izzy

the ticket war had, at some point, stopped feeling like an ordinary ticket sale and started feeling like a military operation that required an unreasonable amount of preparation for something that was supposedly meant to be fun.

you had your laptop open on your desk, your ipad propped up beside it, your phone charging within arm’s reach, four separate tabs loaded and ready to go, two alarms set as if you were afraid you might somehow forget the exact time despite having thought about little else for the entire week, and a notebook full of passwords, account details, backup account details, and emergency backup account details that made you look less like a fan trying to buy concert tickets and more like someone preparing for a highly classified mission.

(go!?)

the second ticketing opened, the website immediately gave up on life.

it crashed.

(crash, smash, rock, mash up, ooh, take what you want?)

then it refreshed.

then it crashed again.

then it refreshed again.

then it froze so completely that you spent several seconds staring at the screen, wondering whether your internet had died, whether the website had died, or whether you had somehow died and entered a particularly cruel version of the afterlife.

after fifteen long minutes of watching loading circles spin endlessly and error messages appear with increasing frequency, you had already started accepting defeat.

you were disappointed, obviously, but not even surprised, because this was how ticketing usually went and you had experienced enough heartbreak over the years to recognise the signs.

you were already mentally drafting the message you were going to send martin, something casual and light-hearted that definitely did not reveal how devastated you actually were, when your eyes caught a number on your screen and your brain temporarily stopped functioning.

queue position: 14

for a moment, you genuinely thought you had read it wrong. you blinked, looked away, and looked back at the screen. it still said fourteen.

“no fucking way,” you whispered to absolutely nobody, immediately sitting up so fast you nearly sent your phone flying off the bed.

suddenly everything felt ten times more serious.

your heart was beating so fast that you could hear it in your ears, your hands were shaking uncontrollably, and when you finally reached the payment page you managed to enter your card details incorrectly not once, but twice, because your fingers had apparently forgotten how numbers worked under pressure. the first time you laughed at yourself, but the second time you came dangerously close to tears.

when the page took longer than expected to process the payment, you were convinced that the universe had decided to punish you for daring to feel so hopeful, and you spent the next thirty seconds staring at the screen in complete silence, already preparing yourself for the inevitable error message.

instead, an email notification appeared.

you stared at it. then stared at it for a minute longer. and then a third time, because surely there was no way your luck had suddenly become this good.

CORTIS: PUT YOUR PHONE DOWN TOUR — THE INSPIRE ARENA, INCHEON, KOR. (VIP: BARRICADE PACKAGE) — JULY 18, 2026.

for nearly a full minute, you simply sat there looking at the confirmation email, rereading the same words over and over again because your brain refused to process the fact that they belonged to you. then, when the reality of what had just happened finally settled in, you immediately threw yourself face-first onto your bed and screamed into your pillow with enough force to concern several neighbours.

you immediately got up and spammed every single one of your online friends—sunny, seulbi, skye, sae hee, maddy, kai, ivy, meri, coco, pearl, holly, lili, iro, riri, nana, cloudy, eve, eli, mari, and the rest of them. all of them somehow managed to get tickets to the different show dates, thankfully. 

well. whoa. you had actually done it. against all odds, against every website crash, every loading screen, every moment you had already accepted defeat, you had somehow managed to get barricade vip, which you didn’t even know you wanted. 

and perhaps the most satisfying part of the entire situation was the fact that martin, your boyfriend, had absolutely no idea what was waiting for him in two weeks’ time.

☆

the day of the concert felt almost unreal, like the kind of thing your brain should have prepared you for but somehow still refused to fully accept. by the time you reached the arena, it was already buzzing in that chaotic, electric way that only happens when thousands of people are waiting for the same moment to begin.

fans were everywhere, trading photocards like currency, comparing outfits as if it were a competition no one had officially announced but everyone was secretly participating in, and blasting cortis songs from small portable speakers that overlapped into one constant, humming soundtrack that made the entire street feel alive.

you had deliberately kept your arrival completely quiet, no messages, no hints, nothing at all that could give you away, because martin and the others were still under the impression that you hadn’t managed to get tickets. or at least that was what martin believed, and the lie you had told him, delivered so casually and so convincingly, had been something along the lines of the tickets being sold out before you even had the chance to try, which was—technically speaking—a complete fabrication.

and now you were standing right at barricade, front and centre, trying very hard not to smile too obviously at the sheer absurdity of it all.

the lights dropped and the entire arena changed in an instant. screams erupted everywhere at once, the kind of sound that didn’t feel like it should fit inside an arena but something much larger, the opening vcr began to play, and your heart immediately tried to exit your body as if it had decided it wanted no part in what was about to happen next.

then the stage rose, and there they were.

five silhouettes coming into focus as thousands of people lost their minds around you, pyrotechnics bursting into the air, music crashing through the speakers, the entire arena vibrating with movement and sound all at once.

(and we pop out, let’s go, CO2 e bureul kyeo, when i pop out?)

the members burst onto stage with that kind of energy that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

they opened the set with nani, their famous sort-of unreleased song which was your personal favourite. 

‘konichiwassup, boku junana sai! i’m really bad at japanese, gomenasai!’

martin was smiling, already in motion, completely in his element, keonho was waving almost immediately like he was personally greeting every single person in the area, juhoon looked like he was one bad decision away from causing chaos, james somehow looked even taller under the stage lights than he did in real life, and seonghyeon was pointing at random sections of the crowd as if he was already identifying people for later trouble.

‘they call me my name, call me jju!’

and then it happened—martin looked forward, then slightly left, then slightly right, scanning the barricade line without really thinking, until he paused in a way that was almost imperceptible to anyone else but felt impossibly loud to you.

his eyes widened. for a full second, everything about him froze in place.

you, on instinct more than anything else, lifted your hand and gave him a small wave, the kind of wave that was so calm and so deliberately casual that it was almost insulting.

he nearly missed his first formation. his head snapped back so fast that james actually noticed and followed his line of sight almost immediately, narrowing his eyes before he saw you standing there, and the second it clicked, he broke into loud, uncontrollable laughter mid-performance.

martin looked absolutely horrified, like his entire sense of reality had just been questioned in front of thousands of people, and you, because you had absolutely no intention of making this easier for him, gave him a thumbs up.

his ears went red so fast it was almost instant.

and after that, the rest of the show only got progressively worse for him, because now he knew you were there, and he couldn’t stop looking. not once, not even when he clearly should have, every song, every ment, every brief moment between transitions, his eyes kept drifting back to barricade, back to you, again and again and again, like it was the only place in the entire arena he could actually focus on anymore.

martin didn’t understand what was happening at first, because from the stage everything always looked like movement without clear edges, just this shifting mass of people and light and noise that blurred together into something almost abstract, and during youngcreatorcrew, which had always been that kind of song anyway, nothing ever felt particularly structured from up there.

it was never the polished performance track, never the sentimental fan moment, it was the song that felt like five friends had been handed microphones and permission to cause chaos, and somehow that was what made it so good. 

the bassline dropped, and the entire crowd reacted as one organism, the standing floor turning into something that looked like a living ocean, arms rising and falling, voices crashing together, every lyric shouted back with a kind of reckless joy that made it impossible to distinguish individual faces.

then, somewhere in the middle of all of that, something started to shift.

you had been fully in it from the beginning, voice already half gone, sweat clinging to your hair, screaming every lyric like it was the last thing you were ever going to get the chance to say, and the people around you had matched your energy without hesitation, all of you packed tightly together in that front section that felt like it was vibrating under its own pressure.

and then, during the build-up right before the chorus, something in your brain clicked into place. it wasn’t a sensible thought. it wasn’t even a good thought.

you turned around completely, shifting your focus away from the stage and towards the crowd behind you, and for a second there was only confusion from the people directly around you as you lifted your hands and started making wide, deliberate sweeping gestures through the air as if you were conducting something invisible.

“back up!”

no one could hear you over the sound.

so you did it again, more exaggerated this time, arms cutting through the air with more insistence, repeating the same instruction with nothing but movement.

“back up!”

slowly, it started to register.

a few people closest to you caught on first, laughing as they began to shuffle backwards, then others joined in, following without fully understanding what was going on but trusting the collective energy of it anyway, until the idea spread outward through the crowd in waves.

the girl next to you started helping without being asked, then another person followed, then another, and suddenly it wasn’t just you anymore. it was this coordinated, chaotic, half-organised effort happening entirely on instinct.

people were laughing now, pointing, trying to make sense of the sudden reshaping of space happening in real time in front of barricade, and the circle kept expanding, widening, opening up more and more until there was a massive empty pocket forming in the middle of the floor.

a perfectly strange, completely unplanned void.

thousands of people surrounded it, still screaming, still moving, still alive with sound and light, but now all of them waiting around this open space that hadn’t been there a minute ago, as if something was about to happen and no one had been told what it was yet.

on stage, james noticed first, because he always seemed to catch the small changes before anyone else did, the kind of subtle shifts in the crowd that didn’t immediately make sense until you looked twice. “what’s going on over there?”

keonho followed his gaze, tilting his head slightly as he tried to focus through the lights and movement.

