried off… you might’ve been staring at my face for just a smidge too long.” 

Your cheeks heat up. “I… I was not!” 

Martin lets out another laugh, clearly amused at how flustered you were. “I’m just teasing,” he replies. “Regardless, it’s not often I see someone working in the media that’s around the same age as us. And as I’m saying this, I’m hoping that you’re in your last year of high school.”

You nod at his words. “I am,” you reply. “Same age as you.” 

“Perfect,” he grins. “I’m glad I was right, or I would’ve embarrassed myself coming up to you.” 

“Right,” you chuckle. “So… any other pretty members of the media you want to thank?” you look around, and the exhibition hall is just about empty. Martin shakes his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “Just you.” 

“Way to make a girl feel special, Edwards,” you quip. Martin ignores how his heart flutters when you simply just call him by his last name. “What's the phone for? A selfie? Just a reminder that you're the idol there."

"You're funny," Martin replies. There's sincerity in his tone. "But, I was hoping that perhaps I could get your number.” 

You look at him, your lips curling up into a smile. “Ah, you’ve beat me to it,” you pout, jutting out your bottom lip. “I was hoping that I’d be the one to make that move.” 

Your words are awfully confident, making you sound completely unfazed at Martin’s flirtatious words. But inside, you’re internally screaming. You’re trying to hide your nerves, and Martin’s gaze on you is not helping as your thumb carefully presses the keys on the screen.

“There we go,” you say, pressing the ‘save’ button. “You should text me. I’d love to hear from you.” 

“You would?” Martin asks, almost in disbelief. He can’t believe how well the flirting is going. Keonho, Juhoon, James and Seonghyeon would so be losing their money. 

“Of course,” you beam. Your eyes tilt towards the exit, and you see Yoonchae standing there. She’s not hurrying you, but you know that it’s time to go. “Listen, I’ve got to head back home, but… yeah. Text me, and let’s hang out.” 

“Are you asking me out?” Martin says, a coy smile on his lips. 

“Maybe I am,” you reply. Your eyes dart back to Yoonchae again, and a sudden wave of boldness makes you inch closer to him, pressing a chaste kiss to Martin’s cheek. You watch as his cheeks flush bright pink, and you can’t help but feel satisfied with yourself. Got him, you think. “I’ll see you around, Edwards.” 

Before Martin can say anything, you’ve already rushed off. He instinctively brings a hand to his cheek, and he smiles triumphantly. 

“Oh, you’re already falling in love with me,” he says to himself, a wide grin on his lips. 

Meanwhile, as you’re darting off to the car, a similar expression graces your lips. “I’m gonna make you wish you were dead,” you whisper.

Conversation with Martin is surprisingly easy. 

He texts you as soon as he gets back to the dorm, and you reply just as quickly. You shoot off flirtatious messages every other second like a seasoned professional, and Martin replies with just as much enthusiasm. You just know he’s probably cheesing behind the screen. You don’t notice how you’re grinning at your phone like an idiot, though.

Martin is incredibly flirtatious, like you’ve seen online. You really thought it was all just fan service, but it turns out, Martin did really act that way. You’ve earned a new nickname now, thanks to him – pretty. 

Minutes turn into hours, and sure enough, the two of you found yourself talking to each other until four in the morning. It’s not until you remind him that he’s got a schedule tomorrow and that you’ve got work, and then you two say goodnight. 

Martin gives you recommendations of his favourite songs, and you rate them just like you usually do for Stereo. You find that your music taste is surprisingly similar, and Martin just tells you that ‘perhaps it’s a sign that we’re meant to be.’ You smile a little too wide at that response, and your heart flutters in the slightest way. You reply with a ‘I think so’, and Martin beams seeing those words on his screen. 

You didn’t think that it was that easy to get Martin Edwards to fall in love with you, but honestly at this point, you think that you’ve got him absolutely whipped. 

For three days, you and Martin talk non-stop. Whenever you’ve got a break, and he’s got a break, the two of you are talking about anything remotely that interests you. Bailey, another colleague of yours, tells you that you seem awfully invested in this considering that it’s just an article assignment. 

On the fourth day, you head into work and find that there’s a tray of iced coffees on your desk. Yoonchae looks at you with a knowing grin as you pick up the sticky note, and sure enough, it’s Martin’s handwriting. 

Hi, pretty. For you and the team. – Edwards.

You fail to hide the smile that’s unconsciously crept up on your lips. When Yoonchae points it out, you just tell her to shut up. This was all for the article, you remind yourself. You weren’t really in love with Martin Edwards. You hand out the coffees, and when you give one to Jisoo, she raises an eyebrow. 

“Did you bring this in?” she asks, and you shake your head. 

“Martin from CORTIS did,” you say. There’s a coy lilt in your tone, and Jisoo seems to remember the article. She smiles at you proudly, and gives you a pat on the shoulder before taking a sip of the coffee. 

“Good work,” she beams. “Can’t wait to see the article.” 

She then walks off, heels clicking on the floor. Yoonchae clears her throat to catch your attention, and you look at her, taking a sip of the coffee that Martin had bought you. 

“So… what’s the plan to get him to dump you? Because… getting him whipped seemed pretty fucking easy. Like, this is three-month relationship stuff.” she says, gesturing to the coffee on her own table. Bailey, who's curiosity is piqued at the sound of Yoonchae's words, rolls her chair over to you to join in the conversation.

“I’m going to be entirely too much, too overbearing and too clingy to the point where he has to break up with me,” you say. Your plan is absolutely fool-proof. “They’re heading to New York in three weeks. Let’s get this done in the 10 shows they have in Korea.” 

Bailey hums, nodding at your words. “Okay, but like… do you have any specifics?” 

“Calm down,” you reply. “I don’t have to move that fast. We’ve known each other only for four days. No sane person is going to ask someone to be their girlfriend in four days.” 

“You have three weeks, (Name) – you better hurry up…” Yoonchae replies, her voice trailing off. “Maybe just a date? Tonight? You know how they’ve got to basically be in the middle of the night though, right – because cameras are everywhere. Your sleep schedule is going to be fucked when you’re dating Martin.” 

“Well, you didn’t have to put so much emphasis on the ‘fucked’,” you raise an eyebrow. “But yeah, a date sounds good. I’ll text him now.” 

you | 7:32am thanks for the coffee, edwards it was really sweet of you can i thank you with a date? 

martin edwards | 7:33am  ah, i was waiting for that text from you of course!  tomorrow? after you’re done with work?

you | 7:34am  sounds like a plan wear something nice

martin edwards | 7:34am i always do gonna step it up to impress you though can’t wait to see you, pretty

Yoonchae peers over your shoulder. “Don’t they have to go to Inkigayo tomorrow? How will you two have time to actually… go on a date?”

“Shoot, you’re right,” you reply. You quickly type out a message to Martin, your fingers flying over the screen. 

you | 7:35am you have inkigayo

martin edwards | 7:35am  ah. right date at inkigayo? you could be my plus one you’ll be there anyways right? as media?

you | 7:36am  first date at inkigayo is highly unorthodox  i’m in, though only because it’s you 

martin edwards | 7:37am i feel so special  sneaking around is gonna be awfully romantic i’ve got dance practice now and i’m sure you’ve got work talk soon pretty 

“Well… first date at Inkigayo,” you say, almost in disbelief. So this was what it was like to date an idol – music show dates, late-night dates, probably getting blown off because dance practice takes precedence. You note that down in your notebook, because you’re sure that it’ll be of use to you later. “That’s settled.” 

“I suppose it is,” Yoonchae says. She’s still in disbelief at the entire interaction – she was peering over your shoulder the entire time. “Also, you should probably change his contact name to something other than his full name. It’s not that romantic.” 

“I… ‘Chae, he’s not my real boyfriend,” you say, pointedly. “Heck, he hasn’t even asked me to be his girlfriend. Which actually reminds me, I have to get on that.” You do take her advice though, and change his name simply to ‘Edwards’ with an orange heart emoji. It’s plausible enough, considering that you do call him exclusively by his last name. 

“I must say… this is going surprisingly well,” Bailey hums. “Even though I know it’s really new. Just… don’t go falling in love with him, or something. That would ruin the entire thing.” 

You laugh, dismissing Bailey's words as if they were ludicrous. “Don’t worry,” you hum, your tone laced with a little too much confidence.

“I’m not going to actually fall in love with Martin Edwards.” 

For someone who’s allegedly not invested in this ‘relationship’ at all, you do spend an awfully long time picking out your outfit for Inkigayo tonight. 

CORTIS had a reputation for being incredibly fashionable – if you were going to be introduced as ‘Martin Edwards’ talking stage and to-be girlfriend’ tonight, you had to at least look the part. 

You opt for something so outrageously Martin-esque to the point where you look like you could genuinely be the sixth member of CORTIS. So much so, that any random staff member would probably think that you pulled it out of his closet. 

Members of the media were supposed to be unassuming, trying to avoid the public eye at all costs – but just for today, you were going to break that rule. Just based off of your outfit alone, you wanted it to be glaringly obvious that you were talking to Martin. 

You pull on these black, chunky boots that you haven’t worn in forever (you even have to blow the dust off of them) lacing them up with a smile on your lips. Martin Edwards was so going to freak out when he saw you. You could just envision it. 

Yoonchae looks at you oddly when you jump into the car – this was certainly not your style at all. “Okay, Martin’s girl. You might as well just dye your hair blonde too,” she quips. Usually you’d tell her to shut up, but that was exactly the reaction you were looking for.

edwards 🧡 | 6:23pm let me know when you’re here we’re in dressing room 103

you | 6:24pm im on my way see you 🧡🧡🧡

“You go find Martin,” Yoonchae tells you, a playful smile on her lips. “I’ll tell you where we’re seated for tonight’s performances… if you’ll even be joining me here.”

You laugh, waving goodbye to her before you go off and find dressing room 103. You see a bunch of staff members at Inkigayo give you odd looks. They saw you here last week too, and you most certainly were not dressed like this. A girl you’ve made conversation with a couple of times – her name was Yoojung – mouths ‘Martin fan?’ at you, and you simply give her a wide grin before disappearing down the corridor. 

You knock on dressing room 103, tapping your foot on the floor. Your mind runs through the plan – too overbearing, too clingy, too boisterous. You’re going to make Martin go insane. 

Martin opens the door, since he was expecting you anyways. But what he did not expect was for you to be dressed in clothes that seemed like they were pulled from his closet. He looks you up and down, mouth opening and closing as if he’s about to speak – but all the words he has to say become strangled in his throat. 

“Hey,” you say, trying to sound casual. You want him to think that no, this outfit did not take me forever. 

“You look…” Martin stutters. 

Time to pack on the dramatics, you think. “Gorgeous? Stunning? Beautiful?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him. “Tell me something I don’t know, Edwards.” 

Martin’s brain almost short-circuits. He’s still at a complete loss of words, and for a split second he thinks that Seonghyeon may be right – does he even know how to flirt? He’s trying to rack his brain for a compliment, or anything that makes it known that he thinks you look good. 

Keonho clears his throat, and it brings Martin back to his senses – the bet. Time for him to make you fall hopelessly in love and make you weak in the knees, he thinks. He instantly puts a smile on his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “All of those things.” 

“Next time though, if you wanted to dress like me, you should’ve just said so,” he adds. He hopes Seonghyeon’s listening – he was about to deliver a masterclass in flirting. “Just wear my actual clothes instead.” 

Your heart flutters a little too much at those words, and for a brief second, Martin thinks that he can see your confidence falter ever so slightly. Bingo, he thinks. Another win. 

“Oh, so that’s an invitation for me to just wear all your clothes, isn’t it?” you ask. “Moving fast, Edwards.” You peek behind him to see the other four boys watching the two of you talk with curiosity. Keonho’s eyes are practically sparkling. 

You raise your voice a little before you say your next sentence. “Mind you, you still haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend.”

You don’t know which member it is that hollers loudly hearing your words. Martin turns around so fast you think he’s going to snap his neck. He glares at the four of them, before diverting his attention back to you. 

This was going exceptionally well. Four days in, and you already wanted to be his girlfriend. Anyone who said that he didn’t have game was going to regret it. 

“Right,” he says, dragging out the word as a smile plays on his lips. “Let me introduce you to the members first, and then we’ll talk about that, pretty.” 

He opens the door a little wider to actually let you into the dressing room, and the four of them blink at you, stunned when they see your outfit. Your outfit was almost a carbon-copy of something that they think they’ve seen Martin wear before. Was it a little tacky to dress almost identical to your talking stage? Probably. But their reactions were golden, and you hope to God that Martin’s cheeks are heating up in embarrassment. 

“Guys, this is (Name),” Martin says, introducing you. You beam at the four of them just before lacing your fingers with Martin. The action comes out of nowhere, and Martin freezes for a split second before he closes his hand around yours. Your hand is warm, and Martin doesn't know why having your hand in his just feels oddly... right.

You swear Juhoon’s eyes pop out of his skull. Seonghyeon’s jaw practically drops. James puts his glasses back on to make sure that his eyes aren’t deceiving him. Keonho shrieks before falling to the floor dramatically. 

“I’m his…” your voice trails off. Suddenly, an idea pops into your brain. What did anyone in a talking stage hate the most? 

The dreaded ‘what are we?’ question. 

Martin would hate it even more if you asked that question right in front of his friends. It was perfect.

A devious grin threatens to creep up onto your lips before you turn to Martin. “What are we, exactly?” 

Seonghyeon chokes on his water while Juhoon has to suppress a laugh. Martin can’t believe you asked that question in front of everyone – you were impatient, alright. He was actually going to ask you to be his girlfriend, but in private. But considering your outfit choice today, perhaps you were someone who wanted to make your affection for him known. He knows that he should feel embarrassed, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. 

Four days is awfully fast to ask someone to be their girlfriend, but Martin wanted to win this bet. Badly. 

And the first step to actually make it known to his friends that he was going to win, was to loudly announce that you were his girlfriend. Martin can’t wait for Keonho to pay for those Rick Owens shoes that he’s been eyeing for ages. 

“She’s my girlfriend.” he says, a coy smile tugging at his lips.

The room practically explodes with questions, shouts and what you think are cheers. You weren’t exactly expecting this reaction from Martin, but it’s more than welcomed, considering the predicament that you’ve gotten yourself into. The first half of your job was done – you’ve gotten the idol. Now you just needed him to dump you. 

But for some odd reason, him telling everyone in the room that you were his girlfriend makes your chest tighten ever so slightly. You ignore the feeling, telling yourself that it’s just nerves. You’ll ease more into the role of annoying girlfriend as the days go on. 

