or at least, that is what martin tells himself every single time he looks at you. even now, with blood drying dark across your neck and wet chunks of meat stuck to your collarbone, he looks at you like you are the only thing that matters in this whole miserable town.

the abandoned mill smells bad—old rain, rust, and the heavy, thick stink of split-open intestines. you sit on a broken oil drum, swinging your bare legs while your white pom-poms sit in a puddle of gross water nearby. they are totally ruined, soaked through with dark, clotting fluid, but you do not care.

your fingers, painted a pretty, sparkly pink, are busy digging into your mouth, pulling a jagged shard of a collarbone from between your teeth. track stars are way too chewy, and honestly, spitting out the gristle is such a chore.

"martin," you sigh, your voice soft and mean all at once. "my skin is so dry. look at my cuticles. this place is giving me wrinkles, literally. if my mom sees me looking this exhausted, she is going to ground me, and i have a hair appointment on thursday."

martin runs over from the dark corner, his thick glasses sliding down his nose. he is tall and built big, making his faded corduroy jacket look like a tent on his frame, the sleeves ending way past his wrists. when he stops right in front of you, you have to tilt your head back to look at him as he bends down, trying so hard to make himself look small and unthreatening.

"i got lavender ones, jennifer," he says, his hands shaking as he pulls one out. "they have aloe. for your skin. do you want me to clean your knees? i can do your shins too. i noticed there is some... um, tissue on your left calf."

you do not look at him, just moving your leg closer to his face. there is a thick, dark smear of fat and skin wiped across your shin where the boy had tried to crawl away before you finished him. "make yourself useful, martin. try not to get your sweaty boy-hands on my socks. they are brand new from the mall and they were expensive."

"i won't, promise," he whispers.

he drops straight to his knees on the cold concrete. his touch is so careful, almost shaking, as his large hand gently cups your ankle to wipe away the sticky, cooling red smears on your skin. he treats your leg like it is made of expensive glass, scrubbing so lightly because he is terrified of hurting you—which is hilarious, because you just tore a two-hundred-pound athlete in half with your bare hands.

he is so pathetic. you know it, and everyone at school knows it. his friends probably tell him that you are using him up, but they do not understand how hard it is to look away from you. they did not see you the night of the fire at the low shoulder concert.

they don't know what it feels like to watch your childhood friend tear a guy's stomach open with their bare teeth and still think you are the prettiest girl in the world. to martin, you are not a monster. you are just jennifer, and jennifer deserves the world, even if the world has to be fed to you piece by piece.

"you missed a spot by my ankle," you say, fixing the hood of your velour jacket. "seriously, eating athletes is a total workout. they are all muscle and fat. it is like chewing on a yoga mat, martin. next time i want a theater kid. they are way softer and probably taste like vanilla."

"the theater kids are doing a play next month," martin says quickly, looking up at you with massive, sad eyes blinking behind his glasses. he is hanging onto every single word you say like it is gospel. "toby harris is the main character. he is really soft. i think he goes to yoga with his mom. i can tell him you need help with the stage stuff? i can make him come over to your house."

you finally look down at him, your dark eyes turning a little soft. even though he is a total loser, you have a tiny bit of space for him in your chest. he is your idiot. you reach out and put a cold finger under his chin, making his gasp a little. your nail leaves a small smudge of dark fat under his lip, but he does not even care.

he just stares at you like he wants to melt into the floorboards.

"you are such a good pet, martin," you smile, letting him see a hint of your sharp, blood-stained teeth. "what would i even do without you? carry my own bag? text people back myself? that would be tragic."

"i will always carry it," he says, his voice breaking a little because he is so emotional. "i bought the cherry lip gloss you like. the one with the glitter. the store only had two, but i drove out to the next town over just to get a third one for you. i keep them in my backpack so they don't get lost."