“oh,” he said after a beat, a slow grin forming, “oh, they’re making a circle.”

juhoon didn’t even try to hide his reaction, immediately breaking into laughter as soon as he understood what was unfolding. “no way.”

seonghyeon leaned forward, squinting into the standing section as if that would somehow make the scene clearer. “no way,” he repeated, already laughing under his breath.

martin looked over a moment later, still mid-performance energy, still riding the high of the song, and then he saw it properly, the opening in the crowd, the widening space right at the barricade, the strange, deliberate emptiness forming in the middle of all that chaos, and something in him immediately lit up. “oh my god,” he said, breathless, already smiling, “oh my god.” he leaned closer to the mic, practically laughing as he spoke, “a mosh pit.”

(moshpit in the midnight?)

the chorus hadn’t even properly hit yet, but the entire crowd around that circle was already vibrating with anticipation, people pointing, shouting, all of them waiting for the exact moment the beat drop would hit as if it had been choreographed in advance.

and then it did.

“run it!—” 

the bass dropped, heavy and immediate, and the entire structure of the crowd seemed to give way at once, the circle collapsing inward in a single collective surge that looked almost choreographed but wasn’t, just pure shared instinct and adrenaline.

“—back, back, back, back, yeah, uh, back, back, back, back, mot neukkim ildan bop your!—” 

people rushed into the centre, not aggressively, not dangerously, but with this uncontrollable excitement, sprinting into the open space, jumping, bouncing off each other, laughing as they collided, arms thrown around strangers like it was the most natural thing in the world, everyone screaming every lyric at full volume until the sound itself felt physical. the floor shook under the movement.

the circle disappeared completely for a moment, swallowed by the crowd, then reformed almost instantly as people pushed back out again, only to collapse inward once more on the next beat, like it had become its own living rhythm.

“—head, head, head, head, head, head, head, head! now you know that i’ma!—”

the circle expanded. 

crashed. 

expand.

crash.

expand.

crash.

every beat sent another wave through the entire area, people at the centre spilling outward only to be pulled back in again, the edges constantly shifting, everyone jumping, everyone screaming, nobody thinking about anything except the sound and the moment and the shared chaos of it all.

martin was grinning so hard it looked like it physically hurt.

“oh my god,” he laughed into the mic, still trying to process what he was seeing, “look at them, look at them, look at them.” he grabbed seonghyeon’s shoulder as if he needed confirmation that this was real. “dude,” he said, still laughing, “dude, they started a mosh pit!”

and then, as his eyes kept scanning the centre of the chaos, something shifted in his expression, the kind of shift that happens when recognition hits too fast for the brain to catch up properly. there, right in the middle of it all, was someone who looked far too familiar, someone who was screaming the lyrics with both arms in the air, someone who kept pushing the crowd back open whenever it closed too quickly, someone who looked entirely too comfortable commanding absolute chaos.

martin froze. “…wait,” he said slowly, squinting as if that would change what he was seeing. “no.” you turned slightly, and everything clicked at once. “…no way.” his grin vanished for half a second, like his brain had briefly refused to accept reality, and then it came back even stronger, almost disbelieving. “wait,” he said again, louder this time, “wait.” 

he pointed so sharply—moving the mic out of the way to talk to his members only—it was almost dramatic enough to be part of the choreography. “that’s yn.”

(i’m back in town, start a riot?)

the boys all reacted at once, whipping their heads around in different directions.

“what?” “where?” “where?”

martin pointed again, far too aggressively for someone supposed to be performing.

“there,” he said, voice cracking into laughter, “in the middle.”

keonho spotted you a second later and immediately doubled over, laughing so hard he had to bend forward. “oh my god,” he managed between laughs, “it is.”

seonghyeon looked like he had genuinely forgotten how to stand properly. “no way,” he said, completely stunned.

james, meanwhile, had fully lost it, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “your girlfriend started a mosh pit,” he managed, wiping his eyes as he laughed. “she’s crazy! can we keep her?!”

martin, still staring, looked like he was trying very hard to decide whether he was more shocked or impressed, but the answer seemed to settle into something dangerously proud instead. “that’s my girl,” he said, almost immediately, like it was the most obvious conclusion in the world.

“no way, bro,” keonho laughed, still in disbelief.

“no way,” seonghyeon echoed.

martin just kept looking at you, grin fully back now, impossibly wide. “look at her,” he said again, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to, “just… look at her.”

meanwhile, you had absolutely no idea any of this was being discussed on stage, because you were far too busy keeping the entire thing alive like it was your personal responsibility now, as if the pit had become something you were actively maintaining rather than something that had spontaneously happened.

every time the circle began to shrink, someone would instinctively throw their arms out, others would step back in response, and just like that the gap would reform again, wide and waiting, only for the next beat to hit and send everyone surging forward once more.

jumping, laughing, singing, the energy no longer confined to one tight space but spreading outward through the floor section in waves, until people from neighbouring areas were visibly trying to push closer just to be part of it, as if they could feel something happening that they didn’t want to miss.

martin, on stage, could not stop looking because somehow, in a way that made absolutely no sense and yet made perfect sense at the same time, this was the most you thing he had ever witnessed—not standing quietly at barricade like a normal fan, not filming politely or swaying gently or trying to look composed, but arriving at one of the biggest shows of his life and somehow convincing hundreds of strangers to participate in organised chaos: the exact kind he loved. 

he looked almost overwhelmed by it. “she’s having so much fun,” he said, almost to himself, voice softer than it had been all night, smiling. 

james turned to him immediately, eyebrows raised. “you’re looking at her like she’s personally responsible for all of our music right now.”

martin didn’t even look away from the crowd. “she started a pit.”

“yes.”

“at a cortis concert.”

“yes,” james repeated, laughing already.

martin pointed again, like he needed everyone else to confirm the same reality he was seeing. “look,” he said, breathless, “she’s doing it again.”

and you were. right there in the centre of everything, arms outstretched, opening the circle once more, while the people around you already started laughing in anticipation because they knew exactly what was about to happen, the timing almost ritualistic now, the crowd moving with the music like they were sharing one collective heartbeat.

the drop hit once more. 

and the entire floor section erupted inward again, a massive surge of bodies jumping and screaming and laughing all at once, pure adrenaline and pure joy colliding in the middle of the arena.

martin laughed so hard he nearly missed his next line, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, because all he could think, over and over, was that he had left you unsupervised for one concert and somehow you had started a movement.

and… well, the thing about mosh pits, or whatever this had become, was that they were contagious, not because people were reckless, but because joy always was, and right now there was far too much of it packed into one section of the floor for it to stay contained.

by the time youngcreatorcrew ended, the crowd was breathless, sweaty, laughing, half of them now acting like they had known each other for years despite meeting less than ten minutes ago, the energy still buzzing under their skin like it didn’t know how to stop.

you were finally leaning back against the barricade, trying to catch your breath, hair sticking to your face, voice gone almost completely, when the members regrouped at centre stage and all five of them turned their attention toward the floor section.

not just the floor section—specifically, the centre of it, where the chaos had been, where it still refused to fully die down.

the crowd was still chanting, still bouncing, still trying to restart the pit between songs like it was an ongoing agreement no one wanted to cancel, and right in the middle of it all, still smiling like you hadn’t just accidentally taken over half the arena’s emotional regulation for the night, was you.

completely unaware that five boys on stage were currently staring at you like you had just done something far more dangerous than anything that had actually happened.

seonghyeon was the first to break the moment of hesitation, eyes still on the crowd as if the answer was already obvious to him even before he said it. “should we?”

martin, being the ‘responsible’ leader he was, didn’t even hesitate. “no.”

there was a beat of silence that suggested this should have ended the conversation entirely, but it absolutely didn’t. “okay but—” seonghyeon started again, still watching the floor section like it was calling to him.

“no,” martin repeated immediately, sharper this time.

james leaned forward slightly, following the same line of sight, expression already shifting into something far too amused. “counterpoint,” he said, pointing straight at the chaos below, “yes.”

keonho had already started walking toward the edge of the stage before anyone else had properly registered what that meant. “guys,” he called, loudly as if volume alone would make it more reasonable.

a security guard noticed at the exact wrong time, which was to say, at the exact moment nothing could realistically be stopped anymore.

“please remain on stage,” the guard said, voice tight with the kind of panic that suggested they had already mentally resigned themselves to disaster.

the members looked at each other, then looked at the crowd, and then looked back at each other again. and there was a shared understanding that settled in almost instantly.

“oh,” james said slowly, already smiling, taking off one of the layers of his outfit, “we’re definitely doing it.”

the next song started before anyone could intervene properly. the opening synth of fashion rolling across the arena and instantly changing the entire atmosphere, the crowd reacting as one massive wave of sound and movement.

and then keonho jumped.

the security guard looked like he aged several years in real time. keonho landed cleanly in the standing section, and the reaction from the crowd was immediate and explosive, like the entire arena had just collectively decided this was the best possible outcome.