You look at him, tilting your head with a small smile on your lips. “Didn’t even ask me,” you whisper in his ear. You hear Martin let out a light laugh amidst the chaos that those three words had created. 

“Isn’t that what you were hinting at me to do when you arrived at the door?” he replies, voice matching yours. Touché, you think. 

“Well,” you say, turning to face him. “That’s true. And I’m happy you did.” Your eyes quickly divert towards the four boys sitting on the couch – they’re still going on and on about how Martin actually has a girlfriend. They’re saying it as if they’re in disbelief that he’s actually with you. 

Believe it, you think. To really sell it, you dramatically plant a kiss on Martin’s cheek. You’re thanking yourself that you decided to wear lipstick that wasn’t transfer-proof today, and you can practically hear Keonho’s gasp. When you pull away, there it is – a glaringly obvious stain of your lips on the side of his cheek. 

“Oops,” you say, but Martin can tell you’re not really sorry about it at all. You bring a hand up to wipe the stain off, and Martin just shakes his head, gently clutching your wrist as if to tell you to leave it. 

“I’ll just use some makeup remover,” he replies, calmly. You’re surprised that Martin’s face isn’t heating up with embarrassment – maybe you just had to be even more dramatic than you already were. In fact, he was smiling like an idiot in love. Was he crazy? “Thanks for the good luck kiss, girlfriend.” 

It’s official. All Martin has to do is get you to stay with him until the end of the tenth show. All you have to do is get him to dump you before the tenth show. 

And as you squeeze Martin’s hand a little tighter before planting another overly obnoxious kiss on his cheek, you’re almost certain that you’re going to get that full-time job. 

Over the next week, Martin realises that first impressions are deceiving. 

You’re not who he thought you’d be when he first saw you at the comeback showcase – rather, you’re the complete opposite. Loud, boisterous, unrestrained. You’re overly sweet and romantic in a way that Martin thought only existed in rom-coms. It’s nice to be showered in love and affection, and Martin – despite his better judgment – allows his heart to flutter whenever you lean a little closer, or when his name rolls off your tongue like honey over the phone. 

You send him texts almost every single second now that you two are officially a couple (can he even call you his actual girlfriend when this was all a bet?). You also show up at almost every performance of theirs throughout the week. 

The members and the staff all get used to your presence rather quickly – it’s not surprising, considering that whenever you’re there, your presence somehow commands the entire room. Everyone’s eyes are on you, and he doesn’t know if he loves or hates the extra attention that you bring with you. In addition, Martin doesn’t even know how you have the time to basically cling to him like glue when you’ve got a full-time job. 

His phone pings again, and he already knows who it’s from. It’s you, sending him twenty messages in a row – each text is one word, and Martin would usually get a little frustrated, but it was you. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to actually get mad at you, which is the crazy part considering that this was all a bet. 

You send him four selfies of yourself sitting in the front row of the same exhibition centre where you guys had met. He’s admiring how pretty you look until he realises the article of clothing that you’re wearing is awfully familiar. It’s then when it hits him – you’re wearing his striped red and black zip-up hoodie. 

The one that he precisely wanted to wear today. 

Martin knows that the zip-up basically swallows you, because he’s seen you in his other clothes before. His heart does a flip at the thought. It’s just a bet, he reminds himself. 

You look pretty, he tells you. You respond almost immediately.

I know, is your response. Martin doesn’t realise how hard he’s grinning at his screen right now. 

Is that my jacket? he asks you. 

Your response? It’s mine now. 

His nostrils flare slightly at the fact that you’ve just claimed his favourite zip-up hoodie, but he relents and lets you have it anyway. You did look good in it, he had to admit. 

You practically demand his attention at all times, which is a little impossible considering his job. More often than not, whenever he’s practicing with the rest of the members, his phone would be buzzing so much to the point where it fell off the bench. Keonho only looks at him teasingly before Martin quickly shoots back a response to you, telling you that he’s got dance practice. 

You don’t seem to care, and you continue spamming him anyways. Despite this, Martin can’t seem to push you away. Or mute your contact. 

You’re sitting in the exhibition centre, confused as to why Martin hasn’t gone batshit crazy over the fact that you’ve taken his favourite zip-up without any warning. Keonho had warned you about how Martin didn’t like sharing his clothes. Perhaps you just had to take it a little further, then. 

So, a day later, Martin opens the door to his dorm to find you standing there. You hadn’t announced that you were coming, and Martin assumed that you had work anyways. What he didn’t know was that you’d asked Jisoo for some time off today to work on the article – it was going well, you had told her. At those words, Jisoo nodded, giving you time off without a single thought. 

“Hi?” Martin asks, stunned at the sight of you at his doorstep. 

“I thought you’d be a little happier to see me,” you pout, and Martin shakes his head. 

“No, no!” he says hastily. “I was just surprised to see you. Come on in,” he opens the door a little wider for you. You kick your shoes off at the door, and Martin winces a little when you just leave them there instead of putting it on the shoe rack. He decides to do it for you, like any good boyfriend would – placing your shoes next to a pair of his own sneakers. 

“Thank you, ‘Tinnie.” you beam, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Even though there’s nobody else there right now, you make it a big show and exaggerate every motion. You deliberately say ‘mwah’ when you pull away, admiring the lipstick print on Martin’s cheek. 

Oddly, Martin doesn’t wipe it off. Maybe he’s insane. Or maybe he’s just insanely whipped like Yoonchae said. 

“Tinnie is a new one,” he hums. “Finally moved on from calling me Edwards?”

You shake your head, bounding down the corridor like it’s your place rather than his. Martin follows you like a lost puppy. “Nope,” you reply, popping the ‘p’. “Just trying out something new. But, I wanted to grab some clothes.” 

Martin furrows his brows. “You want to go shopping?” he asks. “Sure, I’ll just go grab my coat.” 

You hold a hand out to stop him. “No, I want to wear some of your clothes,” you say like it’s the most casual thing in the world. It’s totally not like you two have only been dating for a week. “If that’s alright with you, of course?” 

Martin can’t say no to you. Not when he remembers how nice you looked in his striped zip-up. He nods reluctantly, and you squeal, dragging him towards his closet. 

You’re raiding Martin’s closet like it’s a department store sale. You’re grabbing hanger after hanger and asking him to hold onto them for you, and Martin can barely keep up. In five minutes, he’s somehow holding five of his own hoodies and three of his t-shirts, while you’re trying on another one of his zip-ups. 

You’re twirling around in it, looking at your own reflection in the mirror. You look at Martin for his approval, and he nods, giving you a thumbs up. “Looks great on you, pretty.” 

You really should be used to the compliments that Martin dishes out, but your cheeks heat up ever so slightly. Bailey’s voice rings in your head – don’t fall in love with him. You can’t believe you have to remind yourself. 

Seonghyeon walks in to grab a jacket, and he’s stunned at the scene. Martin’s got hoodies and shirts and jumpers draped over him as you pull out something else from his side of the closet. 

“What the…” he says, and Martin turns to look at him. 

“Hi,” Martin says. He can barely see. There’s a hoodie over his head, and he can’t bring his arm up to pull it off. “(Name) wanted some of my clothes.” Seonghyeon, who’s ever so kind, pulls the hoodie off Martin’s head. 

“Okay,” Seonghyeon giggles. “Have fun, you lovebirds.” Before he leaves, he mouths at Martin, 10 shows. Though your presence is awfully over-the-top, Seonghyeon doesn’t quite mind having you around. It was rather funny to witness yours and Martin’s dynamic. 

You take four more pieces of his clothing, and Martin helps you fold them all up neatly before placing them into a bag. “There you go,” he says, snaking an arm around your waist to pull you closer. “Happy?” 

“Very,” you giggle. You do feel a little guilty for stealing half his closet. “Thank you, ‘Tin. Do you want to watch a movie? I’ll let you pick, since I’ve taken so many of your clothes.” Though it was for an article, you weren’t a monster. You don’t realise how instinctively, you’ve leaned into his touch. 

Martin nods, grinning as he kisses your temple like he’s done this a million times before. It’s getting awfully easy for him to slip into the role of your boyfriend. “Sure,” he hums. “We can watch something on my laptop.” 

You curl up next to him on his bed, your head resting on his chest and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind playing on his laptop. Martin presses a kiss to the top of your head, his arms wrapped around you. 

This domesticity feels a little too natural. A little too real – like you two are actually two teenagers in love.

The slightest twinge of guilt pangs at your heart. You don't know it, but when the thought of the bet flashes through Martin's head, that same feeling strikes him in the chest too.

Martin’s eyes leave the screen for a split second to look at you, and he pushes the thought of the bet to the back of his head. 

His closet may be a little bit more empty now, but his heart feels the slightest bit more full.

“I think Martin is a lunatic.” you confess to Yoonchae at work one day. 

CORTIS had five more shows left in Korea before they were due to leave for New York City, and any logical person would have already broken up with you at this point.

But for some strange reason, Martin stayed. Not even just stayed – pulled you closer, even. He flirted with you more. Peppered your face with kisses. Proudly showed you off to his friends. 

He’s either insane, or he loves crazy girls. You don’t know which is worse. 

What you didn't know, of course, was that Martin was practically clinging on to this relationship for dear life. 10 shows, he reminds himself. He needed a girl to stay with him for three full weeks and to somehow put up with his insanely hectic schedule. Martin half-expected to barely see you, but you somehow managed to find a way to sneak into his life more often than not. It was welcomed, of course – he could show his friends that yes, he could flirt, and yes, an idol was able to date.

You were acting batshit crazy, and he still wanted you to be his girlfriend. Martin still hasn't dumped your ass, and that was absolutely shocking.

Idols were always busy, so you decided to do the very thing that all busy people hated: you spammed Martin all day. 

You sent him stupid TikToks, telling him to reply to each and every single one. You called him at random hours, sent him voice messages, and practically demanded his attention every single second. 

The crazy thing was, Martin would reply to every TikTok. He’d always pick up. He’d reply to every single voice message with his own, and you hated how you always smiled hearing his voice and his loud laugh through your headphones. 

You showed up unannounced to so many performances to the point where his manager would only sigh, and reluctantly let you in. You’ve embarrassed him by showering him with affection in front of quite literally everyone. You heard how Keonho tried – and failed – to hide a shriek when you made a big show of calling Martin ‘baby’ five minutes before they were due to head on stage. 

One night at his dorm, you’d even spent one whole hour asking the most basic questions about music production, forcing him to overexplain like he was teaching a toddler. You knew all the answers to the questions, but you’d asked them anyway just to rile him up. 

Martin thinks that for someone who’s working at Stereo, you should know. But regardless, he explains it all to you patiently, smiling like he’s glad that his girlfriend is actually interested in what he does – much to your dismay. 

Martin didn’t even bat an eye when you purposely stole all of his favourite clothes from his closet a few days ago. You’re sitting at your desk in the Stereo office, wearing Martin’s hoodie that is outrageously large on you. You’re shocked that he didn’t protest more, especially when you grabbed one of the expensive ones. Instead, he smiled, told you that you looked gorgeous, folded it up neatly and then gave it to you. 

You also realise that you don’t hate the affection that he showers you with. It feels quite nice, actually – to be cared for by Martin Edwards. 

But, this was truly not going well for your article. 

“Why is that?” Yoonchae asks. “Because he hasn’t dumped you?” 

“Yes!” you exclaim, as if it was the obvious answer. “He’s staying! Which is the crazy part! Idols don’t have time for this clingy, over-the-top nonsense, do they? So it’s either he’s insane, or he loves crazy girls.” 

“There’s another obvious answer,” Bailey chimes in, a smile playing on her lips. “He just likes you.” 

Bailey’s words hit you like a truck, and you ignore how your heart jumps at the thought. Martin Edwards likes you? You hate to say it, but that was truly… not implausible. But if Martin actually liked you – with all your craziness – surely, he had to be just the slightest bit insane. 

“I…” your cheeks heat up. “Okay.” you grumble, eyes diverting back to your laptop screen. You need to figure out a way to drive Martin absolutely up the wall – he had a strong resolve, there was no doubt about it. Something about music seemed right. 

Your eyes sparkle with delight when you remember that Martin said that he was going to be working on some music tonight in his studio. Something about recording some adlibs and some lines for their next album. Even while promoting music that was released recently, Martin was always working on something new. It was honestly incredibly admirable. 

So, you find yourself slumped on a chair next to Martin at 9:30 at night, watching as he works on a new song. There’s a microphone in front of his lips as he clips sections together with silent precision. His brows are furrowed in concentration, and you deem it the perfect time to enact your plan. 

“Tinnie,” you say, dragging out his name. He hums, acknowledging you, but his eyes don’t leave the screen. You nudge him gently, and he glances towards you. There’s a soft look in his eye, and a small smile graces his lips. “What do you think about this dog?” 

You show him a picture of this random white poodle that came up on your For You page. He squints at it, nodding. “It’s cute, baby. Why?” he asks, before his eyes divert back to his screen again. 

“I want a dog,” you say. “Let’s get a dog.” 

That catches Martin’s attention. “You want… us to get a dog?” he asks, in complete disbelief. You nod, and Martin’s eyes bug out of his skull. He can’t believe what you’ve just said. A dog was a big relationship commitment, right? 

Martin could barely take care of himself sometimes – how was he going to take care of a dog? And who was going to pay for the dog? He’d made enough money from the song royalties, but still. The proposal was a little insane. 

“That’s really sweet, baby – but we’ve only been dating for like a week,” he hums, hand gently caressing your shoulder. “And I don’t know how we’d even take care of it – would it live at your house? It can’t live in our dorm, you know.” 

You pout at his words. 

“I’m sorry. We can… go to a dog cafe, or something. I’ll take you sometime next week,” Martin looks at you sympathetically. Just give me a few minutes to work on this song, is that alright? I have to record some bits tonight, and then we can watch a movie.” 

You nod, letting out a small sigh. Martin thinks it’s because he lightly rejected your proposal for you two to get a dog. In reality, it was really because you can’t seem to figure out a way to get Martin to actually dump you. What normal person asks their boyfriend of one week to get a dog with them? 

Martin glances at you before he pulls up the lyrics of the song on his phone. He taps the record button, and just as he’s about to sing into the microphone, your voice cuts through the air. 

“Tinnie,” you pipe up, and Martin pauses the recording. He really wanted to get this song finished by tonight. You see the slightest hint of frustration on his face, and you do feel bad – but despite all your past attempts to get him to drive you away, nothing else seemed to work. 

“Hmm?” he asks. 

“Do you have any drinks?” you ask, and Martin nods, rolling his chair back so he can open the mini-fridge under the desk. He pulls out a can of Coke – he knows your favourite – cracking it open for you before sliding it over to you. 