"good." you drop your hand, looking away because you are already bored of his staring. "boys here are so boring. they think a date is going to sonic and trying to touch my chest in the front seat of a honda civic. it is so uninspired. at least when i eat them, i get something out of it. i get sustenance."

martin swallows hard, looking over at the corner where the track star is resting. your eating habits are messy; you do not do a neat little vampire bite. you tear things apart like an animal. right now, the corner looks like a total butcher shop.

there is a broken ribcage sitting in the dark, split wide open like a wet wicker basket, with strings of purple, slidey things trailing out onto the dirt. a lone sneaker is still attached to a leg that is twisted entirely the wrong way, and the floor is slick with a dark puddle that keeps growing.

"do you... want me to bury him now?" martin asks, pointing a shaky finger at the mess. he stands up, casting a wide shadow over the basement room. "i brought a shovel from my dad's garage. it might take a few trips to get everything out to the woods."

"obviously you have to bury him," you say, rolling your eyes so hard it hurts. "if the cops find him, i will get stressed. when i get stressed, my face breaks out. do you want me to have a zit at prom, martin? because that would literally ruin my life. i already picked out my dress."

"no, never. your face is perfect. it looks like porcelain," he rambles, reaching into his backpack to pull out a heavy black trash bag. he walks over to the corner, his boots making a wet squish sound in the blood. he starts scooping the loose parts into the plastic, his large hands getting coated in dark, wet slime.

"i will fix it right now. it's fine. i will make sure nobody ever finds him."

you watch him work, leaning back against the rusty drum. his big corduroy jacket swishes around his jeans as he picks up pieces of the track team's star captain.

martin looks totally green, his face pale as a ghost, and he has to stop once to gag into his sleeve, but he still turns his upper body all the way around just to look back at you with total, desperate love every five seconds. he is literally holding a detached arm that is dripping onto his shoes, and he is still smiling at you like you are a prom queen.

it's kind of funny. he is so deep in your trap that he will literally handle severed limbs just to stay near you.

but watching him struggle with the heavy bag, your sharp edges melt just a tiny bit. he has known you since you were both just little kids playing in the sandbox, way before you became this hungry thing in a short skirt. he remembers when you were normal, and honestly, that's probably why you keep him around.

"hey, martin?" you call out, leaning your chin on your hand.

he stops instantly, holding a handful of messy hair from the severed head, looking back like a big dog waiting for a treat. "yes, jennifer?"

"you look stupid in that jacket."

martin’s face turns bright, burning red, completely ignoring the fact that he is standing in a puddle of human fluid. he smiles—that goofy, helpless smile that fills his whole face. "oh. thanks. i can take it off if you hate it? i have a sweater underneath."

"keep it on. it matches the dirt," you say, pulling out your phone to check your reflection in your black phone screen. "hurry up. i want fries from the diner. eating people makes me crave salt—it is so weird. like, my body completely rejects salads after a feed."

"on it!" martin says, working twice as fast now.

for the next twenty minutes, the basement just sounds like plastic ripping, wet squishing noises, and martin whispering apologies to the dead guy while he cleans up your leftovers.

you just hum a pop song, swinging your legs and watching the moonlight filter through the broken windows. martin is so reliable. other boys want to own you, but martin is fine letting you own him, as long as he gets to hold your stuff and ride in your passenger seat.

when he is done, sweating and smelling like copper and bile, he drags the heavy bags toward the coal chute, shoving them through the small opening with a loud grunt. he is covered in dirt and wet spots, looking like an absolute disaster.

"all clean," he pants, walking back over and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, accidentally leaving a dark streak of blood across his skin. "i will come back tomorrow with bleach from my mom’s house. to get the grease off the floor so the landlord doesn't notice anything."

"whatever," you say, jumping down from the drum.

you walk over to him, your platform sneakers clicking against the floor, stopping right in front of him. you have to look up to meet his eyes, and he looks down at you like you're a tiny, fragile doll. he freezes completely because you are so close, totally unbothered by the fact that you smell like a graveyard.

you sigh softly, stepping onto the very tips of your toes and stretching your arms up to reach his forehead. your thumb gently wipes the blood off his skin, smearing it into his hairline. you look into his eyes, letting the quiet stretch out until his chest is heaving under his heavy jacket. you could break him so easily, but your fingers are surprisingly gentle.