“keonho!” voices screamed everywhere at once.

the moment his feet hit the floor, james followed without hesitation, then seonghyeon, then juhoon, one after another dropping down into the crowd as if gravity had simply stopped applying to them.

lots of their staff members were waving from the side, managers were shouting, security was trying to reach them, but none of it mattered anymore, because the decision had already been made and the momentum was far stronger than any attempt to reverse it.

the arena turned into something that wasn’t quite controlled and wasn’t quite chaos either, but sat somewhere in between, the kind of energy that only exists when nobody is thinking about consequences and everyone is only thinking about the next beat.

suddenly, they weren’t above the crowd anymore. they were inside it—part of it.

keonho disappeared almost immediately into one side of the pit, throwing his arm around some fanboys like they were old friends, jumping with them, screaming lyrics into the air while shaking his hair out of his face like it was the most natural thing in the world.

james somehow ended up closer to the centre, doing some funnt improvised choreography every time the chorus hit, making the people around him collapse into laughter so hard they could barely stay upright.

juhoon got swallowed by another section entirely, only briefly visible every so often as he popped up above the crowd before vanishing again into the movement.

seonghyeon became a constant presence moving through different pockets of people, pointing at random fans, encouraging them to sing lines, starting small jumping circles inside the larger one like he was multiplying the chaos on purpose.

and then there was martin, who lasted approximately five seconds before he somehow ended up beside you.

not intentionally, at least that was what he would insist later, as if it mattered. but somehow, no matter where either of you moved, the space between you stayed consistent, as if the crowd itself had decided something about proximity that neither of you had agreed to.

you shifted left. he appeared there.

you moved toward the centre. he was suddenly beside you again.

you got pushed backward by the crowd and turned slightly to regain balance, and there he was again.

eventually you caught him staring properly. “what?”

he blinked, like he had been caught doing something scientifically impossible. “what?”

“you’re following me,” you accused, grinning. 

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m literally not,” he said immediately, far too quickly to be convincing.

a fan beside you laughed, loudly enough for both of you to hear. “you’re absolutely following her.”

(naega mani joahae?)

martin looked offended for half a second, like this was the most ridiculous accusation he had ever heard, before the chorus hit again and whatever defence he had been forming completely dissolved.

the pit erupted once more. no phones were up anymore. not a single one—not because anyone had been told to stop, and not because security had successfully enforced anything, but because somewhere along the way everyone had simply forgotten they existed.

nobody cared about recording, nobody cared about capturing proof, nobody cared about angles or uploads or perfect fancams, because for a brief stretch of time the only thing that mattered was being inside it.

(that’s greengreen?)

the crowd had become one single being, fans and members and staff somewhere in the distance probably regretting every career choice that had led them here, all of it colliding into sound and movement and light.

jumping together. screaming together. breathing together.

the bass shook through the floor like a physical force, the chorus echoed so loudly it felt like it was inside your ribs, sweat and laughter mixing together, voices cracking mid-lyric, people grabbing onto strangers just to stay upright while laughing too hard to stand properly.

and in the middle of all of it, nothing felt separate anymore.

the members were scattered through the crowd now, not in any structured or planned way, but in the kind of random distribution that made it feel like they had never belonged on a stage in the first place, as if they were always meant to be here, inside the noise, inside the movement, inside the same overwhelming mess as everyone else.

at one point, you actually took a second to look around properly, not just at what was immediately in front of you, but at everything happening at once, and it was almost impossible to process all of it together.

keonho was dancing with a group of fans like he had known them for years, completely unbothered by the fact that this was technically not normal behaviour for someone who was supposed to be performing.

james was treating the pit like his own stage, dancing through the space with confidence every time the chorus hit, making fans laugh at his aggressively funny moves, and then hype him up to do something cooler. 

juhoon had somehow acquired a pair of sunglasses from someone in the crowd and was wearing them like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had always belonged to him.

seonghyeon was leading an entire section in a fanchant, but really, it was just a bunch of teenagers screaming all the lyrics. 

and martin, of course, was beside you again, like it had become some unspoken rule of the night that no matter how the crowd shifted or how the space changed, he would eventually end up there.

for a second, it didn’t feel like a concert anymore—it felt like a celebration.

then the next chorus hit.

and for thirty completely ridiculous seconds, thousands of fans, five idols, and one very guilty girlfriend all moved together as one, jumping in sync with the music, singing every lyric at full volume, the entire arena shaking under the weight of it, staff visibly giving up on trying to control anything at all, and the members looking like they were having the time of their lives, fully unrestrained, fully in the moment.

martin, who was right beside you, kept looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real, like this was somehow the best possible version of everything he had ever imagined a concert could be.

no barriers between anyone. no cameras. no recordings. no proof that it had ever happened outside of memory. just a moment that only existed for the people inside it.

the final chorus hit harder than any of the ones before it, louder, heavier, more chaotic in the best possible way, and the entire crowd reacted like it had been waiting for that exact release.

everyone screamed. everyone jumped. everyone sang till the last note ended. 

as the members finally began moving back toward the stage, martin looked out over the crowd again, then at the fans, then at the members, and finally at you.

he laughed then, properly, completely, the kind of laugh that didn’t feel controlled in any way, the kind that came from somewhere too full to hold it in.

when the outro ended and they were all back on stage, everyone was breathless, sweaty, still laughing as the adrenaline refused to leave their systems.

keonho grabbed the microphone, pointing a finger directly toward the crowd in barricade. “special shoutout to the fan who started that.”

the arena erupted immediately. you ducked down on instinct.

unfortunately for you, martin also had a microphone, and when he spoke, he was smiling in a way that made it immediately worse. “oh yeah,” he said, like it was obvious, like it had always been obvious, “i know her.”

(they gon’ mention me every time they gossip with they friends?)

the members collapsed into laughter on stage, the crowd lost its collective mind all over again, and in that moment it became very clear that whatever control you thought you had over the situation had completely disappeared because of martin.

because somehow, against all odds, his secret girlfriend had shown up to the first stop of their biggest tour, won barricade, started a mosh pit, convinced half the arena to join in, and accidentally created the most unforgettable concert cortis would probably ever have.

 ☆

years later, people would still swear it happened like it was carved into collective memory rather than documented reality.

they would call it the incheon pit.

the one night that somehow lived without proof, without clips, without a single shaky fancam to anchor it to something physical, as if the internet itself had blinked at the wrong moment and missed it entirely.

no recordings. no timestamps. no physical evidence.

just thousands of voices insisting, with absolute certainty, that the arena had turned into something alive that night, something that moved like a heartbeat and sounded like a storm, something too loud, too bright, too shared to ever be properly captured.

and every time the story resurfaced, it would feel slightly unreal again, like a memory that didn’t belong to just one person but to everyone who had been there at once, pressed together in sound and light and adrenaline, jumping as if the ground itself had decided to participate.

people would argue about it online, reconstructing fragments of it from nothing but feeling, trying and failing to prove what could only ever be experienced, never replayed.

and somewhere far beyond the noise of those discussions, the five boys would just smile, each time the memory came up, like they were remembering the same impossible night from five slightly different angles, none of them willing to say too much, all of them knowing that anything they added would only make it feel less real.

because some nights don’t survive as footage… some nights survive as legend—and the incheon pit was one of them.

© hyuneskkami ❦

Screams and whistles suddenly erupted around you, dragging your attention toward the stage despite yourself.

Martin steps on to the stage first. And god, he was… loud.

Not just in volume, but in presence. You knew he was loud. You’d grown familiar with the sound of his laughter and shouting (against your will), echoing through the school hallways during his usual over-the-top antics. But this… this was different. He moved across the stage, electric guitar in hand, like it belonged to him. Like every second of attention from the crowd was something he expected, not something he hoped for. His voice cut through the noise effortlessly, rough in a way that made the entire room lean in.

You shifted your weight, trying (and failing) to look uninterested. You weren’t impressed or anything. High school garage bands were soooo last year, you like to believe that your tastes were much more refined than that. But a small, tiny part of you regrettably understood why everyone else seemed to be.

The crowd erupted at the end of the third song. You hadn’t even noticed how long you had been watching him, and annoyingly, he looked good. Not in a polished, put together way--but in that careless, messy way that somehow worked. Hair damp with sweat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, those ridiculous studded bracelets clinking every time he moved. Even the chipped black nail polish on his fingers, something you would’ve normally judged—looked deliberate as they moved over the strings. It was irritating how well it all suited him.

Cheers bounced off the walls as people pushed closer to the makeshift stage. Some girls even held up signs for someone named James as he played the bass, while the drummer–Keonho, you hear from the freshmen around you– kept the energy going from the back.

Despite the ruckus and adrenaline around you, you didn’t move. You stayed planted at the back, arms still crossed, occasionally checking your nails and the charms on them to look busy, expression carefully neutral. Unwilling to admit how much their performance pulled you in. Scanning the crowd with a bored stare, you caught sight of something that immediately sent blood rushing to your ears. Your nails pressing crescents into your palm, though your face remained completely stone cold.