“Thank you, Tinnie,” you beam. Martin thinks that seeing your smile is worth it, even if he did have to pause recording for a bit. Even if you sometimes did have awfully bad timing, he’s realising that he’s grown accustomed to your antics. “I’ll be quiet now.” 

“Okay,” he replies. “Thank you. I’ll be quick.”

You take a loud, dramatic sip of your drink just as Martin presses record. He pauses it again before turning to you, and this time, frustration is evident on his features. 

Guilt washes over you, and you realise that honestly, you didn’t really want Martin to get so mad at you to the point where he ended things. He looks tired, and you know it’s probably from a mix of hectic promotions, working on music and dealing with your incredibly annoying ass. 

Martin was too sweet for his own good, and you’re suddenly re-evaluating every little thing. You didn’t like seeing him upset, and you certainly didn’t want him to be upset at you.

You look at him sheepishly. “Sorry.” you wince, and Martin shakes his head, waving it off. 

“It’s okay.” he sighs, but exasperation is evident in his tone. He huffs, pressing the record button again.

This time, you don’t interrupt – and now you know why everyone in the industry calls him a musical genius. Martin’s working like a seasoned professional, putting in clips of his voice here and there. He presses play on the section that he was just working on, nodding in silent approval when he’s satisfied. 

You realise that you don’t want to drive him incredibly insane to the point where he can’t bear to see your face anymore. The article wasn’t going to write itself, but writing it meant that you had to hurt Martin. And looking at him now, and thinking about all of the times he had put up with you, you really didn’t want to hurt him. But you needed a way out.

The guilt is eating you alive as you sit there, making sure to quietly sip your drink. You think about every single moment you’ve shared with him for the last week, the flirting, the affection, the laughter – you don’t really want to let that go either. What were you going to do? This wasn’t supposed to be that complicated. You didn’t intend to actually catch feelings— 

Oh. 

Shit.

You might have feelings for him. 

Everything clicks into place right then and there. You like Martin Edwards. You make sure to say those words in your head so you don’t interrupt him, but those words settle in your chest like they actually belong there. 

Fuck. You did the one thing Bailey told you not to do. 

“Hey,” he says softly, snapping you out of your thoughts. You look up at him, and Martin doesn’t know why you’re looking at him a little differently. Your gaze is soft, warm, and filled with what Martin thinks – and he doesn’t realise, but hopes – might be love. He doesn’t think he’s seen this look in your eye before. “I’m done.” 

“Okay,” you say. Your voice is quieter than it’s ever been before. Martin’s slightly startled at the change. “Tin, I’m sorry.” 

Martin furrows his brows. “What for?” 

Everything, you want to say. “Interrupting you when you were working,” is what you say instead. Martin shakes his head, pulling you close in a hug. 

“It’s okay,” he replies. He presses a kiss to your cheek to comfort you, and you hate how much it works. “Don’t worry about it, baby.” 

You smile, albeit a little stiffly. “Movie?” you ask, pretending that everything is fine. Martin nods, gesturing to the couch situated at the back of the studio. 

You sit down on the couch, and Martin plops right down next to you, giving you a bright smile as he places his laptop on his lap. “What’d you wanna watch?” he asks, and you shrug, resting your cheek on his shoulder. 

“You pick,” you reply, and Martin nods. You lace your fingers with his, and he randomly clicks on a movie that he thinks Keonho had offhandedly mentioned was good before. He presses play before glancing at you to make sure you’re okay. 

Martin squeezes your hand a little tighter, just to let you know that he’s here. You hate that he’s far too good to you. 

You gulp, trying to ignore how the guilt is eating you alive. 

Then, you take a deep breath before pressing a chaste kiss to his shoulder, slipping into the role that you think you’ve gotten too good at playing. 

You have to end it with Martin. 

It’s what you realise is best for the both of you. You get your article, and he gets to rid himself of an annoying, overbearing girlfriend. You head into work with a little less enthusiasm, and Yoonchae can immediately tell. 

“What’s wrong?” Yoonchae asks, as you let out another loud sigh. Martin’s face is everywhere on your Instagram, and you hate that your lips instinctively tug into a smile at the sight of him. You were in love, damn it. 

“Nothing,” you reply. “The article’s just… a little harder than I thought.” You weren’t necessarily lying. Every word you typed out felt wrong. The bitter taste of guilt in the back of your mouth reminds you that you were technically a horrible person for inflicting psychological warfare on Martin Edwards, who couldn’t possibly hurt a fly. 

“Oh?” Yoonchae asks, surprised. “I thought it was going well with Martin.” 

“It is,” you mutter under your breath. “A little too well. He won’t end it with me. So I think I’m going to have to do it.” 

Bailey quirks a brow. “Oh, really? How are you going to do it?” 

“I don’t know,” you reply. “Maybe come up with some lame excuse saying that he doesn’t have time for us anymore, and it’s breaking my heart.” Bailey nods, giving you a look that indicates that it’s not that bad of an idea. 

You knew that Martin’s schedule was packed today – he had two variety shows to film and then Music Bank later. If anything, today was the perfect day to spam him and then complain about how you got no response. Then, you could use that as an excuse to break up. 

It was better to get it done early on before you both got too invested. Your heart does, however, twist at the thought of letting go. But it was for the better, you remind yourself. And you had an article to write. 

So, after one whole day of no responses from Martin like you’d planned, you find yourself standing outside the CORTIS dorm, rehearsing your words. You take a deep breath, telling yourself that you could do this. You could play the clingy, overbearing girlfriend role to perfection – this was the last time that you had to, hopefully. 

You knock, and you hear Martin’s voice. You fail to stop the smile spreading across your lips. 

When he opens the door, he instantly beams when he sees you. “Hi, baby!” He moves to wrap his arms around you in a hug, and for a split second, you nearly let him – until you remember that you’re going to break up with him. 

“I can’t believe you,” You slip into your role, sniffling to show how heartbroken you were. “I sent you messages all day and you didn’t reply to me! It’s like I don’t matter to you anymore.” 

Martin steps back in horror. Shit. Did he mess up? Well, not really, he thinks. He was far too busy – he barely had time to even check his phone all day, but seeing you heartbroken in front of his doorstep makes his stomach twist.

“No, no,” he says, reaching out to pull you into a hug in an attempt to comfort you, and you push him away. “Baby, I’m so sorry – I was really busy all day, and I didn’t have time to check my phone. The guys and I just got home, and I was going to text you, believe me!” 

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you say. Your words are absolutely ridiculous, and you know it. “I think we need to break up.” 

Saying those words makes your heart sink. You hated it. You didn’t want to let Martin Edwards go.

Martin’s heart drops. The rest of the members can hear everything, and all of their eyes widen. Martin had not a single clue of what to do. He didn’t reply for one day and you wanted to break up? This was ridiculous – he turns to Juhoon, who’s shaking his head as if to say: don’t ask me! 

He then looks at Keonho, who’s reminding him: 10 shows.

10 shows. He’s got a week left until he hits 10 shows. Shit. If you ended it with him right now, he would lose the bet. 

Asides from that, Martin found that he genuinely did care for you. He didn’t want you to hate him over his schedule being far too packed. He had to find a way to reason with you so you’d stay – not just for the bet, he tells himself. 

“No, (Name) – baby, please,” Martin’s begging. “I’m sorry, please stay.” 

Seonghyeon’s watching this as if it’s the best episode of television he’s seen in his life. Martin Edwards, begging for his overdramatic, overly clingy girlfriend to stay with him. This was gold. 

What did couples do when their relationship was in trouble? Martin racks his brain for ideas. 

He’d apologised already. What about gifts? He could get you those. Couples counselling? 

“What?” you pipe up. It’s only then when Martin realises that he’s said ‘couples counselling’ out loud. His eyes widen with panic, before he pretends like that’s what he intended all along. 

“Yes!” he says. “Let’s do couples counselling. Please, let’s fix this, baby.” Desperation is evident in his tone, and you’re so shocked at his proposal to the point where you don’t quite know what to say. 

“I…” you stammer out. You look at Martin, and you realise that you really can’t say no to him. Fuck, you think.

You’d have to find a fucking couples counsellor. Or someone who could pretend to be one. Maybe you could just get Yoonchae or Bailey to say that the two of you weren’t meant to be, and then that could be your excuse to end it. 

Yes, that would work, you think. 

“Okay,” you sigh, reluctantly. You suppose that you were in this predicament for a little longer. "I'm picking the therapist."

Martin lets out a loud exhale in relief. He's unbelievably happy that you've decided to give your relationship another chance, despite all this being a bet. A little voice in the back of his mind tells him that he seems to care more about you than the bet now. Even if you did, at times, drive him a little crazy.

He pulls you closer to him in a hug, and this time, you let him. 

The smell of blackberries and cedar envelopes you in a comforting embrace, and you allow yourself to melt in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against your hair. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek and it’s all just too genuine – you feel awful. 

Your heart twists with guilt at how genuine he sounds in his apology. 

He holds you a little closer, and all you know is that you don’t deserve Martin Edwards at all. 

One day later, you find yourself in Bailey’s apartment – or rather, Dr. Sok’s apartment. You didn’t even have to beg or bribe Bailey to pretend to be a fake therapist for you and Martin – she had said yes immediately, and with a little too much enthusiasm. Bailey wanted to witness whatever the hell you two had going on firsthand. 

“It’s going to be good,” she says, tapping her fingers together mischievously. She’s talking about it as if your couples’ counselling appointment is going to be the best movie she’s seen in years. 

Martin’s sitting beside you as he taps his foot nervously on the floor. This was insane. He feels a little too out of place here. Why did he agree to couple’s counselling for a relationship that had only just reached the two week mark? 

Despite Bailey’s living room looking very much not like a therapists’ office, she comes up with some lame excuse saying that her actual office (which doesn’t exist) is going under some construction. She peers at the two of you through her blue light glasses, leaning forward as she holds a clipboard in your hands. 

“So, (Name), Martin. Tell me what’s going wrong in your relationship,” Bailey says. You take a deep breath before slipping back into the role of annoying, overbearing girlfriend. 

“He doesn’t have time for us and this relationship!” you huff, crossing your arms. Martin gives you a pained look, sighing. “He’s not taking us seriously anymore.” You sniffle a little for good measure to really sell the fact that you’re heartbroken. 

“I… I have a lot to do, baby – you know this,” he pleads “I’m trying my best to make as much time for you as I can, I’m sorry.” You watch as Bailey writes something down on her clipboard. She’s never met Martin before, but she could immediately tell that he harboured a lot of affection for you. 

She’s starting to realise that maybe you were right in thinking that Martin was a lunatic – she’d heard about all the antics you’ve pulled, and yet, Martin was still grovelling and wanted you to stay? 

“It’s like you care more about being an idol than me,” you say – as the words leave your mouth, you realise how unreasonable it was. Perfect. You needed Martin to dump your ass. The longer you stayed in this ‘relationship’, the harder you knew you were going to fall. You were already in deep, and you needed to get out before this article left you completely heartbroken.

“I…” Martin’s at a complete loss for words. “I can balance my work and our relationship, baby. Please.” 

Bailey hums, tapping her pencil on the side of her clipboard as an idea pops up in her brain. You watch as her eyes light up in that way you’ve seen before – you just know this is going to be bad. You’re praying to God that you’re wrong. 

“I know,” she says, leaning forward with a glint in your eye. “I think you two need an opportunity to spend a little bit more time together, away from all the idol life. Maybe then, you’ll see your relationship with clearer eyes.” 

Your eyes widen in horror. Oh no. 

Martin leans forward, suddenly curious. Double oh no.  

“What may that be?” he asks – he’s genuinely invested in keeping this relationship, Bailey thinks. It was more clear than ever to her that Martin genuinely liked you, despite how you acted insane.

“When’s the next time you have a day off?” Bailey asks. 

“Tuesday. I’m heading back to my parents’ house to spend some time with them before we head off to New York,” Martin says. “Oh!” he looks at you, eyes gleaming with delight. Your heart sinks. Whatever idea Martin had, you knew it was going to be bad for you. 

“You can come with me,” he beams. “Right? Is that a good idea, Dr. Sok?” 

Bailey is surprisingly shocked at Martin’s willingness to introduce you to his family only two weeks into your relationship. But she had to admit, it was a brilliant idea. She plasters a smile on her face to hide her shock, and nods in satisfaction. 

“It’s brilliant, Martin,” Bailey grins. She turns towards you, who’s got a look of horror on your face. “(Name), you should go meet Martin’s parents. After all, you said he wasn’t taking this relationship seriously. What couldn’t be more serious than meeting the parents?” 

You fail to come up with a coherent response. Fuck, you think. You should’ve asked Yoonchae to be the fake therapist. 

Martin’s looking at you expectantly, and you can tell just based on his gaze alone that he wants you to come. Your gaze softens, and you realise that you’re in way too deep. You’re in love. Shit. 

“Fine,” you huff. “Let’s do it.” 

Martin beams, so bright that it could rival the sun. The corner of your lips pull upward into a smile at the sight, and he laces his hands with yours. You hate how it feels right. 

“Perfect.” he says. 

To you, this was anything but. 

Tuesday rolls around much faster than you thought. 

You put much more effort into your outfit to meet Martin's parents. You’ve practically been living in Martin’s clothes for the past few weeks, and as much as you knew that he liked it, you still had to make a good impression on his parents. Showing up in Martin’s oversized hoodie and a pair of sweats wasn’t going to cut it. 

You opt for something simple, a little more similar to what you wore at the comeback showcase. You arrive at the CORTIS dorm wearing a striped shirt and a pair of jeans. Seonghyeon greets you at the door, and the boy points at what you’re wearing, and then what he’s wearing. 

“Oh,” he says. “Why are we matching?” 

You let out a little laugh. “Don’t bring it up,” you reply. “Tin wouldn’t like it.” 

If Martin notices that you’re somehow dressed like Seonghyeon, he doesn’t make any mention of it. He holds your hand as the company car drives the two of you to his parents’ place, and the two of you share earphones, listening to Martin’s music. 

You gulp. This was not what you had planned when you first decided that you were going to write the article. You didn’t think that you’d have to go this far – you had already accidentally fallen in love with the subject of your article, and now you were meeting his parents. This was… simply great. 

When the two of you arrive, it’s like Martin can sense your nerves. He looks at you, his gaze soft and gentle like usual. “Don’t worry,” he beams. “They’re going to love you.” 

You don’t know if you love or hate the idea of Martin’s family loving you. On one hand, it was nice to get his parents’ approval – on the other, this relationship was practically completely fake. Or at least it started that way, until your real feelings got involved. 