"you are a total mess, martin," you whisper, your voice getting sweet and low. "but you are my mess."

"i am," he chokes out, tears of actual joy hitting his eyes behind his glasses as he looks down at you. "i am yours. totally. anything you want."

"good boy," you smile, reaching up to tap his cheek just hard enough to leave a tiny red scratch from your nail. "go start the car. turn the heat all the way up. my feet are freezing, and if i get sick, i am eating our principal."

"i am going! the subaru is already running!" martin yells, bolting up the wooden steps, totally obsessed and happy.

you watch the door slam, a small, mean, but fond smile on your lips. you pull out the sparkly cherry gloss he bought you, putting a thick layer over your lips before stepping over a shiny, blood-coated track medal and walking out into the dark night.

or at least, that is what martin tells himself every single time he looks at you. even now, with blood drying dark across your neck and wet chunks of meat stuck to your collarbone, he looks at you like you are the only thing that matters in this whole miserable town.

the abandoned mill smells bad—old rain, rust, and the heavy, thick stink of split-open intestines. you sit on a broken oil drum, swinging your bare legs while your white pom-poms sit in a puddle of gross water nearby. they are totally ruined, soaked through with dark, clotting fluid, but you do not care.

your fingers, painted a pretty, sparkly pink, are busy digging into your mouth, pulling a jagged shard of a collarbone from between your teeth. track stars are way too chewy, and honestly, spitting out the gristle is such a chore.

"martin," you sigh, your voice soft and mean all at once. "my skin is so dry. look at my cuticles. this place is giving me wrinkles, literally. if my mom sees me looking this exhausted, she is going to ground me, and i have a hair appointment on thursday."

martin runs over from the dark corner, his thick glasses sliding down his nose. he is tall and built big, making his faded corduroy jacket look like a tent on his frame, the sleeves ending way past his wrists. when he stops right in front of you, you have to tilt your head back to look at him as he bends down, trying so hard to make himself look small and unthreatening.

"i got lavender ones, jennifer," he says, his hands shaking as he pulls one out. "they have aloe. for your skin. do you want me to clean your knees? i can do your shins too. i noticed there is some... um, tissue on your left calf."

you do not look at him, just moving your leg closer to his face. there is a thick, dark smear of fat and skin wiped across your shin where the boy had tried to crawl away before you finished him. "make yourself useful, martin. try not to get your sweaty boy-hands on my socks. they are brand new from the mall and they were expensive."

"i won't, promise," he whispers.

he drops straight to his knees on the cold concrete. his touch is so careful, almost shaking, as his large hand gently cups your ankle to wipe away the sticky, cooling red smears on your skin. he treats your leg like it is made of expensive glass, scrubbing so lightly because he is terrified of hurting you—which is hilarious, because you just tore a two-hundred-pound athlete in half with your bare hands.

he is so pathetic. you know it, and everyone at school knows it. his friends probably tell him that you are using him up, but they do not understand how hard it is to look away from you. they did not see you the night of the fire at the low shoulder concert.

they don't know what it feels like to watch your childhood friend tear a guy's stomach open with their bare teeth and still think you are the prettiest girl in the world. to martin, you are not a monster. you are just jennifer, and jennifer deserves the world, even if the world has to be fed to you piece by piece.

"you missed a spot by my ankle," you say, fixing the hood of your velour jacket. "seriously, eating athletes is a total workout. they are all muscle and fat. it is like chewing on a yoga mat, martin. next time i want a theater kid. they are way softer and probably taste like vanilla."

"the theater kids are doing a play next month," martin says quickly, looking up at you with massive, sad eyes blinking behind his glasses. he is hanging onto every single word you say like it is gospel. "toby harris is the main character. he is really soft. i think he goes to yoga with his mom. i can tell him you need help with the stage stuff? i can make him come over to your house."

you finally look down at him, your dark eyes turning a little soft. even though he is a total loser, you have a tiny bit of space for him in your chest. he is your idiot. you reach out and put a cold finger under his chin, making his gasp a little. your nail leaves a small smudge of dark fat under his lip, but he does not even care.

he just stares at you like he wants to melt into the floorboards.