Aaron Samuels. Your ex-boyfriend. The one who had broken up with you just two days ago because you were “too much.” Locked in a passionate kiss with Cady Heron. Your new friend. (Though some would argue she’s just another one of your ‘minions’ who do everything you ask them to and believe every word you say. But oh well its whatever, friend, sidekick, minion, they're all the same to you anyway.)

Your anger continued to boil beneath the surface, but you weren’t going to make a scene here. You were better than that. Exhaling a staggered breath, you forced yourself to inhale slowly, unwilling to make a spectacle of yourself. You just scoff at their public display, the scene reminding you of two fishes kissing each other that you once saw from a random documentary.

That didn’t mean you were going to let them go. You always had your way, one way or another.

You couldn’t care less if your ex-boyfriend had found someone else right after your breakup. What you couldn’t accept was how he thought he had the power to end things with you, not the other way around. The same could be said for Cady. You had never truly seen her as a friend, but you certainly weren’t going to let her play you for a fool. You would make sure they regretted it. 

Just not now. Their time will eventually come.

After throwing one last judgmental glance at the pair, you refocused your attention on the five-person band. Specifically to the blond with spiked hair and messy eyeliner, his red electric guitar slung low.

Onstage, Martin was having the time of his life. He ran a hand through his damp hair, slightly out of breath, eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. Leaning into the mic, a crooked grin tugged at his lips as his eyes scanned the crowd. 

Until they landed past it.

Straight to you.

You froze.

Oh God, no. There was no way.

“Damn,” he breathed into the mic, voice low, amused. “Didn’t think I’d actually see you here tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You were literally wearing a disguise. Granted, it wasn’t a good one– but still! How did he spot you so easily in a crowd like this?

He straightened, grin widening, clearly enjoying this far too much. “This next song…” he said, dragging it out just enough to make your dread build, “…goes out to a very special lady.”

Your eyes widened behind your sunglasses.

Oh my God. Shut up. No. No fucking way.

He lifted his hand, pointing directly at you. “This one’s for you.” The reaction was immediate.

Heads turned. Dozens of them. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The energy in the room shifted as people followed his gaze, right to the back, right to you.

Your heart nearly stopped. You ducked your head instantly, pulling your cap lower over your face, as if that could somehow erase the fact that half the room was now staring at you. This was a nightmare.

Being the center of attention wasn’t unfamiliar to you. After all, you were Y/N L/N. Queen bee of North Shore High. The one who controlled the social hierarchy. The one who could make or break someone’s reputation with a single word. But this was completely different. You had no intention of being recognized in this smelly, cramped backyard, precisely why you had thrown on an (admittedly shitty) disguise and left Karen and the others completely in the dark.

Mortification burned through you, hot and immediate.

Onstage, Martin just smiled, like he was genuinely on top of the world just because you were there. And then– he strummed the guitar.

You stilled, the first strum hitting like a loaded gun. And somehow, you just knew it was aimed at you.

God, please no. Just kill me now.

You knew that sound. You knew that opening. Your head snapped up despite yourself, horror dawning in real time. Martin leaned into the mic, eyes still locked on yours, grin borderline wicked. And then he started singing, the four other boys behind him closely mirroring the horror on your face, hands completely still, unsure of what to do.

“You know you love me,” he sang, winking at you. “I know you care.”

You stared at him in pure, unfiltered disbelief. Out of all the songs in the world. Out of all the songs–

He chose that one.

“And I just can’t believe we ain’t together…”

The crowd went wild. Some people laughed, others cheered louder, phones already out. Hesitantly, his bandmates follow his lead and start playing the instrumental. And Martin? He was absolutely eating it up, performing like this was the best decision he had ever made in his life.

And while you were completely, utterly stuck watching in both horror and amusement… a devilish idea began to take root in your head.

Aaron Samuels and Cady Heron might have put you on display– but you’d be the one controlling how this story ended.

The set ended in a blur of noise. After Martin's very humiliating public display, the band tried to do some form of damage control and played more songs, hoping that everyone will forget what just happened.

Cheers, whistles, people chanting for one more song, screaming ‘Cortis’ like they were headlining coachella instead of someone’s overcrowded backyard. The energy lingered in the air long after the last note faded, buzzing beneath your skin in a way you refused to acknowledge.

You didn’t stay for long. Just enough to let the crowd settle. Just enough to make sure no one was paying attention to you anymore. Then you moved.

Through the bodies, past the makeshift stage, toward the side of the house where the five boys had gathered. Laughing, excitedly talking over each other, riding the high of their performance. And there he was.

Leaning back against the wall like he hadn’t just made a complete spectacle out of you twenty minutes ago. A half-empty water bottle in his hand, hair damp, his cheeks flushed from the heat, eyeliner smudged and nearly melted off from the sweat.

His head tilted the second you stepped into his line of sight. A grin spreading across his face like he’d just won something, eyebrows raised in faux shock.

“Oh, wow, look who we have here,” he drawled, pushing himself off the wall, meeting you half way, body towering over yours even with the kitten heels you wore, completely ignoring the shocked look in his friends faces as they pretended that they weren't listening. “Didn’t think you’d actually come see me.”

You stopped an arms length away from him, arms crossing over your chest, expression perfectly composed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Edwards” you said coolly. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

His grin widened.

God he loves when you talk in that bratty tone of yours.

“Yeah?” he said, taking a step closer, fingers fiddling with his earring, voice teasing. “So did you like it? You were looking pretty into it back there.” His head tilting in the direction of the stage.

“I was just dropping by,” you corrected flatly.

“Right right.” He nodded, like he totally believed you. “Dropping by. So the disguise has no reason at all? You just like walking around with a cap and sunglasses during the night?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly behind your sunglasses. “You talk a lot for someone who just publicly humiliated me.”

That only made him laugh. “Humiliated?” he repeated, hand coming up to his chest in mock offense. “I dedicated a song to you. That’s like- the complete opposite of humiliation and totally romantic.”

“You think Baby by Justin Bieber is romantic?” you deadpanned.

“Definitely,” he shot back, nodding vigorously. “Isn’t that how he bagged Selena?”

You stared at him. He only grinned, biting his lower lip slightly, eyes glinting with amusement– like he was waiting to see how far he could push you.

God, he was insufferable. And entirely too pleased with himself.

“Relax,” he added, softer now, tilting his head slightly. “You know you loved it.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I didn’t.”

“Nah” he dragged out, shaking his head as he leaned in slightly. “You totally did.”

Silence stretched for half a second. From a few feet away, Martin's friends held their breaths. Watching closely to how you would react to the wasian boys comment. They completely expected you to step on his toes and walk away, like how you ran his foot over and drove off a few weeks ago. But all you did was let out a sharp exhale, trying to control yourself. You weren’t here for this.

You straightened slightly, gaze sharpening as you looked at him properly this time.

“Whatever, I need you to do something for me.”

That got his attention. Not that you didn’t already have it, but this shifted it. Made it sharper. More focused.

His grin didn’t disappear, but it changed. Curious now. “Yeah?” he said. “What kind of something?”

You held his gaze. “I need you to play a part.”

His eyebrows lifted, interest piqued. “And what exactly am I auditioning for?”

You didn’t smile. “My boyfriend.”

That did it. For the first time since you walked over, Martin actually went still. Not completely. Just enough that you noticed. Then his mouth twitched, lips pressing tight like he was trying not to react.

“Wow, straight to it, huh?”

“This isn’t about you,” you said immediately. “So don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Mhmmm” he hummed, like he wasn’t listening at all. Like thinking about it was too much of a task, even when deep down all of his nerves were about to explode just at the mere mention of you mentioning ‘boyfriend’ to him. “Fake boyfriend, though… that’s a pretty big role.”

You ignored that. “It’s temporary,” you continued. “It just needs to be public. Convincing enough that people believe it.”

His eyes flickered, studying you more carefully now. “And why, may I ask,” he asked, tone just a little more curious than teasing now, “does the princess need a fake boyfriend?” Martin wasn’t stupid. Everyone had heard about you and Aaron. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why you chose him.

You tilted your head slightly, choosing to completely ignore the nickname. You could’ve said it simply. You could’ve said: Aaron. But that wasn’t the point. “Some people need to learn a lesson,” you said instead, voice cool and measured, throwing your hair over your shoulder. “And to know never to fuck with me”

There it was. Honest. In your own way.

Martin watched you for a second longer than usual. Expression now carefully neutral, lips jutting out as he lets out a thinking hum sound. Then, he smiles. Not the teasing one he has been giving you all evening, but something sharper. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “That’s kind of evil.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I prefer the word effective.”

He let out a surprised laugh, “So let me get this straight,” he said, now taking a few steps away from you, as if internalizing the information you’ve given him “You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend… so some douchebag realizes he messed up?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

You met his gaze, completely unbothered. “Then I turn him down.” You shrug.