Martin’s mother answers the door, and when she spots you, she pulls you in for a hug. You’re slightly stunned at how affectionate she is, but it’s awfully kind of her, and you return the gesture nevertheless. “You must be (Name),” she beams. “Martin’s been going on and on about you.” 

“You have?” you ask, turning to Martin. His cheeks heat up and he shrugs, trying to hide his embarrassment. 

Martin’s father greets you once you’re inside, sitting down at the living room table. He’s easy to talk to, much like Martin. He jokes around with you right off the bat, and your stomach twists with guilt. Your presence feels a little too foreign, as if you don’t belong –  because truly, you don’t. 

Here you were, sitting at the Edwards’ dining room table as if you were exactly who Martin said you were. His loving girlfriend who cared about him more than anything in the world. 

The truth? All you were was a music journalist who was writing an article on how to lose an idol in 10 shows, and their son was the target. It was simply awful, and here you were, basking in the Edwards’ family’s praises like you deserved them. Like you deserved their son. 

You didn’t. Martin Edwards was far too good to you, and for you. 

You listen as his mother tells you stories about Martin’s childhood, such as how he composed a piece of music at the ripe age of 10 about the Spider-Man movie that he’d watched. His sister teases him lovingly, telling him that he shouldn’t have hid you for this long – she doesn’t seem to know that you two have only been ‘dating’ for two weeks. They treat you like family. You realise how much you adore all of them.

It makes the guilt that’s been simmering in your stomach much, much worse. 

When Martin tells the story of how you two met at the comeback showcase, his sister’s eyes widen. “Wait, I thought you guys have been dating for two months!” 

“Nope,” you chuckle nervously. His sister only hums, nodding. That reaction strikes genuine fear in your heart. Is she okay with it? Does she hate you? Martin seems to notice how anxious you are, and he gently caresses your hand with his thumb in an attempt to comfort you. 

Martin beams as his family gushes over the new album, and you sit next to him, your fingers laced with his. You look at him, pride evident on your face as he talks about the songs, and Martin’s father realises that it’s only then when you relax your shoulders. 

When Martin’s whisked away by his mother and sister, his father approaches you. 

“(Name),” he says, pouring you a glass of water. “Thank you for being so kind to Martin. And being there for him.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat. Martin’s father looks at you, handing you the glass. “It’s not an easy life for him to be an idol, especially since he’s so young,” he hums. “I’m glad he has someone like you to… you know. Keep him grounded amidst all the chaos.” 

Oh god. The guilt. You want to throw up. His dad was extending so much kindness to you because he genuinely believed that you loved his son. 

And you did, but you had started everything with ulterior motives. Did it even matter now that you truly had feelings, when you’d approached Martin with zero intention of anything genuine?

But you plaster on a smile, something that you’ve gotten a little too good at doing. “Of course,” you say. You look out the window, seeing Martin and his sister laughing about something. Martin’s father recognises this look in your eye – one of genuine affection for his son – and he too, smiles. “I’m glad that I can… be that for him.” 

“And really, he is… absolutely amazing,” you say. “I don’t think I deserve him.” It’s the most truthful thing you think you’ve said all day.

The smile on his father’s lips grows a little wider. “For what it’s worth, I think you two are perfect for each other. Even if this is all a little recent.” 

Perfect. Those words should make you feel relieved. But now that you have his father’s stamp of approval, it makes ending things much more difficult. How were you supposed to do that now? 

It’s then when it hits you. You couldn’t write the article anymore. You had to tell Jisoo that you couldn’t. Because you’ve fallen for Martin Edwards. Hard. 

Martin returns, seeing you and his father speaking to one another. He sneaks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You lean into his touch, even as the guilt from the past two weeks piles up and threatens to crush you like a boulder. 

“Pops, what’d you say to her?” he asks, hoping that his father hasn’t embarrassed him in front of you. 

“Oh, nothing bad, Martin. Don’t worry,” he laughs. “Do show her around the house, though. I’m sure she’d love to see your room.” 

His father gives you a nod before going outside to find Martin’s mother and sister. Martin looks at you, and you’re standing there silently. “You okay?” he asks, and you nod, coming to your senses. 

“Of course,” you say. He smiles at the nickname before lacing your hand with his. He does it so casually now to the point where you’re not fazed by it at all. “So… are you going to show me your room?” 

He nods, leading you down the corridor. It’s the first room on the right. 

“Tada,” he says, flicking on the light switch. Your eyes immediately dart to the plane drawn on the wall, and Martin notices. 

“My dad painted that for me when I was little,” he says, and your eyes flick back to look at him. 

“He’s really good at painting,” you say, and Martin beams. Your eyes wander across the entire room, and the next object your eyes land on is a little Spider-Man figurine sitting on top of a cupboard. “You really did like Spider-Man, didn’t you?” 

Martin chuckles, walking over to pick it up. “I did,” he hums. He hands it over to you, before grabbing something else perched on top of the same cupboard. “I was a big Marvel fan. Case in point – Thanos’ gauntlet.” 

He tries to put it on, but it’s clearly too small for him now, and you laugh. “You try it,” he says, handing it over to you.

You put it on, and it fits. “If I snap my fingers, would we all turn to dust?” 

Martin bursts into a fit of laughter – were you really that funny? But the sound of his laughter is infectious, and for a second you allow yourself to forget about that daunting thought of feeling like an intruder in your boyfriend’s own home.  

You take off the gauntlet, handing it back to him so he can place it back in its original spot. He flops down on his bed, patting the empty space next to him. “Come,” he says. “My bed here is comfy. Much better than the dorm one, to be honest.” 

You lay down beside him, and to be fair, he was right. The mattress was slightly softer. Martin tugs at the corner of your shirt to get you to move slightly closer to him. 

“Your room is cozy,” you say as he wraps his arms around you. You turn to look at him, and he’s looking at you with so much sincerity and love. That feeling of guilt creeps up once again. 

“I know,” he hums. “Listen… I’m happy that you decided to come meet my family. I’m sorry about that day, by the way. I should’ve probably told you that I was going to be busy.”

You shake your head. You knew how unreasonable you were being. “It’s okay,” you say. Looking into his eyes, everything feels far too real – and instinctively, like you’ve done a million times before, you brush his hair out of his eyes. “Sorry for causing a scene. I was being overdramatic. Like usual.” 

Martin chuckles, his laugh light and airy. “Don’t worry.” 

Over the two weeks, Martin has found that he does care for you. Perhaps a little too much for something that was just a bet. But with you here in his home, things just felt right. His father seemed to love you, and outside in the garden, his mother and sister had both said that you were amazing. 

Martin doesn’t know what to do – was he supposed to tell you about the bet? You’d surely break up with him for good once you found out. 

But he looks at you, and he just can’t help but think about how pretty you are. Truthfully, his heart did skip a beat when he first saw you at their comeback showcase, and despite your overdramatic antics, Martin did… want you to stay. That realisation settles in his chest, and he doesn’t know if he should be happy about it. 

He’s not in love with you, is he? 

You look at Martin. Silence falls between the two of you, and it’s comforting, really. You look at him like he’s the most beautiful person in the world, and your breath hitches in your throat. He’s too pretty. Too kind. Too good for you. 

You don’t know when your eyes flick to his lips, but you realise that over the last two weeks, you two haven’t actually kissed. He’s kissed your cheek far too many times, you’ve done the same, but you’ve never actually pressed your lips to his. 

And the scary thing was, that you really, really wanted to. 

You lean in a little closer, inching his face closer to his. Martin suddenly seems to notice the proximity between you two, and he too, realises that he hasn’t actually kissed you on the lips before. For someone who his sister claimed to be ‘so in love’, he hadn’t even kissed his own girlfriend. 

He wants to kiss you. Really, really badly. 

You’re the one who leans in first, pressing your lips to his. It’s hesitant and slow, and Martin’s a little shocked at your tentativeness. For someone who was so dramatic, over the top and boisterous – this was a little out of character. 

Martin can hear his own pulse thundering in his ears as he kisses you back – slow, gentle, like he means it. Yes, this was exactly what he had been missing this entire time. Everything feels right, and Martin completely forgets about the bet. At this moment, all of it was real. 

His hand moves up to gently cup your cheek as the other finds your waist, and you kiss him a little harder, a little more insistent. As Martin melts into the kiss, he’s also simultaneously praying to God that he’s closed his bedroom door. The last thing he really wanted was his parents or sister catching him making out with his girlfriend – he'd never hear the end of it. 

But when your hands find his shirt to pull him impossibly closer, that thought leaves his mind completely as he allows you to kiss him senseless. It’s fine if the door’s open, he thinks. All he cares about is you, and how your lips feel on his. He’s drunk on the feeling, almost – he doesn’t think that he can go a day without kissing you now. 

When you pull away for air, you’re beaming at him like an idiot in love. Because truthfully, that’s what you were. The guilt that’s been eating at you is completely forgotten, and all you really want to do is kiss him again. 

“You kissed me,” Martin says, a little breathless and a little astonished that this was all real. You had kissed him. And he felt something. Something real, something genuine – something that told him that it wasn’t a bet anymore, at least not to him. 

Martin Edwards might really be in love with you.

It was horrifying and exhilarating at the same time. On one hand, Martin was thinking about what would happen if – god forbid – you found out that you were a bet. On the other, Martin just wanted to kiss you over, and over, and over again. 

“Is it that hard to believe?” your voice cuts through his thoughts, your breath hot against his lips. Your eyes flick down to his lips once again, stained with your lipstick. Martin doesn’t – and won’t – wipe it off. “I think you better get used to it, Edwards.” 

And when Martin Edwards leans in again to press his lips against yours, he allows himself to be irrevocably and truly yours.

You tell Jisoo that you can’t write the article. 

She’s disappointed, but simultaneously, not surprised at all. “I thought you might’ve caught feelings for that CORTIS boy,” she hums, tapping her pencil on the desk. You don’t think you’re getting that full-time job now. “It’s okay. I knew it was too good to be true.” 

Ouch, you think. That stings. 

But you’re honestly on too much of a high after that kiss in Martin’s house. With the weight of the article off your shoulders, you can actually date Martin without feeling completely guilty now. Sure, some of it still remained knowing that you started the relationship with ulterior motives, but it was slightly more of a clean slate than before. 

Despite Jisoo's disappointment in you, she still does invite you, Yoonchae, Bailey and Yuna to this music awards show after-party. You immediately text Martin, asking him if he’s going to be there. He responds with a yes, and you beam. 

I can’t wait to see you, he tells you. You smile at your phone, giddy and far too much in love.

“I knew this was going to happen!” Bailey exclaims as you two get ready for the after-party in her apartment. “I told you, that Martin boy was so deeply in love – he was practically looking at her with stars in her eyes when we were doing ‘couples counselling.’ Honestly, I’m surprised that you didn’t see it earlier!” 

You curl your lashes, coating them with mascara carefully. “I mean, I didn’t expect to actually fall for him.” 

“We all saw it coming a mile away, (Name),” Yoonchae laughs. “Come on, at the showcase you were gawking at him like he was your personal Prince Charming. The only thing I’m surprised at was how persistent he was in staying. If I were him, I would’ve broken up with you the second you humiliated me like that in front of all my friends.” 

You gasp at Yoonchae’s words, and she simply shrugs, a smile playing on her lips. The rest of the time spent getting ready is filled with chatter about how you and Martin are going to cope with having eyes on you the entire night tonight. He couldn’t hold your hand like he usually did – you now had to hide. 

When you arrive at the after-party, you immediately send a text to Martin, asking where he is. You look around the room to search for him, and you see idols, industry professionals and journalists like you conversing with one another. 

“Hi,” a voice all too familiar to you makes you turn around, and you see Martin standing there, in all his glory. He’s wearing a crisp, sharp suit – Dior, you assume, considering the brand deal – and he looks absolutely perfect. 

Your voice catches in your throat as you’re about to tell him he looks good, but rather a strangled noise escapes past your lips. You suppose you finally know what it’s like to actually be left speechless. You cover your mouth in embarrassment, and Martin simply laughs. 

“Hi,” you breathe out, when you’re finally able to speak. “You look really nice.” 

“And you do too,” Martin replies, looking at you. You’re wearing this stunning, satin yellow dress. In all honesty, Martin had grown accustomed to seeing you wearing his clothes, and seeing you in something like this made his heart race. A dainty necklace hangs around your neck, and Martin thinks that he might’ve just fallen in love all over again. 

“Thank you,” you say. You’re unsure how to actually speak to him knowing that there were always going to be eyes watching his every move. “So… you doing anything after this?” is the only thing you’re able to come up with, and Martin chuckles. 

“No, I don’t happen to be,” he replies, fixing the collar of his suit jacket. His voice drops low into a whisper, looking around carefully to make sure that nobody is listening. “Come to the dorm later for a movie date?” 

“Of course,” you whisper back. You fail to hide the lovesick grin on your lips, and Martin’s practically fighting the urge to kiss you right now. You look irresistibly good, and Martin hates that every move of his is likely documented right now. 

His manager approaches him, and he gives you a nod in acknowledgment. “Martin, we’re going to have to meet some members of the media. Please come with me – I’m sure the two of you will find time to talk later.” 

You nod, understanding that duty calls. Martin waves goodbye to you, and you wave back. You didn’t even realise how fast your heart was racing there. You find Bailey, Yoonchae and Yuna near the drinks, and you grab a glass of fruit punch and converse with them about some new album that Yoonchae reviewed recently. 

Martin straightens up his suit jacket before he walks up to the rest of the members, who are already talking to someone. “Hi, I’m Martin, the leader of CORTIS. Apologies for being late,” he says politely. “I had to catch up with a friend.” It’s a lie, but he couldn’t call you his girlfriend to everyone here. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” the lady says, waving him off. She seems awfully drunk, and she’s already taking another sip of the champagne in her glass. “We were just talking about some of the articles that we’ve been publishing about your group. You boys are some of the most exciting faces on the music scene.” 

“Thank you.” Martin beams.

“Her name is Jisoo,” James whispers in Martin’s ear. “I think she’s super drunk. Manager says that the rest of us are going to speak to some guy named John, but Jisoo really wanted to talk to you. So… we’ll leave you guys to it?” 

Martin nods in agreement, but he doesn’t really want to speak with her. She’s incredibly drunk, and to be honest, Martin would much rather be talking to you right now.

“Oh, and we’ve got something much more than just about your albums,” Jisoo pipes up. “Well, did. One of my interns – talented girl – was writing a piece about one of you.” Jisoo's so drunk that she thinks that the five of them are still there, when it’s really only Martin who’s left. 

She searches around the room, and her eyes land on you. She points in your direction. 

“Ah, her. Over there,” Jisoo says. “(Name).” 

Martin immediately straightens up at the sound of your name. He leans in to hear Jisoo better, curiosity suddenly piqued. “What article may that be?” 