That got a real reaction. He broke into loud laughter, a hand coming up to his stomach as he bent slightly, a tear forming at the corner of his eye.“God you really are evil,” he says through laughter, wiping away the tear. “I like it.” he sighs dreamily.

Of course he did.

You ignore his words, and crossed your arms again, a single eyebrow raised. “Well? What will it be, Edwards?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at you, expression thinking, like he was piecing something together. Then his grin came back, now softer than it was before. “If I’m playing your boyfriend,” he said, voice dropping just slightly, “I’m doing it my way.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, stepping into your space once again, just enough to be intentional, “I don’t do anything half-assed.”

Your chin tilted up slightly. “Good,” you replied. “I don’t either.”

His grin widened. “People are gonna believe it,” he continued. “No holding back. No fake plastic romance shit, If I’m in, I’m in.”

You studied him for a moment. Weighing. Calculating.

“Fine.”

That was all it took. The pink in his cheeks turning to a blazing red color. His eyes lit up–just for a second–before he masked it again with that same cocky expression.

“Didn’t think my night would end with you asking me out.” he said, shaking his head slightly.

“Don’t think too much about it, Edwards” you said flatly. “You just happen to be useful.”

“Yeah?” he shot back, grin returning. “We’ll see about that, princess.”

You turned slightly, already done with the conversation. “I’ll text you the details.”

“Wait,” he called.

You paused, glancing back at him. He was still smiling, but softer now. Not mocking. Not teasing. The same smile children have when they receive the present they’ve always prayed for on their birthday.

“For the record?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I would’ve said yes anyway.”

You held his gaze for a second. Unreadable. Carefully thinking about your next words.

“I know.” And with that, you turned and walked away.

Leaving him still smiling like he’d just gotten exactly what he wanted, hands shaking at his sides from anticipation.

When Monday rolls around, everything at North Shore High goes on as usual. Hyunjin from the art club is still at his usual spot, handing out flyers and encouraging applicants. Cocona from the fashion club is pinning up yet another poster, looking for models. Soobin from the anime club is Naruto-running down the hall.

Again, everything is as usual.

Except for one thing.

You. And Martin. Together. Walking down the hallway. Together. Hand in hand.

A sly, almost poisonous smile sits on your glossy lips, your arm looped around Martin’s bicep. A pink Juicy Couture bag, very obviously yours, hangs off his shoulder like it belongs there. Your soft pink outfit and gold jewelry, the picture of clean girl, contrasts sharply against Martin’s all black, grungy clothes and silver accessories. And yet, somehow, it works.

You wear your usual proud expression, completely unbothered by the stares and whispers trailing behind you. You walk like this is nothing. Like it’s always been this way. Beside you, Martin carries himself differently. A little too aware. A little too smug. A cocky grin plays on his lips as he basks in the attention, occasionally throwing a mock salute at the random guys frozen by their lockers, jaws practically on the floor.

You don’t slow down. Not when the hallway opens up, not when the noise shifts from passing chatter to something more focused. If anything, your grip on Martin tightens slightly. Because you already know where you’re going.

And more importantly– you know who’s going to be there when you arrive.

The cafeteria doors swing open, loud and careless like they always do, but this time it feels different. Heads turn. Not all at once, but enough to notice, enough for it to ripple through the room as you walk in, still attached to Martin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t hesitate, don’t slow down, just head straight for your usual table where Gretchen and Karen are already mid-conversation, Cady sitting across from them with that same composed, quietly observant look she always has. 

And right beside her is Aaron. He looks up, just for a second, and it’s subtle, the way his expression shifts. Not shock, not even confusion, more like mild amusement, like he’s already decided what this is before you’ve even said anything. A joke. An obvious ploy to get his attention.

You slide into your seat like nothing’s changed, dropping your bag onto the table as Martin takes the spot beside you, a little too close, deliberately so. There’s a slight pause before Cady tilts her head, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Oh, wow,” she says, light, almost curious, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes just a little too wide to still look innocent. “Y/N, who’s this… friend you have here?” There’s something under it—not quite sharp, but not harmless either. A tone you’re familiar with. The very same tone you use when speaking to a child—slow, measured, as if they wouldn’t understand otherwise. And you don’t even blink.

You just shrug, reaching for your tray that a random freshman had brought over like it’s nothing. “Martin. My boyfriend.”

It lands, and then just as quickly- laughter. Not loud, just disbelieving, like you’ve said something mildly entertaining. Karen giggles, Gretchen looks confused for half a second before brushing it off, and even Cady smiles like she’s humoring you. Across the table, Aaron leans back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips as he mutters, “Yeah right. Okay.” He doesn’t press, doesn’t question it further, because to him it’s obvious, it’s fake. The conversation moves on almost immediately, dissolving into something else like it always does, gossip or plans or something equally unimportant, and just like that everything feels normal again. Too normal.

You pick up your fork, ready to finally eat, when something nudges lightly against your tray. You glance down to find a raspberry smoothie sitting in front of you, cold and lightly fogged with condensation, the lid already loosened. Your eyes shift to Martin, brows pulling together in a small, questioning look. He notices anyway. Of course he does. He shrugs like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter. “You like this, right?” he says simply. “You have it every lunch.” Across the table, Aaron lets out a quiet scoff, wrinkling his nose. “Eugh that shits basically useless. Gatorade’s better.” Neither of you respond, not even a glance, and for a second, that silence feels louder than anything else.

You look back at the bottle, then at Martin. There’s no teasing in his expression, no smugness, no hint that this is part of some act. He’s just… right. You do drink it every lunch. You always have. Aaron never noticed, or if he did, it was to complain about it, actually, saying that it tasted weird, saying you should just get something else. 

This is new to you, different. You pause, not long, just a beat, something small and quiet that almost goes unnoticed. “Hm, thanks,” you say finally, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything at all, before taking the cup and taking a sip like it’s just another part of your routine, like it’s normal.

But across the table, Aaron notices. Not the drink, not even Martin, but the pause, and the way that for the first time since you sat down, something about this doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.

It’s small, almost nothing, gone as quickly as it came, but you catch it anyway– the slight shift in his expression, the way his attention lingers just a second too long before he looks away like it doesn’t matter.

And that’s all you need.

Not a scene. Not a reaction. Just that.

Because if he was really over it– over you, he wouldn’t be looking at all. You take another sip like you didn’t notice, a barely there smirk being hidden, like none of this means anything, setting the bottle back down with quiet ease as the conversation around you carries on. But beneath it, steady and certain, something settles into place.

Judging by the way Aaron can’t stop watching, you already know how this ends.

By the time the school day ends, everyone across campus has heard the news.

Y/N L/N and Martin Edwards are dating.

There are all kinds of opinions about your relationship. Gretchen would say it’s “so fetch.” A handful of people call it adorable, while some say you're just bored. Some speculate he blackmailed you into dating him. Others insist you’re the one doing the blackmailing. But no one can deny it– somehow, impossibly, the two of you fit. 

Martin quietly walks you to your car in the school parking lot, a guitar case slung over one shoulder while your pink juicy couture bag hangs from his hand. The second your car beeps open, he suddenly rushes ahead of you, swinging the door open with exaggerated flair, bowing low like some medieval knight.

“Your carriage, m’lady.”

One hand holds the door open, the other extends your bag toward you.

You scoff, amused despite yourself. “You’re such a dweeb,” you say, but a small laugh slips out anyway as you take your bag and slide into the driver’s seat. Martin lifts his head at the sound of it. He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t even try. Just grins.

“Well, you’re dating this dweeb, so…” he shrugs, gently closing your door.

For a moment, everything is quiet. No whispers. No stares. No rumors trailing behind you. Just quiet.

You would usually drive off immediately, eager to leave the draining campus behind. But for some reason, you hesitate, fingers resting against the steering wheel, unmoving. Martin notices. Of course he does. Watching you has become part of his daily routine. He leans down slightly, arms folding over the edge of your window.

“That was… a pretty eventful day,” he says.

You let out a soft laugh, nodding. “Yeah. It was.”

Silence settles again. Not uncomfortable. Just… unfamiliar. Like both of you are searching for something to say, but neither quite knows what.

Martin clears his throat lightly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? I’ve got band practice, so I can’t take you home. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Edwards,” you reply. “My mom would probably have a heart attack if she saw you anyway.”

He smirks. “Are my looks that dangerous?”

You roll your eyes. “No. It’s because you look like a walmart version of Sid Vicious.”

You expect another one of his dramatic comebacks. A joke. A protest. Something. But instead- “You know Sid Vicious?”

You pause. Just for a second. A flicker of hesitation. You know how people see you. You know what they expect. Girls like you don’t listen to that kind of music. Girls like you don’t know things like that.

You open your mouth, already ready to brush it off as a joke but Martin breaks into a wide grin. “You just keep getting cooler and cooler.”

And just like that, the moment shifts. He straightens up, stepping back from your car, hands tucked into his skinny jeans, that same easy smile still on his face.

“See you tomorrow, princess. Drive safe.”

And then he turns, heading back toward the school, probably to the music room, like it’s just another normal day.You watch him go. The way his guitar case bounces slightly, the way his frosted tips catch the light. And watch him disappear through the doors.

And for a moment, something unfamiliar settles in your chest. 

Cady Heron had always envied you.

Back at her old school, she had been the it girl. The perfect image of the campus sweetheart. Not only was she beautiful, but she was also helpful. Always tutoring the students who needed it, volunteering at every school fundraiser, dutifully following behind the teachers like their favorite little pet.

She had carefully built her image.

She made sure everyone bowed at her feet and unknowingly ate out of her hand, and the moment she realized how desperately people craved her attention, she knew she could never give up that kind of power.

So when she transferred to North Shore High, she expected more of the same. Only there was one problem.

You.

She could not understand how, despite your abrasive attitude, you still had the entire school trailing after you like lovesick puppies. Despite her best efforts to stand beside you, to replace your reign with her own sweet, charming image– she couldn’t understand how you still managed to remain on top.

That was when she decided she would take everything from you. One by one. Until you had nothing left. And she had everything.

Starting with Aaron Samuels.

Manipulating Aaron Samuels had not been difficult. Despite his good looks and golden retriever charm, at the end of the day he was still just a dog. With a brush of her hand against his arm here, a playful fix of his hair there, and the slightest pout of her lips– She got him into her bed, and got him to break up with you.

She couldn’t wait to see the look on your face. She could picture it already. Your anger at being replaced. Your humiliation. Your jealousy of her.

As she sat at the group’s usual cafeteria table that Monday, Aaron at her side, she waited eagerly for your arrival, ready to watch you desperately try to conceal your rage at realizing you had been replaced by someone better.

But to her shock, you ruined the script entirely.

You walked in smiling. Radiant. Completely unbothered. And hanging off the arm of Martin Edwards.

The same Martin Edwards who now pulled out your chair for you like it was second nature, his hand resting casually on your waist as you sat down beside him like nothing in the world had changed.

Like you hadn’t just been betrayed.

Like you hadn’t just been replaced.

Being seated directly across from your nauseating display of affection, Cady shot a glance toward Aaron and felt her stomach drop. His jaw was tight. His expression dark. His eyes lingered on you far too long.

No.

No, no, no. 

She could not allow this to happen. She had worked too damn hard for this. She had fought too hard to get him on her side, and she would make sure he kept his eyes exactly where they belonged. On her.

She had only just begun her climb toward the North Shore throne.

And she refused to let you win again.

The music drifting from Martin’s CD player was the only thing filling his room. Some old rock song you frequently heard bleeding through his earphones hummed through the speakers, blending with the occasional scratch of marker against plastic.

You lay flat on your stomach across his bed, lazily kicking your legs in the air while the taller boy sat cross legged on the floor beside you, colorful key tags scattered around the both of you in messy piles.

For the past hour, the two of you had repeated the same routine. Pick up a key tag. Pick up a pen. Write down:

010 666 1738. Cady Heron’s number.

Over. And over. And over again.

If someone had told you this morning that by the end of the day you’d be in Martin Edwards bedroom, surrounded by several hundred plastic key tags and willingly participating in what could only be described as low-level psychological warfare you would have laughed in their face.

But here you were.

You glanced down at the number written neatly across the bright pink tag in your hand, then at the mountain of finished ones piling up beside Martin. Then around his room. The band posters. The half-open guitar cases. The clothes thrown carelessly over the desk chair. The lingering scent of cologne and something faintly smoky.

Weird.

You had never imagined yourself here.

Had never imagined yourself anywhere near this comfortable in Martin Edwards’ personal space, let alone sprawled out on his bed like you belonged there.

Your thoughts drifted back to earlier that day.

To the exact moment this absurd plan had begun.

Martin had practically bounded toward you in the hallway that morning. Too energetic for eight a.m. Too smug for someone who looked like he’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep.

His grin was suspiciously wide, almost manic, and his hands were tucked behind his back in a way that immediately made you narrow your eyes.

“What are you hiding?” you asked flatly.

He gasped dramatically.

“No good morning? No ‘hello, Martin, you look devastatingly handsome today?’”

“Edwards.”

He rocked back on his heels, still grinning.

“Guess.”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon, princess live a little.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then sighed dramatically.

“You’re no fun.”

“Sucks to suck.”

With a flourish far more theatrical than necessary, he brought his hands forward, revealing a giant ziplock bag, stuffed, to the brim. With brightly colored plastic key tags.

You blinked. Then blinked again. “…What.”

His grin somehow widened. “I have a proposition.”

You looked between him and the bag. “No.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“The answer is still no.”

He ignored you completely, already too committed to whatever nonsense this was.

“We write Cady’s number on every single one-” He shook the bag for emphasis, the keys rattling loudly. “Then we leave them everywhere.”

You just stared. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially despite the fact that no one around you was paying attention. “Bathroom counters. Hallways. Parking lots. Grocery stores. Taped to vending machines. Maybe at the doorstep of that weird kid who always smells like cheese–”

He kept going.

“–And thennn random creeps start calling her nonstop”

Your lips twitched. Martin froze mid-sentence. Eyes immediately catching your reaction.

“You like it,” he breathed, eyes twinkling with excitement. “You like my plan dont youuu”

You wiped your smile off instantly. “It’s…petty.”

“But effective?” he echoes your words from your first interaction.

“…Maybe.”

He broke into a victorious grin, voice teasing, “I knew it.”

You crossed your arms. “You bought all of these?”

He nodded proudly. “Three hundred.”

You stared at him incredulously, “You bought three hundred key tags?”

“What can I say, I commit to the bit.”

You should have been concerned. And honestly, you were a little. But he was grinning at you like he’d just invited you into some grand criminal conspiracy. And for reasons you didn’t entirely understand, you found yourself saying:

“When do we start?”

Which was how you ended up here, in his room. Helping him ruin Cady Heron’s week. Martin tossed another blank key tag onto the bed beside you.

“You know, you have freakishly neat handwriting for someone actively committing harassment.”

You snorted softly.

“You bought three hundred key tags for revenge and I’m the weird one?”

“Difference is,” he said, pointing his marker at you, “my insanity is charming.”

“Hm debatable.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Ouch Y/N, why do you wound me like this.”

“You’ll survive.”

“W-whats that? Is that the light?” he dramatically gasps, a hand reaching out to the sky, “Is my time over?”

You rolled your eyes, just huffing at his usual theatrics, but there was no real bite behind it. A comfortable quiet settled over the room after that. The kind that should’ve felt strange. Should’ve felt awkward. But didn’t. It was easy. Alarmingly easy.

Martin reached over the bed to grab another handful of tags, his arm brushing against yours. Neither of you moved away.

“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter this time, “I’m glad you asked me.”

Your hand stilled over the tag.

“To help terrorize Heron?”

He laughed. “No. Well- yes? But I meant the whole fake dating thing.”

You looked down at the tag in your hand. “Why?”

He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy. Or as shy as Martin Edwards was capable of looking. “I don’t know.” He fiddled with the cap of his marker. “I just am I guess”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t teasing. The sincerity of it caught you off guard.

“You realize I insult you constantly,” you said.

He smiled.

“Yeah.”

“And I ran over your foot.”

“You did.”

“And I only asked you because you were convenient.”

His smile softened.

“And yet you still asked me.”

Something in your chest tightened in the same manner it did in the cafeteria. Uncomfortable. Warm. Dangerous.

So naturally, you looked away first. “Hand me another key tag.”

His grin returned instantly. “Aweee are you shy?”

“Martin.”

“Right, right. Sorry, Your Majesty.”

Later, the two of you drove around town with the windows rolled down and the music blasting loud enough to rattle the car doors. The pile of completed key tags sat in your lap like a loaded grenade. 

Every stop became a mission. You slipped one into a changing room at the mall. Martin dropped three in the movie theater lobby. You left two on the bathroom sink at a gas station. He tucked one under a windshield wiper while cackling like a supervillain.

At one point, after tossing a handful into the parking lot of a crowded grocery store, you sprinted back to his car laughing harder than you had in weeks.

“GO, GO, GO–”

“WAITWAIT THE TRUCK WONT START! HOLD ON IM PANICKING-!”

You collapsed into the passenger seat breathless, and he bolted out of the lot dramatically despite absolutely no one chasing you.

By the time the final key tag was gone, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your voice was hoarse from screaming lyrics with him at red lights.

And when you looked over at Martin, hair windblown and ridiculous, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while singing off-key with shameless confidence, you felt it.

That strange, unfamiliar ache in your chest. Because somewhere between the fake dating arrangement, the revenge plotting, the laughter…You had realized something dangerous.

You liked this. You liked him. Or maybe—

Not him. Not yet.

But you liked being around him. Liked how easy he made everything feel. Liked how he never expected you to be softer than you were. Never flinched at your cruelty. Never asked you to be kinder. Better. Prettier. Sweeter.