“Oh, it was a little bit more fun. How to lose an idol in 10 shows, or something. Dating an idol, and then trying to get him to dump her in 10 shows or less. I was gonna give her that full-time job, honestly.” 

Martin’s heart drops. 

An article? You... were writing an article on dating an idol?

It hits Martin right then and there. That’s why you were so adamant on breaking up over something so trivial – he knew that you weren’t that unreasonable. 

The next realisation hits Martin like a truck. That’s why you would act so ludicrous and over the top sometimes – he had a feeling that it wasn’t really who you were. The night at the studio, the moments the two of you shared at his parents’ house. That was the real you. But Martin didn’t really care, he told himself he loved you all the same. 

But knowing that all of this was just for an article? It sends a knife through his heart.  

You kissed him like you actually loved him that day at his parents’ house. He thought you did. Did you love him? Did you even like him? 

Jisoo is so drunk she doesn’t even seem to know the state of shock and distress that she’s just put Martin through. His mouth suddenly runs dry, and he doesn’t know what to do – all he knows is that he feels sick at the thought that perhaps none of it was real. His heart aches with betrayal, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this awful before. 

His eyes are hot as he tries to blink back tears. “I’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice cracking. “I have to go.” 

Jisoo's too drunk to notice as Martin pushes past her, trying desperately to find any corner away from the cameras. 

When he finds a place secluded enough, covered by the black satin curtains, Martin finally lets a tear slip past his cheek.

This must be what heartbreak feels like, he thinks.

You’re already starting to get a little bored at this after-party. 

You know that Jisoo's practically drunk off her mind, and Bailey’s gone over to make sure that she doesn’t hurl on any of the guests. Yoonchae winces seeing Jisoo stumble on air, and Bailey sighs as she knows that she’s going to be babysitting her all night. 

You look at the crowd, trying to count how many idols you can see that aren’t completely drunk off their mind. 

“(Name)!” James snaps you out of your little game – you were at roughly 12 idols – and you direct your attention to him. He beams, greeting you with a wide smile. 

He’s got a glass of champagne in his hands – after all, he is the only one legally allowed to drink. You can tell that he’s slightly tipsy. 

“Hi, James,” you say, smiling at him. “Nice to see you again… after seeing you yesterday night.” 

James laughs, a little louder than normal – yeah, the alcohol was definitely kicking in. “That’s funny. Yes, so nice to see you again. I know that our Martin was a bit late speaking to some important people because he was caught up with you,” he says, wagging his finger at you. “It’s okay. No worries.” 

“Oh,” you say sheepishly. “Sorry about that.” 

“No worries,” he says, trailing off. There’s a beat of silence that falls between the two of you before James seems to remember something. “Oh! Oh! Don’t tell Martin. Wait, you two are dating for real, for real now. So you must know!” 

You look at James, confused. You don’t have a single idea in the world of what he was insinuating at. 

“Our Martin can flirt, can’t he?” James says, dragging out the word. “We all thought he couldn’t, so he proved us wrong. Now we all have to pay for his next shopping spree. Bleh. I’m going to be broke.” 

Your brows furrow, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach – you think you know what James is hinting at, but he’s tipsy, so he’s somewhat circling around the topic. 

“James, whatever do you mean?” 

“We made a bet!” he says, a little too gleefully. “So like, Seonghyeon was saying that Martin couldn’t flirt, so we made a bet – 10 shows to get a girl to fall in love with him with his flirting skills. And he had to make sure you stayed with him through those 10 shows.” 

He doesn’t know that those words had basically caused your personal apocalypse. You were a bet? 

You look at James, betrayal evident on your features. Your chest pangs with pain so visceral, you think you might actually double over. You were just a bet to Martin, and the betrayal and pain from that realisation hits you like a tidal wave. Martin being awfully sweet to you, being too kind, being too understanding – that was all a lie? 

You feel like you don’t even know him. You stand there, stunned, and at your silence, James somehow seems to sober up. 

“Oh, shit – you didn’t know,” James’ face contorts into one of horror, and he brings his hands to his lips. “Oh my god, (Name) – I did not mean a single word of what I said, I am so sorry–!” 

You push past James, running for the exit. You feel so violently ill – all you want to do is go back to your house and cry until you’ve got no tears left. You’re going to block Martin, and you never ever want to listen to a CORTIS song ever again. 

You push past the gates, but then you’re stopped by a voice that is awfully familiar, but it’s the last person you want to hear from right now. 

“Skipping town?” Martin asks. His hands are shoved into his coat pockets. Of course he still looks devastatingly beautiful, and for a second you forget that this is the boy who had made a bet that you’d fall in love with him in 10 shows.

Congratulations, it worked, you think. Maybe he should win a prize for it after you get over your heartbreak. 

You turn to look at him, brows furrowed in anger. “What do you want, Martin?” 

“What do I want?” he asks, voice laced with disbelief. He steps closer towards you, and you realise that he’s angry too. You don’t know what for. “I want to know why Jisoo told me about an article that you’d pitched called: how to lose an idol in 10 shows. Yes, she was drunk. But you know that drunk words are sober thoughts. I could tell she wasn't lying.” 

You’re stunned. Martin notices your expression, and his eyes narrow. “Yeah,” he replies, gritting his teeth. “Sound familiar?” 

You gulp, and that guilt that you thought you’d rid yourself of comes back tenfold. But then you remember the bet. You, in similar fashion, grit your teeth and look at Martin with the same betrayal in your eyes. 

“Right,” you hum. “And I want to know a little bit more about this bet that James told me about… perhaps something along the lines of you getting a girl to fall in love with him in 10 shows.” 

This time, Martin’s the one with the stunned look on his face. His breath stutters, and you cross your arms. “Yeah,” you tell him, using the same words he did mere seconds ago. “Sound familiar?” 

“You used me for an article,” Martin exhales. The heartbreak in his tone is evident, and you hate knowing that you’ve hurt him. But he hurt you too. 

“I was just a bet to you,” you gulp. Saying it out loud makes it more real. “I meant nothing to you, didn’t I?” 

“You can’t be the one saying this to me,” Martin says, pointing at you. “Are you serious?” 

“Dead serious,” you retort. 

“You wanted to lose an idol in 10 shows?” Martin seethes, trying to ignore how it feels like his heart is quite literally breaking. “Congratulations. You just lost him.” 

You gulp, trying to fight the tears that are threatening to spill past your eyes. You take a deep breath, strengthening your resolve – you were a bet to him anyways. It didn’t matter. 

“No, I didn’t.” you say. Even those words feel like a lie. You did lose him, and you feel terrible. “Because you can’t lose something you never had.” 

With that, you turn on your heel and leave. You only let the tears fall when you know that you’re far away enough, and you reel with the realisation that you’ve probably just lost the first person that you’ve ever truly loved. Because of some stupid job that you weren’t quite sure you wanted anymore.  

You leave Martin hanging as he watches your figure disappear. He opens and closes his mouth as if he wants to say something, but you’re already too far gone. It’s fine, Martin tells himself. It was just a bet. You were just a bet. You didn’t mean anything to him. 

No, he can’t lie to himself. It hurts much more than the truth. 

Martin stands there as the cool evening air tousles his hair. It’s then when he finally allows himself to sob as he crumples to the floor – despite it all, he doesn’t know why he once again, can’t bring himself to hate you. 

Martin Edwards lost you, and you lost Martin Edwards. 

Maybe after all of it, this was the outcome that you both deserved.

Martin feels absolutely awful. 

The members all look at him sympathetically, and they all notice that Martin’s not really his usual self nowadays. Seonghyeon buys him that jacket that he’s wanted for ages. Juhoon breaks his bank account to get Martin three hoodies. Keonho finally buys him those Rick Owens shoes, and he doesn’t complain about it. 

James, who feels the worst out of all of them for letting the news slip to you, buys him two pairs of expensive earrings and cashes in on an extra bracelet as if it’ll cure the heartbreak. 

"Well... I guess you can flirt," Seonghyeon says. He knows that it's really not helping Martin get over the heartbreak, but he's not quite sure what to say to make him feel better.

Sure, he could flirt. Hooray, Martin thinks. But he didn't really care about that anymore. Not when he just wanted to see you.

His life falls into the routine that he was so accustomed to before you barged into his life. Wake up, practice, make music, perform, repeat. Despite how much his stomach twists in anger at the thought that he was just an article to you, he misses your presence. 

In those two short weeks, you’d changed his life in a way that he didn’t think was possible. His eyes always linger a little too long at the dressing room door, hoping you’ll show up. He stocks up on Coke for the mini fridge in the studio just in case you swing by and want a can. He can’t even tell his parents that he’s not speaking to you anymore. 

He messed up too. You weren’t the only one. The guilt eats at him every single day, and he’s immediately reminded of it when he wakes up. Martin Edwards, despite it all, still thinks that he loves you. That may be even more ludicrous than your antics. 

He hears the doorbell ring, and Martin gets up from his seat at the couch to go answer the door. He’s the designated one to do that now, because he’s always hoping that perhaps you’ll show up. 

He swings open the door, and he realises that it’s Yoonchae. He recognises her from the comeback showcase. 

“Hi,” she gulps, a little hesitant. “Martin?” 

“Yes?” he asks. “How did you find–” 

“I’m not a stalker,” she says. Martin figured, considering that she was a friend of yours. “Sorry, I had to get that out of the way. But… I think you might want to read this.” Yoonchae hands Martin a stack of papers, and he furrows his brows, confused as to why. 

Yoonchae looks at Martin, and she knows that’s a devastated man if she’s ever seen one. His hair’s messy, he’s got dark circles under his eyes, and there’s just something heavy seeming to be weighing on his conscience. 

“Please,” she says. Martin motions for her to come in, and Yoonchae sits down at the dining room table. Martin flicks open the page, and there it is – the dreaded headline. How to Lose an Idol in 10 Shows. Your name is plastered right under it. 

Martin doesn’t even want to read it. He feels sick already seeing the title. But curiosity kills the cat, and he reluctantly reads the words printed on the page, letting out a deep sigh. 

Step one: Ask the dreaded question – “What are we?” in front of all of his friends. 

He remembers that day. He also remembers the instantaneous shock that he felt hearing those words spill past your lips, and how it filled him with a sense of intrigue but also overconfidence that he was going to win this bet. 

Step two: Be overly obnoxious – yes, again, in front of all of his friends. 

The over the top cheek kisses, the way you’d cling to him like a koala and the loud displays of affection – yep, that tracks, Martin thinks. The crazy thing was that he didn’t mind at all. 

Step three: Annoy him with text messages every single minute. 

You did that. But Martin wasn’t annoyed, per se. He went through every single message, replying to them with equal enthusiasm. You always had something interesting to talk about – it wasn’t just filler, so Martin didn’t quite mind. And it did bring him some much needed entertainment after busting his ass for a performance. 

Step four: Steal all his favourite clothes. 

Martin smiles, stupidly. The memory of you wearing his clothes and looking a little too good in them cuts through the anger and bitterness he’s been feeling for the past few days. The mention of those also makes him also remember that you haven’t given any of those clothes back. 

Step five: Interrupt him at the studio…

The next few words make Martin’s breath catch in his throat. 

Despite my ridiculous antics, Martin Edwards somehow puts up with me and has the patience of a saint. I decide that he’s either a lunatic who loves crazy girls, but my colleague Bailey offers me something else: that he might genuinely like me. It’s when I’m halfway through step five I realise that I’ve fallen in way too deep. 

It’s the first time where he actually shows frustration with my insanity, and it’s the first time where I realise that I don’t want to hurt him. Because despite starting this with unfortunately ulterior motives, I think I may have fallen in love in the process. 

My goal was to lose an idol in 10 shows. But after getting to know Martin Edwards – the real Martin Edwards – I didn’t want to lose him at all, and yet I have. He’s admirable. Dependable. Too kind for his own good. I don’t even think I deserved him during those two weeks. 

These two weeks have been riddled by mistakes. Starting this article, lying about my intentions, pretending that I was someone that I truly wasn’t… but the biggest mistake of all? 

Losing the love of my life.  

His vision blurs as tears prick his eyes. He was the love of your life? The words hit him like a ton of bricks, and Martin almost forgets how to breathe. The weight of those words settles in his chest, and somehow, the anger dissipates and is replaced with disbelief. He was the love of your life. 

The crazy thing is, Martin thinks you may be the love of his life too. 

He looks at Yoonchae with a look of determination in his eyes that wasn’t quite there before. 

“I… is she at the office?” 

“No,” Yoonchae replies. “She quit. I can give you her address, if you need—” 

“Please,” he says, desperation evident in his tone. He throws on a random pair of shoes as he practically shoves his phone into Yoonchae’s hand so she can type in your address into his GPS app. 

Martin runs out the door, Yoonchae trailing behind him and nearly failing to keep up. Juhoon asks him where the hell he’s going, but Martin doesn’t answer – he has pressing matters to attend to right now. Yoonchae calls a car for the two of them to head to your place, and on the way, she tells him that she really wasn’t supposed to show him the article – but she had to. She knew you were miserable too. 

The ride to your place feels like forever, and Yoonchae tells him that she’ll just wait downstairs. He bounds up the staircase – the lift was a waste of time, you lived on the third floor. Yoonchae thinks that he doesn’t even register her words. 

Martin double checks the apartment unit that Yoonchae had given him, and he knocks, tapping his foot on the ground nervously. 

You fling open your door, and you’re stunned to see Martin there. 

He’s almost speechless at the sight of your face – he hadn’t seen you in so long, and Martin has missed you, devastatingly so. 

“Martin?” you say in disbelief. You’ve been dreaming about him so much for the past few days to the point where you really wouldn’t be surprised if he was a hallucination. “What are you doing here?”

He holds up the article that Yoonchae had handed him less than an hour ago. You recognise it, and a mixture of guilt, shame and anxiety pangs in your chest – so he’s read it. That sickly feeling that you’ve grown accustomed to for the past week returns tenfold. 

“This article,” he breathes out. “Did you mean it?” 

“What?” 

“Did you mean it?” he asks. He’s looking at you with desperation, practically pleading for you to say yes. 

You blink back the tears in your eyes. A beat of silence falls between you two before you finally speak.

“I meant every word,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Martin tries to hold back the smile that’s threatening to creep up on his lips. “Really?” he asks, and you nod. 

“Yes,” you say, a little louder this time. “ And I’m sorry about it all – you mean… so much more than an article to me.” 

Martin has another question. “And am I really the love of your life?” 

“Yes,” you exhale. “You are. I told you, I meant every word.” 

Martin finally allows himself to breathe, his shoulders relaxing as he beams, wider than ever before. “Ask me the same question.” he says, grinning. You look at his expression, a little confused but hopeful all the same. 