He knew exactly who you were, and instead of recoiling, he matched your energy. Helped you sharpen the knife. You looked at him for a long moment. And for the first time in longer than you cared to admit, you felt something dangerously close to gratitude.

When Cady walked into the cafeteria the next morning, dragging her feet with dark circles under her eyes, you and Martin had to physically restrain yourselves from laughing.

She looked awful. Her usually pristine hair was tied back in what could only generously be called a rushed ponytail, her concealer doing little to hide the exhaustion written plainly across her face. Even the way she walked lacked its usual polished confidence, movements sluggish, as if she hadn’t slept a second.

Martin’s shoulder bumped yours the second he saw her. You didn’t dare look at him. Because if you did, you would absolutely lose it.

Then Cady collapsed face-first onto the lunch table with a long, miserable groan. Aaron was at her side immediately. And Martin choked.

A loud, strangled cough tore out of him as he grabbed his drink, nearly knocking it over in the process. You kicked him hard beneath the table. He jerked, shooting you an offended look. You kept your face perfectly composed.

“What’s wrong, Cady?” Karen asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Did you sleep on the wrong side of the pillow?”

“Karen, it’s ‘slept on the wrong side of the bed.’ And no, I’m not okay!” Cady snapped, lifting her head just enough to glare at everyone. “Creeps have been calling me all night asking if I lost my keys or if I want to ‘have a good time.’”

Your lips pressed together so tightly they almost hurt. Beside you, Martin had gone suspiciously still. The kind of still that only happened when he was trying not to laugh.

Aaron frowned deeply. “Wait what?! How did random people even get your number?”

You widened your eyes in perfectly practiced concern. “Oh my God,” you said, your voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That’s awful! How would anyone even get your number?”

Martin nodded, far too quickly. “Yeah,” he added, coughing once into his fist. “That’s, uh… actually insane. Like… who would do something like that?”

Cady’s eyes narrowed immediately. Her gaze darted between the two of you. You stared right back, all wide-eyed innocence. Martin mirrored you, somehow managing to look both confused and deeply offended by the implication.

Karen gasped. “Maybe someone wrote your number in the bathroom!”

Gretchen’s eyes widened in horror. “Or online! Wait do hackers post phone numbers?”

Karen gasped louder. “Can hackers get into your microwave too?”

“No, Karen.”

Aaron reached for Cady’s hand, his expression softening. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out-”

“Would you stop?!” Cady suddenly snapped, jerking her hand away.

The table froze. Aaron blinked. “...What.”

“I said stop!” she hissed, shoving her tray away with enough force to make it rattle. “God, you’re all being so fucking annoying!”

Karen’s mouth dropped open. Gretchen looked like someone had slapped her. Even you raised your brows slightly. Aaron stared at her in stunned silence. “Cady, I was literally just trying to help-”

“Well, you’re not helping!” she shot back. “Hovering around me like some desperate puppy isn’t fixing anything, Aaron!”

His expression changed instantly. The confusion. The hurt. And most importantly, the offense.

Cady seemed to realize too late how harshly that had come out, her eyes widening for half a second, about to come up with a half hearted apology, she was interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing, the screen clearly a random number, and that completely sent her off the edge, with a loud frustrated squeal, she promptly ended the call and she shoved her chair back harshly. “God I can’t do this anymore! I need air.” Then stormed off.

The silence she left behind was deafening. Karen turned to Gretchen, visibly distraught. “Was she mad at us?”

“I…” Gretchen frowned. “She’s never acted like that before.”

Aaron remained seated, still staring in the direction Cady had left. His jaw tight. His brows furrowed. The first unmistakable crack of doubt settling into his expression. And when your eyes met Martin’s–

You knew he saw it too. She was slipping. Her image slowly breaking apart. And once people started slipping, they rarely stopped.

Eventually Gretchen scrambled after Cady, Karen hurrying after her in panic, still—Aaron didn’t move. For a second longer. Then another. Long enough to matter. His gaze flickered once more, back to you. Uncertain, like he was waiting. For something. A sign. An excuse. Anything.

You gave him nothing. Of course you didn’t. And that was what made the decision for him. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before finally pushing back his chair. The sound scraped too loudly against the floor. He hesitated one last time, just at the edge of turning away. Then without another word he followed after them.

Leaving the table blessedly empty.

The second they were gone. Martin burst. He doubled over in laughter so violently he nearly slid out of his chair. “Oh my- Oh my God–” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Did you see her face when Karen said bathroom stall?”

That did it.

You laughed too. Full-on laughed. The kind you usually tried to suppress in public.

“She looked like she was about to cry,” you snorted.

“She looked like she wanted to kill us.”

“Well she probably does if we're being honest.”

His grin widened. “Worth it.”

“Absolutely.”

He leaned toward you slightly, lowering his voice.

“You know,” he said smugly, “I'm starting to think we make a pretty terrifying team.”

You smirked.

“Don’t get too cocky now, Edwards.”

“Too late.”

Then, for a moment– his confidence falters. Just slightly enough for you to notice. He reached down into his bag, pulling out a folded white fabric. Your brows furrowed.

“What is that?”

He held one out to you. A Cortis band shirt. Except, the logo was bright pink, instead of the usual bands black.

You blinked.

Martin rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We have another gig this weekend,” he said, suddenly sounding much less sure of himself. “And, uh…”

He glanced away, “I had them make one in pink. For you.”

Your fingers paused as you took the shirt from his hands. It was soft. Clearly brand new. He had custom ordered one. For you.

Martin shifted in his seat. “You don’t have to wear it or anything,” he rushed out. “I just thought– maybe if you’re bored and have nothing to do that day, it would be funny if you-”

“I’ll go.”

He stopped. Blinking.

“What?”

You looked up from the shirt. “Obviously I’ll go,” you repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your girlfriend, aren’t I?”

The way his face lit up was almost embarrassing. His entire expression softened at once. Like he physically couldn’t stop himself. “Yeah,” he said far too quickly. “Yeah. You are.”

You stood abruptly, slinging the shirt over your bag. “Don’t make this weird.”

His grin returned instantly. “Too late. I’m already imagining our wedding.”

You rolled your eyes. But as you walked away– you were smiling.

Later that evening as you doomscrolled through pinterest to look for inspo on how to style the shirt you receive a very unexpected notification.

The moment you stepped into the backyard, the entire atmosphere shifted. Heads turned almost instantly. Someone near the drink table audibly muttered, “Holy shit, is that Y/N L/N?”

You ignored them. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Because tonight, unlike the first time you had come here, you had no intention of hiding. No oversized sunglasses. No hat pulled over your face. No pathetic attempt at pretending you weren’t there for a reason.

You walked into that crowded backyard like you owned it. Head high, expression composed, the bright pink Cortis band tee fitted tightly against your body. 

The shirt alone was enough to draw stares. Because everyone knew that wasn’t official merch. Everyone knew that had been made specifically for you. And if the shirt somehow didn’t make your intentions obvious enough, the way you marched straight toward the stage certainly did.

The boys were still setting up their instruments when Martin noticed you.

And froze. Completely.

His hand slipped against the neck of his guitar. James followed his stare first. Then Seonghyeon. Then the rest of the band. And suddenly all of them were staring at you like they had collectively hallucinated.

“No fucking way,” Juhoon muttered into the mic.

Keonho laughed so hard he nearly dropped a drumstick. “Holy shit,” he shouted toward Martin. “Your girlfriend actually came!”

The crowd immediately erupted into chatter. Martin, meanwhile, looked like his brain had short-circuited. You stopped just beneath the stage, folding your arms.

“Well?” you called up dryly. “Should I leave? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

That snapped him out of it. He hopped down from the stage so quickly James yelled, “Dude, where are you going?!”

Martin ignored him entirely. He walked straight toward you, eyes wide, gaze flicking between your face and the shirt like he genuinely couldn’t process either.

“You came.”

You raised a brow.

“You invited me.”

“Yeah, but-” His eyes dropped again to the shirt. Then widened somehow further. “You wore it.”

You looked down at yourself casually.

“Oh this old thing? It was just sitting on my closet so I thought why not, you know?”

Martin let out something between a laugh and a choke.

“It’s pink.”

“You made it pink.”

“For you.”

“And I wore it.”

He stared at you. Still visibly stunned. Like he genuinely had not prepared himself for this possibility. You smirked.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting emotional, Edwards.”

He nervously ran his hand through his hair, a nervous smile on his lips. “You have no idea what this is doing to me right now.”

From behind him, “Oh my God, he’s in LOVE love” Keonho teases.

“Dude shut up” James scolds, slapping the younger boy on the back, “You’re embarrassing ‘tin in front of his huzz” 

You laughed softly as you watch Martin’s face turn into a blazing hot red at their comments. And the sound alone seemed to make him melt. Despite the embarrassment, he steps closer. Close enough that his voice dropped lower.

“You’re standing front row?”

“Obviously.”

His grin turned crooked. “Planning to scream my name?”

“In your dreams.”

He leaned in closer, “You wearing my shirt says otherwise.”

Before you could retort, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss against your hair. Brief. Gentle. Almost reverent. Your breath caught. Martin pulled back with a smirk.

“For luck,” he murmured. Then turned and jogged back onstage before you could gather enough composure to insult him. Martin played like a man possessed. And maybe that was dramatic. But it was true.

Every ounce of his usual energy had somehow doubled. He moved across the makeshift stage like he’d been electrified, guitar slung low against his body, hair messy beneath the lights, grin appearing every single time his eyes found you in the front row. Which was often. And every time he looked your way, he played harder. Sang louder. Performed like he had something to prove. Or perhaps, someone to impress.

You found yourself smiling far more than you meant to. Cheering louder than was dignified. Singing along to the lyrics of the songs he’d played in his car enough times for you to know by heart.

By the end of the set, the entire backyard was screaming for more. And Martin looked at you from the stage like he had never wanted anything more than your approval. He jogged over the second they finished, breathless and glowing with adrenaline.

“Well?” he asked immediately. “How amazing was I?”

You pretended to think about it. He narrowed his eyes. Then you smirked.

“You were…decent.”

He gasped.

“Decent?”

“Maybe slightly above average.”

“You’re evil.”

“You adore me.”

His grin softened.

“Yeah, can’t deny that.”

He leaned down and kissed your temple quickly.

“I’m getting drinks. Don’t move.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Yes, mom.”

“Funny.” He pointed at you. “Stay.”

Then disappeared into the crowd. You had barely been alone thirty seconds before—

“Y/N.”

Your shoulders momentarily stiffened. You turned. And there stood Aaron.

As expected.

He looked nervous. More nervous than you had ever seen him. His gaze flicked briefly toward where Martin had disappeared. Then back to you. “Can we please talk?”

You crossed your arms. “We’re talking.”

He swallowed. Then stepped closer, hands trembling as they reached out to you. “I made a mistake.”

You blinked once.

Ah. There it was.

Aaron exhaled shakily. “Breaking up with you was a mistake.”

Your expression remained unreadable. He ran a hand through his hair. “Seeing you tonight- with him- I just…” He looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “I still want you.”

Silence. Then…slowly– you smiled. Aaron visibly brightened, convinced that he had somehow made you think he really felt bad, that he was just also manipulated by Cady. Until you spoke.

“No.”

His face fell instantly.

“What?”

“No,” you repeated. “I’m not getting back together with you.”

His brows furrowed. “Y/N, come on- that’s bullshit right? You clearly want me back, you-”

“You want to know the funny part?” you interrupted sweetly. “I don’t even miss you.” His face paled. Your smile sharpened. “I just wanted you to realize what you lost.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. Horror. Humiliation. “You used me?”

You tilted your head. “Please Aaron, don’t act so shocked.”

His voice rose. “So this whole thing with Martin is fake?!”

“Nope.”

Aaron spun. Martin stepped back beside you, handing you your drink like he hadn’t just walked into the world’s best timing. His arm slid naturally around your waist. His gaze on Aaron was cool. Deadly amused.

“You had your chance,” Martin said simply.

Aaron stared between the two of you. At Martin’s hand on your waist. At your complete lack of denial. At the way you didn’t move away. His face twisted. Humiliation quickly curdling into bitterness. Then he laughed. Short and sharp.

“You know what?” he snapped, glaring at Martin. “Fine. Have fun with her.”

Your smile still didn’t disappear despite the malice in his tone but tightened. Aaron stepped back, shaking his head. “You’ll get tired of it eventually.”

Martin’s expression darkened. Aaron pointed toward you. “Of her.”

The backyard seemed to go quieter. “You think this is fun now?” Aaron continued bitterly. “Just wait until you realize how exhausting she is.”

Your stomach dropped. Martin stiffened beside you. Aaron laughed humorlessly. “She’s high maintenance, controlling, impossible to please–she expects everything to revolve around her.” His voice sharpened. “She gets suffocating, man. Trust me. You’ll want out eventually too.”

For one horrible second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Because no matter how cruel Aaron was being, a part of you hated how much it sounded like every insecurity you never said aloud.

Martin’s jaw clenched, then, he smiled but there was no humor in it.

“No,” he said simply.

Aaron frowned.

Martin’s arm tightened around your waist. “I like maintaining her.”

Aaron blinked. Martin stepped forward slightly. “I like the clothes. I like the makeup. I like the attitude.” His voice sharpened. “And if she wants the world revolving around her, then it’s because it should.”

You stared up at him. Stunned. 

Martin didn’t look away from Aaron. “So maybe the problem isn’t that she’s ‘too much.’” His smile turned sharp. “Maybe you were just too little.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Aaron’s face burned red, almost reminding you of a rabid dog.

He opened his mouth about to come up with another rebuttal but then just closed it. Then finally turned and stormed off without another word. Disappearing into the crowd. Martin watched him go, then looked down at you.

“You good?”

You took the drink from his hand. Sipped, then smiled.

“Perfect.”

His grin spread immediately. “Good.” He leans closer, for only you to hear. “For the record…”

You raised a brow.

“If fake dating gets me to watch you reject your ex in my shirt–” His smile turned wicked. “–I’m never letting this arrangement end.”

A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it. But it faded quickly. Because Aaron’s words still lingered. Still sat heavy in your chest.

Martin noticed immediately. His smile softened. “What?”

You hesitated. Then looked away. “He’s not wrong, you know.”

His brows furrowed instantly.

“What?”

You gave a humorless little laugh. “I am high maintenance.”

His expression shifted at once, turning serious, intently listening to your words and carefully thinking about them. You looked down at your drink. “The clothes, the makeup, the hair, the attitude…” you muttered. “Everything has to be perfect all the time. I know I’m difficult. I know I can be a lot.”

“Hey.” His voice was quiet but firm. You looked up. Martin steps closer.

“Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Repeat what people who couldn’t handle you said like it’s fact.”

Your breath caught. He reaches up slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Handling you as if you were a porcelain doll.

“You are not difficult for wanting nice things.” His voice stayed soft. Steady. “You are not hard to love because you care about how you look.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “And you are not ‘too much’ just because someone else was too weak to meet your standards.”

Your throat tightened. “If anything,” he murmured, “I think you should demand more.”

You stared at him, completely speechless, completely undone. He gave your cheek one last gentle stroke.

“So no,” he said softly. “You’re not high maintenance." A beat. “You just know what you deserve.”

Something in your chest cracked wide open.

And before you could think, before you could overanalyze, before you could stop yourself,

Your hand caught the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him.

The entire backyard erupted behind you. Whistles. Cheering. Someone screaming, “FINALLY!”

But you barely heard any of it. Martin freezes for half a second. Then kissed you back like he had been waiting for this longer than either of you wanted to admit. One hand came to your waist. The other cupped your jaw. Holding you like you were something precious.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless and giggling, he stared at you like you had just changed his entire life.

“Well,” he said faintly. You smirked despite your racing heart. “Still think I’m only slightly above average?” His grin turned borderline delirious.

“Hmm fine, I guess you are the best.” you laughed softly, still close enough that your noses nearly brushed.

For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed entirely willing to. Then Martin’s expression shifted, his grin softening into something almost shy.

Which, on him, looked absurdly endearing.“Sooo…” he said slowly.

You raised a brow. “So?”

His hands tightened slightly at your waist. “That kiss felt…” He trailed off, then huffed out a laugh. “Not very fake boyfriend-girlfriend of us.”

Heat crept up your neck. You tilted your chin defensively. “Maybe I’m just a very dedicated actress.” Martin snorted.

“Right.”

A beat passes, then he asks, “So are we still fake dating?”

Your heart skipped. There it was. The question hanging between both of you. Suddenly far more terrifying than it should have been. You looked at him. At the way his teasing had faded into something careful. Like maybe for once, Martin Edwards wasn’t entirely sure of himself.

And that realization did something dangerous to your chest. You let your fingers smooth absentmindedly over the front of his shirt where you had grabbed him.

Then smirked.

“Well…” you murmured. “That depends.”

His brows lifted.

“On?”

You leaned in just enough to make him follow instinctively.

“Are you asking me to be your real girlfriend, Edwards?”

His eyes widened, then he laughed. A little breathless, hands trembling. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one doing that?”

“You were taking too long.”

He stared at you for half a second then grinned– completely gone for you.

“Okay,” he said, stepping closer until there wasn’t even an inch between you. “Then yeah.”

His voice softened.

“Be my girlfriend for real?”

And for once, you didn’t tease him. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t play coy. You just smiled. Soft and genuine.

And nodded.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Okay.”

The smile that broke across his face could have lit the entire neighborhood. He kissed you again immediately, laughing into it this time, hands warm against your waist. Forehead pressing to yours when he pulled back.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, still grinning like an idiot, “how long I’ve wanted that.”

You smiled. “Oh, I think I do.” He gasped dramatically. “So you admit you were obsessed with me first?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Too late,” he said cheerfully. “You’re stuck with me now.”

You rolled your eyes. But smiled anyway. And when he laced his fingers through yours,

You held on.

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