“Am I the love of your life?” you ask, your voice brimming with hope. 

“You are.” Martin replies. 

“Oh,” you reply softly, and you let a tear slip past your cheek. You’re crying, but they’re happy tears. 

Martin reaches out to you, pulling him close to you. His hand finds your waist like it belongs there, and like nothing has changed in the last few days the two of you have been apart. 

“I love you,” you choke out. “Unbelievably so. I’m sorry I lost you.” 

Martin leans in, inching his face closer to yours as he smiles. 

“I love you too,” he replies before he presses his lips to yours, and everything just feels right again. He pulls away for a split second to look into your eyes. “You’re never going to lose me.” he says, giggling before he pulls you in for another kiss. 

And now, Martin Edwards is truly, irrevocably yours.

© martinflms 2026. mini author's note: this was lowkey a challenge to write 20k in 2 days. i'm so glad i did and i hope you guys enjoyed <3

They called him names and not the creative kind—just the cruel, empty ones. Know-it-all. Teacher’s pet. Weird. Stuck up. He didn’t understand why answering questions made them hate him. He liked the gold stars the teacher gave for getting answers right. Ten stars meant you got to pick from the prize box, and the prize box had bouncy balls and sticky hands and plastic dinosaurs—and Peter loved plastic dinosaurs.

So, he answered the questions. He collected the stars and kept to himself. He told no one when the other kids laughed at him, or called him names, or moved their chairs away from his during circle time. He didn’t want to make a fuss because he really didn’t want to be a problem. He figured it didn’t really matter—he was the one with the dinosaurs, after all.

Then you moved to Queens. New girl, middle of the year, sat right next to Peter Parker like it was the most obvious place in the world to be. You noticed right away—how they treated him. The whispering, the laughter, the way no one ever picked him for partner work. You were loud and opinionated and full of the kind of righteousness only very small people with very big hearts can possess.

“That’s not nice,” you said, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the recess bullies who’d made Peter cry behind the monkey bars. “You’re being bad.”

They laughed at you next. For your sparkly Skechers and your glitter hair clips and your big words, but you didn’t flinch nor did you care. You marched right up to them, stubby finger pointed like a weapon, and gave a speech Peter couldn’t hear from where he sat—sniffling and dirt-streaked on the playground mulch—but could only watch unfold like some kind of tiny superhero movie.

Whatever you said, it worked. Their shoulders dropped, their mouths stayed shut, and they stopped laughing.

And then you turned on your heel, marched back to Peter, and held out your hand like it was a declaration of war and friendship all at once.

“My mommy says you should treat people how you wanna be treated,” you informed him, like it was the law of the land. “You wanna do the monkey bars?”

Peter blinked at you, stunned silent. You were everything he was not. Loud, brave, and radiated like the sun itself. He wasn’t sure he understood why you’d stood up for him, but he knew one thing: he’d never forget that you did.

“I’m not good at them,” he mumbled, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’ll teach you,” you said, already climbing up beside him like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m really, really good at it. Watch me!”

And so you coached him through every bar—each swing, each slip, each triumphant reach. You cheered when he made it to the end, called him “a monkey now,” and told him he earned a prize box toy even if the teacher didn’t give him one.

And that day, on the kindergarten playground beneath a pale blue sky, Peter Parker learned that maybe the world wasn’t so sharp when someone like you was in it.

Fact two: he loved to share and especially with you.

Peter Parker always shared what he loved.

It was how he learned to say I love you, before he knew that love needed words. You, who always sat beside him at lunch no matter who else asked. You, who stomped on bullies and helped him conquer monkey bars and called him “Petey” like it was a badge of honor. You, with your Tinkerbell lunchbox and fruit snacks and complaints about how “bleh” your sandwiches were every single day.

“You’re so lucky,” you said once, dramatic as ever, as you poked through the contents of your lunch like they might magically change if you just believed hard enough. “You get pizza Lunchables and chocolate pudding and Caprisuns. I get turkey. Again.”

Peter glanced at his food—his rare treasure of plastic-wrapped joy—and hesitated only a second before sliding his pudding cup toward you.

“Here,” he said. “You can have mine.”

Your eyes lit up like Christmas. “Really?”

“Really,” he said again, quieter this time. He watched you open the pudding, your face soft with delight. He didn’t tell you that it was his favorite part of lunch. He didn’t need to. Watching you enjoy it felt better somehow like a secret only he got to know.

That was the thing about Peter—he never gave anything halfway. Whether it was pudding or time or the last piece of cake, he gave it all like it meant something. Because to him, it did.

He didn’t come to school the next day. Or the day after. Or after the weekend, either. And by Monday, something in your chest had tightened too much to ignore.

You made your parents drive you to his house. You brought a Snickers bar in case he was sick, because you remembered he said chocolate helped headaches. But when the woman who answered the door wasn’t his mom or his dad, your stomach dropped.

She whispered with your dad. She said accident in a voice that was careful and slow and a little too quiet. And then she called Peter down, and he stood in the hallway with tears in his eyes and his brown curls a little messy, and he looked smaller than he ever had before.

You didn’t say anything. You just hugged him. And he cried into your shoulder, shoulders shaking, fists clutched tight in the fabric of your sleeve like he didn’t know how to let go.

You gave him the Snickers bar without splitting it like you’d planned. He needed the whole thing.

“I’ll get you all the Snickers in the world, Petey,” you whispered.

And you meant it.

Because love, for Peter, always looked like this—shared pudding cups and held hands and a chocolate bar in grief’s quiet aftermath. The kind of love that stays, even when everything else is gone.

Fact three: he blamed himself when you got hurt.

Peter Parker didn’t know how not to care.

Not even when it wasn’t his fault. Not even when everyone told him it wasn’t. Guilt, to Peter, wasn’t about logic—it was about consequence and hurt. And if someone he loved was hurt, then he should’ve done something, should’ve known, and should’ve been there.

It had rained the day you cut your hand—just enough to make the sidewalk slick, just enough to make your shoes slip when the dog you were walking pulled too hard on the leash and you lost your balance. It wasn’t a deep cut, not really, just a jagged little gash from the tip of a fence. It didn’t need stitches, just pressure, a wad of gauze taped tight to slow the ooze. Maybe a Band-Aid later, one with cartoon characters on it, when most of the cut healed. But it bled, bright and insistent, and you cried, and Peter wasn’t there.

He hadn’t been there.

He had heard about it through Aunt May. One call from your mom, and he was already pulling shoes on the wrong feet, gripping the handle of the first aid kit with white knuckles like he could somehow rewind time if he just ran fast enough. The guilt sat in his chest like wet cement.

You opened the door with a confused smile, still wet-cheeked from crying, your voice hoarse but warm. The worst had passed and you were okay, but Peter’s eyes were wide and glossy as if it had just happened right in front of him.

“I came as fast as I could,” he said breathlessly, holding up the first aid kit like a peace offering.

“Peter, I’m okay,” you told him gently. “My parents already patched me up.”

“But you still cried. I can tell,” he said, his voice thinner than usual, like it might crack if he let it. “I should’ve been there to help. I should’ve held the leash or walked with you or—I don’t know, done something.”

“You weren’t even with me,” you reminded him with a giggle, like it made any difference.

But it did. It made all the difference. And yet still, it didn’t.

“I’m supposed to look out for you,” he said, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to the bandage on your hand like it burned him just to look at it. “And I didn’t.”

“I’m a big girl, it’s okay. I’m okay, Petey.”

“Yeah, but—someone else has to make sure you’re okay, okay.”

You gave him a look. One of those raised-eyebrow, lip-squished-together kinds that only kids could get away with without sounding mean. “What, are you gonna fight the sidewalk next time?”

“If I have to,” he muttered.

And the thing was, he meant it. In the way only Peter could—genuine and aching and too soft for his own good.

You laughed. Not to make fun of him, but because it was easier than crying again. “Well then, I hope you’ve got a plan. The fence by Delmar’s is the meanie that did this to me.”

He nodded seriously. “Fence won’t know what hit it.”

And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you patted the spot beside you on your bed and said, “Wanna play trains?”

Peter hesitated. “I don’t wanna hurt your hand.”

“You’re acting like I got stabbed,” you snorted. “It’s a scratch, Peter. I can still play with trains.”

Still, he sat carefully, as if one wrong move might break you. You didn’t say anything about it—just handed him the blue engine and pressed play on the little track, the sound of whirring wheels filling the silence between you.

Peter didn’t stop watching your hand for the rest of the afternoon. Not because he didn’t believe you were okay, but because he needed to see it for himself. Over and over. Until the guilt stopped ringing in his ears like a warning bell. And even though it didn’t, sitting besides you helped his ache.

And maybe that was another fact worth adding—fact three and a half: Peter Parker never knew how not to overthink when it came to you. And for better or worse, he never wanted to learn.

Fact four: he kept every card you ever gave him.

Peter Parker was the kind of boy who remembered everything that made him feel loved.

That’s why he kept it all—every card, every doodle, every post-it with a dumb joke or half-done drawing, tucked carefully into a shoebox under his bed. It sat beneath looseleaf homework and forgotten action figures, but the box was sacred to him. A paper trail of every time you’d ever thought of him just because. Some notes were detailed and silly, others just a word and a smiley face, but of course, he could never bring himself to throw any of it away.

He was always a sentimental kid. Earnest in ways most middle school boys were still trying to hide. He liked having feelings and liked showing them. And even if he'd never say it out loud, he liked that you never made him feel weird about it because he was a boy.

He told himself that was just the way he was raised—by people who loved him soft and loud and without condition. But a part of it, maybe the biggest part, was you.

You saw the world the way he wanted to see it: a place where kindness didn’t have to be earned, where friendship wasn’t some transaction, where love—whatever version of it he was starting to feel—wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

Even when middle school got messy, and people started changing, posturing, growing into their sharpness too fast—you stayed. Somehow, even as the two of you evolved in different directions, you never drifted. You were louder, more bold, more magnetic. And Peter, quiet and observant, content to watch the world from the side of the room, was still the one you always gravitated toward.

You were different in the ways that made sense together like chords in the same song. And Peter never took that for granted.

He loved the way you argued with him—rarely, but always honestly. The way your apologies were real and careful and full of intention. He loved that you fought for him, even when he didn’t ask, even when he wasn’t sure he deserved it. And he especially loved the way your gifts always meant something. Not big, flashy things, but you-things. The kind of things no one else would’ve thought to give.

Like for his thirteenth birthday.

You’d treated him to Delmar’s, ordered him that strange, flat sandwich he liked and pretended not to gag when he ate it, even though your nose scrunched with judgment. You baked him cupcakes with blue frosting and rainbow sprinkles and sang happy birthday just off-key enough to be charming. And then, of course, there was the card.

He opened it slowly and you watched him like it was a performance. The cover had been drawn with marker—stick figures of you and him with ridiculous cartoon eyes holding up tacos with speech bubbles that said "Lets taco ‘bout your birthday!" Inside, there was a note, messy and heartfelt and impossibly you.

Then came the gift: a small keychain with a tiny Lego figure.

“I made a mini me,” you said, pulling out your own keys to show him the match. “So I’ll always be with you. And you’re with me. Cute, right?”

Peter had blinked too many times, trying to slow his smile. He held the little Lego you with reverence, like it was worth more than anything he owned.

“I love it,” he said quietly. And he meant it. God, did he mean it.

Because in that exact moment, somewhere between the frosting and your grin and the miniature version of you swinging from his key ring, Peter realized something he’d been pushing down for a long time.

He loved you. Not just in the way best friends loved each other. Not just as the girl who made him feel less alone. But in the deep, terrifying, impossible way.

And he didn’t say anything.

He just tucked the card into the box under his bed after you left.

Fact five: lying to you was the hardest thing he ever had to do.

Peter Parker was never good at lying.

Even before the spider bite, it just wasn’t in his nature. His face gave too much away and his conscience just made everything worse. Aunt May always said he wore his heart on his sleeve and every secret in his eyes.

So the first time he lied to you, it broke something in him.

A long afternoon at the arachnid exhibit, buzzing with chatter and crumpled permission slips and half-interested students leaning against the glass. You’d wandered off with some other friends, but Peter had stayed behind, lingering by a particularly sleek glass enclosure with a spider labeled something vague and unpronounceable.

The bite was quick and unexpected like a sharp pinch. 

When you found him moments later, rubbing at his hand, eyes glazed and unfocused, you noticed right away.

“You okay, Pete?” you asked, brows knitting with concern.

“Yeah,” he said too fast. “I’m all good.”

It was the first time he lied to your face, but it wouldn't be the last.

You frowned, studying him the way you always did when something felt off. You didn’t believe him—not really—but you didn’t push. Instead, you reached for his wrist and tugged him gently toward the next exhibit.

“C’mon,” you said, voice softening. “We’re gonna get stranded.”

So he followed. Quiet the whole way back. Quiet the rest of the day. And the next. And the one after that.

Peter had never kept anything from you before, but now, everything felt like a secret. The changes came slowly at first. The dizzy spells. The way he’d flinch when the lights were too bright, or wince when someone brushed past him in the hallway. The reflexes. The headaches. The sudden muscles. He didn’t tell you about the spider. Or what came after. He didn’t tell anyone.

And then Uncle Ben died.

The world shifted overnight, making everything soft in Peter harden. The guilt rooted itself so deeply inside of him, he didn’t know where it ended and where he began. And from that grief, Spider-Man was born.

He didn’t tell you about that, either, but you noticed, of course. You liked to say you knew him better than you knew yourself, but when you asked questions and he gave you answers that weren’t answers, your feelings began to hurt.

“I’m fine,” he’d always say, tugging down his sleeves or averting his eyes.

“Bullshit,” you said the night you caught a glimpse of his back when he peeled off his hoodie after a heat wave. You’d been sitting on his bed, tossing popcorn into your mouth, and caught sight of the muscles that hadn't been there before. “When did you get abs?”

His face flushed deep red. He scrambled for a shirt.

“I’ve been working out.”

You snorted. “Peter, I’ve known you since you were five. I’ve never seen you touch a weight. You flinch when you see basketballs.”

“I just… started. Recently.”

You tilted your head at him, not buying it, but letting it go—just like you always did.

And that became the rhythm. A push and a pull. Peter disappearing, coming back, telling half-truths laced with real ones. You let him. Because whatever was happening to him, you knew he was still Peter underneath it. Still your best friend. Still the boy who remembered your favorite flower, who held you when you cried, who couldn’t lie to save his life—except now, he had to.

Except now, it was the only way he knew how to protect you.

Fact six: he almost told you he was Spider-Man about a hundred times.

Peter Parker loved to talk.

Not with everyone—but with you? Always. If something sparked his curiosity, even a little, he’d go off like a wind-up toy. Science facts, theories, niche Star Wars lore, weird animal trivia—he’d just keep going, voice animated, hands moving with it. You never minded. In fact, you loved it. You loved that part of him that was just yours, the way he opened up around you in a way he didn’t with anyone else. Like it was some secret only you got to keep.

And maybe that’s why it hurt him so much to keep the biggest secret of all.

Peter almost told you he was Spider-Man the first time you shoved your phone in his face with a YouTube clip of a shaky, grainy, footage in the city. “He’s so cool,” you’d breathed, starry-eyed. “Have you seen the way he swings around? Like, what the hell?”

He wanted to tell you right then. Wanted to bask in the look on your face when you realized he was the one you were so amazed by.

But he didn’t.

Peter almost told you when you ran into him—as Spider-Man—on patrol one evening. He’d been crouched on a rooftop, catching his breath after a car chase, and there you were, wide-eyed and breathless on the sidewalk. You shouted up at him, asking for a photo and an autograph. He froze. Not because he didn’t want to—God, he wanted to—but because he knew if he spoke, you’d know. You’d hear his voice and immediately clock it. So he just shook his head, let the eyes on his suit narrow like an apology, and swung off before he could do something stupid.

He almost told you when he woke up in a cold sweat one night and called you. Said he just needed to hear your voice. He didn’t tell you that the dream had started with Uncle Ben and ended with his mom, then his dad, and then a blur of screams and sirens and blood. You stayed on the phone until he fell asleep again. He almost told you then, but the words caught in his throat and never left.

There were a million almosts.

And then there was Ned.

High school wasn’t much different from middle school, which hadn’t been much different from elementary. He had you, school, and May. That was enough. But the Algebra 2 teacher had a thing for assigned seating, and by fate or luck or both, Ned Leeds ended up next to him. They hit it off fast with their shared interests, niche obsessions, and dorky humor.

Peter adored you, of course. But the two of you had grown into different shapes. You were more outgoing now, always getting invited to things he wasn’t even aware of until Monday morning roll call. Parties only upperclassmen were at. You fit in anywhere while Peter never quite figured out how himself. With Ned, though, he didn’t have to. They were both outcasts, but at least they were outcasts together.

Peter never meant for him to find out first, though. You were supposed to be the first. Not Ned, not May—you. But life has a cruel sense of timing, and apparently so did Peter’s ceiling. He had just crawled back into his room on the ceiling after patrol when he realized Ned was present, Lego Death Star in hand (and then on the ground).

Still, it stung—letting someone else in first. He’d always meant for it to be you.

He almost told you when you were baking cookies together for the Decathlon bake sale. You were both in your usual spots—shoulder to shoulder in your kitchen, hands sticky with dough, 10 Things I Hate About You playing faintly in the background. You’d made him watch it a dozen times and even though he voiced how annoyed he was, he secretly liked it. He liked the way you talked about it—how Kat and Patrick were opposites but still found their way to each other.

That part always stuck with him. That maybe the two of you could be like that. Someday.

But then you’d said it—casual, like you weren’t about to shatter his whole reality.

“Jason asked me to homecoming,” you said, dropping a perfect dough ball onto the tray.

Peter’s heart stuttered. “Oh.”

He slowed down, rolled the next one too tight. “And?”

“And I said no,” you shrugged. Dry. Nonchalant.

He looked over, heart still thudding. “You did?”

You arched an eyebrow. “It’s not like you have a date.”

Like it was obvious. Like he was already yours.

He almost told you then. That he was Spider-Man. That he liked you. That the reason he didn’t ask sooner was because he didn’t know how to be both.

But he didn’t.

Because the Vulture was still out there. Because you’d already been used against him once—your name dropped like a threat mid-fight, blood roaring in his ears. And that was all it took. He couldn’t tell you. Not when knowing meant you’d be in danger. Not when he cared about you too much to risk it.

So instead, he showed up to your house on homecoming night with a bouquet of pink peonies—the same ones that used to grow on your windowsill in second grade. Your dad answered the door and clapped Peter on the shoulder, grinning like he knew something he didn’t. And when you appeared behind him, hair done up, hands swishing softly around your dress, Peter felt the world tip. He’d already been a goner, but that night sealed it.

He had the whole thing planned: dancing, laughing, stepping on your toes (even after all those lessons with May), and eventually pulling you aside to tell you everything—about the bite, about the suit, about his feelings for you that he hadn’t been able to shake since you were both barely tall enough to reach the monkey bars.

But the night never went the way he wanted.

The Vulture ruined it.

Peter had to leave. And your face when he did—the glossy eyes, the trembling lip, the soft little why? that echoed in his head for weeks after—nearly broke him.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You didn’t even text him after. You just… nodded when he found you the next week and apologized. Told him you understood, even if you didn’t.

You danced with Jason that night. Peter was supposed to do that.

And that was the moment he realized the truth: he couldn’t keep you close. Not if he wanted to keep you safe. So he made the hardest decision of his life.

He chose to walk away. Just enough that it wouldn’t hurt you, but just enough that it would destroy him.

Fact seven: he broke his heart to protect yours (ish).

Peter Parker knew that being Spider-Man came with selflessness.

He knew it from watching Tony Stark, from seeing the exhaustion in his eyes behind the armor and understanding—maybe too late—that sometimes the strongest thing you could do was choose the harder path. He knew it from Aunt May, who held her world together with trembling hands and a brave face after Uncle Ben died, never once letting the weight of it fall on Peter’s shoulders. He knew it in the quiet ways—the late nights, the bruises that didn’t heal fast enough, the promises he made to himself over and over again that if it meant keeping the people he loved safe, then he would be the one to lose sleep, to bleed, to break.

So when it came to you, it was no different. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He started distancing himself in ways he hoped you wouldn’t notice. Answering texts later than usual. Making up vague excuses when you asked to hang out. Avoiding your gaze when you walked into the room and instinctively beelined toward him like you always did. You were perceptive though—you always had been—and it didn’t take long for the space between you to feel obvious, gaping, like it had been carved there with intention.

You didn’t let things fester. You were always the first one to bring things to light, even if it meant an uncomfortable conversation. Especially if it did.

So one afternoon, standing just outside the chem lab, with students rushing past in every direction, you stopped him. With that look on your face—the one that meant you weren’t going to let him dodge this one.

“Peter,” you started, folding your arms across your chest, brows drawn together, your voice firm but still quiet enough to keep it between the two of you. “Don’t lie to me. Seriously. I’m not stupid.”

His throat went dry, and he didn’t say anything right away, just shifted on his feet like he wanted to bolt.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” you continued, unwavering. “Barely texting, skipping out on everything, acting like I did something wrong when I know I didn’t. You don’t just get to go cold and pretend like it’s nothing.”

Peter looked up then, eyes guarded, jaw tense, like he was trying to find a version of the truth that wouldn’t hurt you. But he wasn’t a good liar, not when it came to you. He never had been.

“I’m not—” he tried, but you cut him off.

“You are. Don’t do that, Peter. Don’t act like I’m imagining things just because you’re too scared to say what’s really going on. I know you. And whatever this is, it’s not just in my head.”

There was a flicker of guilt in his expression, and then he looked away, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.

“We’re not kids anymore.”

Just four words, but none of them sounded like him.

Your heart sank—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Detached. Like it was rehearsed. Like it was easier to hide behind something vague and dismissive than admit to whatever was actually happening.

You stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to find the boy you knew underneath the mask he was clearly putting on. But all you saw was someone who had already decided to push you away, and nothing you said could bring him back from it.

“You’re right,” you finally said, voice softer now but still unwavering. “We’re not.”

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t cry or plead for an explanation because you already knew you weren’t going to get one.

“But if being grown up means shutting out the people who love you, then I don’t think it’s something to be proud of, Parker.”

You never called him Parker. It was always Peter, Pete, or Petey when you needed a hug, Peter Benjamin Parker when you were scolding him, Peter Parker when you were worried—but never just Parker. That one hit different. It meant something. It meant you were done asking.

You let the silence stretch between you for a second longer, long enough for him to feel it, and then you turned to leave.

He didn’t stop you and that hurt more than anything he could have said.

Because this wasn’t like the other arguments you’d had before—never cruel, never lasting long, always ending in an apology and some moment of soft honesty to put the pieces back together. But this time there was no apology. Just silence. And you knew, deep down, that the truth he was holding back wasn’t going to be shared with you. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even that he broke your heart.

It was that he broke his own, and somehow still thought it was worth it.

Fact eight: he watched you move on from the shadows.

Peter Parker thought heartbreak was supposed to come all at once—loud and fast like a car crash.

But this one dragged. It lingered in the quiet, like smoke in a room with no windows, like dust that refused to settle.

As much as he pretended not to care anymore, as much as he made himself small in the hallways and busied his hands during class and said he didn’t want to talk about it, Peter couldn’t hide the way it gutted him. Not really. May was the first to notice, her knock gentle on the door at night when the muffled cries slipped past his pillow. Ned started filling the silences Peter used to take up with rambling theories and snarky commentary. MJ told him, flatly, that his eye bags were scary and that he looked like he hadn't seen daylight since Civil War. Even Queens started to wonder if something had changed in Spider-Man—he wasn’t talking, he wasn’t joking, and he hadn’t done a single flip off a fire escape in weeks.

Who was he to think he could actually cut you off like that? That he could walk away from you and not unravel? You were his person—had been, for years. Through every low, every high, every success, every failure. You’d been there before the bite, before the Avengers, before he ever had the idea to be anything more than your best friend with a secret crush and a hopeless heart. But the delusion of heroism, the obsession with self-sacrifice—it warped him. Made him believe that loving you meant leaving you. That protecting you meant making the choice for you, even if it tore him apart.

Even if it killed him to see you laugh at someone else’s joke in fourth period because he used to be the one who made you laugh like that. Even if it killed him to see the keychain of mini him gone from your lanyard. Even if it killed him to spot you from across the room at a party Ned had begged him to go to, leaning in close to a guy he didn’t recognize. Even if it killed him to see your hand—your hand—tangled with someone else’s.

It felt like his heart had been scooped out and left raw, bruised and pulsing with phantom aches. The ache came when you didn’t look at him anymore. When you walked past him like a stranger in the hallway, like he wasn’t the person who used to braid your hair when you were bored or climb through your window on summer nights just to talk. The ache came when he remembered how softly you used to say his name, like it was a secret just for you. And then how different it sounded, sharp and cold, when you called him Parker.

Still, he couldn’t stop. On patrol, when the night was winding down and the streets were empty, he always swung past your window—never on the way, never convenient, but always necessary. Just to see you, to make sure you were okay, and to feel, for a moment, like you still existed in the same world as him.

And when he saw you lying on your bed, talking to your mom through the door, kicking your feet in the air the way you always did when you were comfortable, he felt something loosen in his chest. You looked peaceful again, like the girl who didn’t yet know what it meant to be hurt by him. Like yourself.

You looked up, maybe just a flicker of red and blue, and he swore your eyes landed on him.

He didn’t wait long enough to find out. By the time you blinked, he was already gone.

Because heartbreak didn’t hit him in a single moment. It haunted him in all the ones after—when he had to keep loving you in silence, from rooftops and windowsills, knowing he’d become a ghost in the life he used to be part of.

Fact nine: he never stopped loving you. Not even for a second.

Peter Parker always had a soft spot for you.

He was hopelessly, irrevocably, quietly devoted in a way he didn’t fully understand at first—only that he felt it in his chest like something blooming and aching all at once.

You were the new girl that planted yourself beside him like you belonged there. And instead of ignoring him like everyone else, you noticed. You saw him. Said something bold and too brave for your size, stood up to kids twice as loud, and held out your hand like it meant something. That was it. That was the moment. He didn’t know it then—not really—but something permanently shifted.

From that point on, he would’ve done anything to protect you, to keep you safe, and make sure you never felt unloved. That instinct never left him. Not when he got his powers, not when he started patrolling rooftops, and not even when he made the decision to push you away in the name of protecting you.

Even when you stopped walking beside him and started walking ahead. Even when your texts grew shorter to none, your smile less familiar, your tone less soft. Even when you stopped saying his name.

He never stopped keeping an eye on you. He lingered at the edge of school hallways until he saw you get into your rides. Swung by your apartment building at night just to make sure the lights in your window were still warm. He watched from a distance when he couldn’t be close anymore, and tried to convince himself it was enough. That this was love, too.

And then, one day, he noticed someone else walking beside you. A boy. A jacket around your shoulders. A laugh that wasn’t meant for him.

He didn’t know it was official until MJ mentioned it offhand at lunch, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a moment that cracked something in him wide open. You were dating someone. It was real and it lasted. Weeks turned to months and he kept track without meaning to. If he’d asked you out during last year’s Homecoming like he’d planned, you and him would’ve been celebrating your one-year anniversary right around the time your boyfriend posted the first picture of you two together.

He wanted to be happy for you. He tried. You deserved someone consistent, someone present. Someone who didn’t run out on you when things got hard. But it tore him apart slowly—watching someone else hold the place that was always supposed to be his.

And then one night, months later, he swung past your building on a quiet patrol and saw you through your window. Curled up on your bed, crying and alone.

The sight made his heart seize in his chest. He hated seeing you hurt. Hated that someone else had done this to you. But selfishly, somewhere deep in the part of him he tried not to acknowledge, it meant something to him that you were single again. It meant the door hadn’t closed entirely. Maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t missed his chance forever.

That thought clung to him like a shadow. It followed him through the city, through every swing, every night. Because even if you never took him back—even if you never forgave him—he’d still never stop loving you.

Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Luckily for Peter, fate—cruel and unforgiving as it so often was—offered him a rare moment of grace, like a quiet reward for all he had given up, all he had endured.

You were already in your room when you heard it: a quiet thud against the metal of your fire escape, not loud, but deliberate, like a knock with no knuckles. And when you pulled back your curtains, there he was. Peter. Still suited up, though the red and blue fabric was torn and soaked dark with blood and rain, and his mask hung limp in his hand. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, eyes glassy and rimmed in red.

You slid open the window before you could think too hard about it. “What the hell?” you said, half a gasp, half a demand. “Are you okay? Why are you here?”

It was the first time you’d spoken to him in months—your voice rough with disbelief, sharp around the edge, but soft somewhere underneath it all. Happy that he was there—that he chose to come to you first, without needing to be asked. It meant he still cared, despite everything his actions tried to say otherwise.

He stepped inside like a ghost. “I—I’m sorry,” he breathed, the words catching in his throat. “I should’ve told you everything. I should’ve—God, I was so scared. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

You didn’t know what to say. He was shaking, like something had finally snapped, like all the weight he’d been carrying had collapsed in on itself. And when he sank to the floor—on your rug, in front of your bed, hands still trembling—you knelt down beside him.

“I thought I could protect you by walking away,” he said, voice cracking in the middle, “but I just broke everything. I missed you every single day. And I saw you—saw you with him—and I wanted to be happy for you, I did, but it—God, it killed me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He was crying openly now, not holding back like he used to, not trying to be brave or strong. Just a boy in pieces, falling apart in the only place he felt safe enough to break.

You didn’t say anything. You just pulled him close and held him like you used to—arms tight, fingers in his hair, your chin resting on the top of his head.

“I’m gonna grab the first aid kit,” you murmured, brushing his curls gently from his eyes. “Sit still.”

The familiarity of it was what made it hurt but heal.

You patched him up in silence—your touch gentle, practiced—as if no time had passed at all He hadn’t said a word about the suit, and you hadn’t asked. He came to you, still in it, like that answered everything. When it was done, you sat beside him on the floor, knees knocking, both of you staring out the window. Neither of you said much more that night, just sat there quietly soaking in the presence you’d both been aching for.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, you were in the same place—together, unspoken things still lingering in the air, but not pushing you apart.

Fact ten: you’re still the best thing to happen to Peter Parker.

Peter Parker should’ve known that no universe could keep his world from getting tangled up in yours.

Maybe it was because he was the kind of person who noticed the smallest things—the way your laugh shifted when you talked to different people, how the corners of your eyes crinkled more on one side when your smile was genuine, or how your fingers tapped nervously when you were about to say something important. He memorized those moments like they were precious fragments, each one a secret to hold close, as if any second could be the last. Maybe that’s why loving you was never something he could undo or forget.

Inside your apartment, the air was softer, warmer, quieter in a way that felt safe. A blanket was loosely draped over both your legs, his socked feet tangled gently with yours. Half a pizza sat forgotten on the coffee table, its heat long faded, while 10 Things I Hate About You played quietly (again) on the screen, volume just low enough to make the words fade into the background.

You leaned into him, head tucked softly into the crook of his neck—the way you had a thousand times before, even though it had been so long since you allowed yourself to be this close. His hoodie smelled faintly of rain and detergent, and of Peter himself, grounding you in the here and now. One of his arms curled around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy, absent circles over your t-shirt, almost like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingers.

“I think I could come up with ten things I hate about you,” you said suddenly, voice muffled against his hoodie, half-joking but with a teasing edge. “Starting with you pretending like I didn’t exist for a year.”

He chuckled softly, breath warm on your temple. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “I deserve that.”

You shifted to look up at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re not even going to argue?”

“Nope.” He gave you a sheepish grin, the kind that made you want to shake your head and smile at the same time. “Because you’re right. I was an idiot. An idiot with a big, fat, capital ‘I.’”

A small smile tugged at your lips, amused and maybe a little smug, and you settled back against him. But then he tilted his head, his eyes softening as he looked down at you.

“I think I’ve got ten facts too,” he said quietly, voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But... they’re not about hating you.”

You blinked, heart tightening without quite understanding why. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand, and suddenly, the smile faded from your face as the weight of everything between you settled in. It was Peter—your Peter—still knowing how to floor you without even trying.

A beat passed before he added, softer now. “Actually, there is one hate.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“I saw your keys one day. And you didn’t have the keychain anymore.” He tried to sound casual, like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t been eating at him. “The one of mini me.”

You stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing—disbelieving, incredulous, yet affectionate. “You really are an idiot,” you said, shaking your head. “Those weren’t my keys.”

“What?” he blinked, copying you.

“They were my mom’s. I’ve grabbed her keys by accident more times than I’d like to admit. I never took it off, Peter. I told you—I wanted you with me. Always.”

His expression softened, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face. “Oh.”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder, your voice quieting. “And I saw yours. Clipped to your backpack. You didn’t take mine off either.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathless. “Guess I’m an idiot in more ways than one.”

“You’re my idiot,” you murmured, without really thinking.

Peter let out a white laugh, eyes still on you. “Then I’m definitely sure about my ten facts.”

The movie continued playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore. Instead, your eyes flicked to the pizza box on the coffee table, half-open, the last slice waiting patiently. Peter leaned forward slightly to grab it.

“Wait,” you said, reaching out before he could take it. “There’s one left.”

Peter glanced from the slice to you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “It’s the tenth slice,” he murmured, voice soft but playful. “Kind of symbolic.”

You snorted. “Don’t be corny.”

He tore the slice in half, handing you the bigger piece, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m still saving the last slice for you.”

You hesitated, fingers brushing his as you took it. “Old habits die hard?”

His smile was soft, real, and a little wistful—the kind of smile that carries the weight of all the things you don’t say but feel deeply. “Some habits were never meant to.”

Then he leaned in slowly, pressing his forehead gently against yours. His eyes fluttered closed, like he wanted to freeze this moment in time forever. His nose brushed yours, breaths mingling between lips that hovered—close but patient, tender, and unhurried. There was no rush, no need to escape or hide this time. Just you and him, quiet and unbreakable.

You didn’t speak. You simply looked at him—at the soft curve of his mouth, the familiar scar tracing his jawline, the way he still saw you as his favorite person in the entire world, even after everything that had come before.

Then, with careful certainty, he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate, not the kind of kiss that tried to prove anything. It was steady and sure, a quiet promise made with the gentlest touch—his hand cupping your cheek, his lips pressing softly into yours, the shaky breath he exhaled against your mouth carrying years of everything unsaid and undone.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead gently against yours again like a puzzle piece, staying like that as if trying to hold the moment still. Because in that stillness—through every scar and mistake, every whispered confession and lingering glance—the only fact that truly mattered was this:

You were still the best thing to ever happen to Peter Parker.

[Varka]

Varka had pre-war jitters.

Not that he was going to war... Well, maybe he was already at war with himself.

He'd spent all weekend turning things over and over in his mind and even now his restlessness had him wearing a track into the floor with his relentless pacing.

It was unlike him to be so visibly agitated. Sure, when he encountered a problem he'd work at it until he wore it down to its barest variables, but rarely was he so all-consumed with an issue that it showed externally.

He had dissected every facet of your conversation at the Angel's Share. Every micro-expression, every word choice, every pause.

It was a bit like digging into an open wound. The image of your distraught expression was difficult to avoid, a lance through his heart every time it surfaced.

Still, something ate at him. Something that kept him from letting the memory rest, no matter how painful.

When Lisa had told him about your situation, about the timeline, he'd so easily concluded that the pregnancy had been the cause of the breakup. Maybe a part of him had been too eager to remove the burden of guilt from himself, to be able to say that something other than his own actions had been at fault.

Friday night had proved without any semblance of doubt that your pregnancy had no bearing on your decision to leave him. Which meant he was back to facing the truth he'd been trying to avoid all campaign: the fault lay with him.

He tugged at the collar of his dress uniform, fighting the urge to run for the nearest training dummy... or tavern, whichever was closest.

The first rays of dawn were just starting to decorate the polished wood of his desk and he eyed the papers splayed beside them with a sigh.

He hadn't been able to sit still all morning, constantly in and out of his seat, and had accomplished little. Work had been an excuse to escape from the apartment. It nothing more than a place to sleep that happened to have an excess of uncomfortable memories attached.

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long breath. He still had half a day to get through before you'd planned to meet and Varka was an impatient man. It was all he could do all weekend to stop himself from showing up on your doorstep now he'd decided how to proceed.

You'd been honest and vulnerable with him, and clearly apologetic. It was time for him to, at the very least, do the same, no matter how many years late that apology may be.

He had never been good with words, he wasn't unaware of that, and he'd agonised over how best to express himself. That much had kept him busy for the weekend at least. A part of him had even considered wandering into the Church to ask for advice but he'd dismissed the idea. Rosaria might look at him like he'd grown a second head if he asked her for help with people.

"You're early." Varka paused in his pacing and turned to find Jean in his doorframe. "I knocked."

Varka resumed his pacing, almost unconsciously. "I woke up early."

He could sense Jean move from the doorway and into the office from the gentle click of the door behind her. "Should I take the pacing as a sign that your talk with Y/N on Friday didn't go as well as you hoped?"

"It didn't go badly." He did his best to keep his tone even, lest he sound too defensive.

"And yet you look..." Jean obviously thought better of whatever she was about to say. Instead she cleared her throat and picked at an invisible piece of lint on her immaculate white dress uniform. "I thought you planned today with her in mind?"

"Do you ever think we give ourselves too much to it?"

Jean barely blinked as he ignored her question. "To what?"

Varka gestured around the room vaguely. "This."

"Never." Jean fixed him with a steady gaze. "Being a knight isn't a job, it's a duty. I've never thought of doing anything else."

Varka too, couldn't imagine not being a knight. Not after dedicating his life to Mondstat. What was he without the knighthood?

"But," Jean continued, a faint smile on her lips. "I am at a different point in my life. There are many ways we can fulfil our duty to Mondstat. After all, Barbatos is the archon of freedom."

***

Varka was sure the opening ceremony was enough to please the Anemo Archon himself. That drunken bard would be the only one who could sit through hours of hymns just for the pure enjoyment of it. Varka didn't have the ear to appreciate them, nor the motivation to learn. Instead he had spent the whole ceremony trying to avoid shifting uncomfortably in the starchy linens of his dress uniform at the very front of the Church. Jean shot occasional glances in his direction but had said nothing.

Even when the service concluded, he was delayed for several minutes by churchgoers offering their congratulations on the campaign and their safe return. He continued to be approached by civilians, even out in the courtyard beneath the statue of Barbatos as he tried to make his way back to the Knights' Headquarters. He did feel guilty at brushing them off so hastily, after all they were only pleased that he had returned their relatives safely and keen to hear news of his exploits. However, he was unable to forget that he was due to meet you at his office directly after the church service had concluded. It would not do to remind you exactly why you had chosen to leave him in the first place.

Despite his best intentions, you were already in his office when he arrived, but when he opened his mouth to offer an apology, you merely waved him off with a smile.

"It's okay, I wasn't waiting long."

The familiarity of those words did little to comfort him. How many times had he heard you offer them as consolation every time he was late for some planned date? dinner? birthday? event? Instead his heart constricted with guilt at the memories.

"Don't look like that." He could hear the playful pout in your words, an attempt to ease him, as he shrugged off his cloak and made his way behind his desk. "I'm not going to fault you for your duties as Grandmaster taking up your time."

Varka discarded his cloak carelessly on the back of his chair before sinking into it. You watched him carefully from your place opposite but, for once, he couldn't force a smile. "I was hoping not to make a habit of this again."

You regarded him calmly. "I don't know why this is weighing on you so much. I know you have a lot on your plate. I'm not going to expect you to place something above your duties."

Varka frowned slightly, searching your face. "Do you think you're not a priority to me?"

You shifted in your chair, avoiding his gaze. "That's not..." You sighed, focused determinedly on your hands in your lap. "You know that's not a fair question."

Varka stood, leaning his big body completely over the desk to reach for your restless hands. "Look, I know-" He paused, searching for the words he'd so meticulously tried to prepare. "Before things ended... I know I wasn't-"

"Varka." you tried to protest, but he bulldozed right over you.

"Look, things were crazy with work but... I didn't know you'd think you weren't a priority." Despite dwarfing yours, his hands squeezed your own with surprising gentleness. "I thought you knew how much you mean to me... I would go back and tell you that if I could."

"Varka..." You gave him a sad little smile, reaching forward to cup his cheek. "I know. I just.. I couldn't bear to see you tear yourself apart for me."

His head shot up from where he'd practically been nuzzling into your touch. "What?"

You shifted under the intensity of his gaze. "It was tearing you apart trying to choose between us. I saw you stay up all night every time we planned something just to catch up on work. And the look on your face when you were called away early... I just couldn't-"

Everything clicked in Varka's mind. "So you chose for me..."

You nodded, fixing him with a watery, apologetic smile. All Varka could do was pull you onto the polished wood of his desk and into his arms as he processed everything in its entirety for the first time.

"You're ridiculous." Varka murmured, unable to help the bubble of relief that had swelled in his chest. "As if my life would ever be any better without you in it."

You hiccuped a laugh into his shoulder. "In my defence, I was hormonal."

Varka pulled back abruptly, serious. "I've been thinking a lot about that."

"About my hormones?" You asked warily, not sure where he was going with this.

"What? No, about Leo." He placed both hands on your shoulders, looking more serious than he had your whole conversation. "I hope you know that I don't care if he's another man's child, I will love him as my own-"

"He's not." You had fixed him with a panicked expression and Varka short-circuted internally, had that not come out right?

"He's not what?"

"Varka, he-" You were positively distraught. "He's your son."

His child? He blinked. Once. Then twice.

Before he even formulated a semblance of a response, the door to his office flew open with a bang. Barrelling into the room with a poor junior knight in tow, was... him? The child was all wild blond hair and blue eyes as if he'd been plucked from Varka's baby pictures and didn't hesitate as he flung himself into your arms with a cry of 'Mama!'.

You had slid from Varka's desk as soon as the door had hit the wall and obliged the boy, lifting him into your arms despite the fact he was nearly too big for them.

"Mama...." He whined. He was obviously unimpressed with the way your gaze kept slipping hesitantly to Varka, grabbing your cheeks in his tiny hands and forcing you to look at him. "I thought you said that Great Master Varka lived here."

Despite everything Varka felt the corner of his mouth quirk, and watched with amusement as you flushed furiously.

"Grandmaster, my love, and he just works here."

The young knight, clearly uncomfortable at being involved in barging into the Grandmaster's office uninvited and glad to offer some method of distraction, smiled broadly. "But you're right next to him!"

Varka sent him a pointed glance that clearly said 'you can go now' and the knight quickly scurried from the room, closing the door with a click behind him.

Leo's little face peeked around your embrace and eyed Varka with newfound admiration. "Do you really have a huuuuge sword? Where is it? Can I see?"

"Leo-" You protested, clearly not the way you had planned to do your introduction, as he wriggled his little body out of your grasp and slid back to the floor.

Sure enough, he made his way right up to Varka until they were almost toe to toe, craning his head as far back as he could to look up at the Grandmaster.

Varka couldn't help but chuckle softly, moving to kneel in front of Leo lest he end up with some sort of neck strain. "Sure, I can show you. But I think your Mama has something to tell you first."

You shrunk under their, identical, expectant gazes, moving to take Leo's tiny hand in yours. "Leo, you remember I told you your Papa was away."

"Yes. On a hunting trip like Pepe's dad!" Leo nodded sagely.