"you are such a good pet, martin," you smile, letting him see a hint of your sharp, blood-stained teeth. "what would i even do without you? carry my own bag? text people back myself? that would be tragic."

"i will always carry it," he says, his voice breaking a little because he is so emotional. "i bought the cherry lip gloss you like. the one with the glitter. the store only had two, but i drove out to the next town over just to get a third one for you. i keep them in my backpack so they don't get lost."

"good." you drop your hand, looking away because you are already bored of his staring. "boys here are so boring. they think a date is going to sonic and trying to touch my chest in the front seat of a honda civic. it is so uninspired. at least when i eat them, i get something out of it. i get sustenance."

martin swallows hard, looking over at the corner where the track star is resting. your eating habits are messy; you do not do a neat little vampire bite. you tear things apart like an animal. right now, the corner looks like a total butcher shop.

there is a broken ribcage sitting in the dark, split wide open like a wet wicker basket, with strings of purple, slidey things trailing out onto the dirt. a lone sneaker is still attached to a leg that is twisted entirely the wrong way, and the floor is slick with a dark puddle that keeps growing.

"do you... want me to bury him now?" martin asks, pointing a shaky finger at the mess. he stands up, casting a wide shadow over the basement room. "i brought a shovel from my dad's garage. it might take a few trips to get everything out to the woods."

"obviously you have to bury him," you say, rolling your eyes so hard it hurts. "if the cops find him, i will get stressed. when i get stressed, my face breaks out. do you want me to have a zit at prom, martin? because that would literally ruin my life. i already picked out my dress."

"no, never. your face is perfect. it looks like porcelain," he rambles, reaching into his backpack to pull out a heavy black trash bag. he walks over to the corner, his boots making a wet squish sound in the blood. he starts scooping the loose parts into the plastic, his large hands getting coated in dark, wet slime.

"i will fix it right now. it's fine. i will make sure nobody ever finds him."

you watch him work, leaning back against the rusty drum. his big corduroy jacket swishes around his jeans as he picks up pieces of the track team's star captain.

martin looks totally green, his face pale as a ghost, and he has to stop once to gag into his sleeve, but he still turns his upper body all the way around just to look back at you with total, desperate love every five seconds. he is literally holding a detached arm that is dripping onto his shoes, and he is still smiling at you like you are a prom queen.

it's kind of funny. he is so deep in your trap that he will literally handle severed limbs just to stay near you.

but watching him struggle with the heavy bag, your sharp edges melt just a tiny bit. he has known you since you were both just little kids playing in the sandbox, way before you became this hungry thing in a short skirt. he remembers when you were normal, and honestly, that's probably why you keep him around.

"hey, martin?" you call out, leaning your chin on your hand.

he stops instantly, holding a handful of messy hair from the severed head, looking back like a big dog waiting for a treat. "yes, jennifer?"

"you look stupid in that jacket."

martin’s face turns bright, burning red, completely ignoring the fact that he is standing in a puddle of human fluid. he smiles—that goofy, helpless smile that fills his whole face. "oh. thanks. i can take it off if you hate it? i have a sweater underneath."

"keep it on. it matches the dirt," you say, pulling out your phone to check your reflection in your black phone screen. "hurry up. i want fries from the diner. eating people makes me crave salt—it is so weird. like, my body completely rejects salads after a feed."

"on it!" martin says, working twice as fast now.

for the next twenty minutes, the basement just sounds like plastic ripping, wet squishing noises, and martin whispering apologies to the dead guy while he cleans up your leftovers.

you just hum a pop song, swinging your legs and watching the moonlight filter through the broken windows. martin is so reliable. other boys want to own you, but martin is fine letting you own him, as long as he gets to hold your stuff and ride in your passenger seat.

when he is done, sweating and smelling like copper and bile, he drags the heavy bags toward the coal chute, shoving them through the small opening with a loud grunt. he is covered in dirt and wet spots, looking like an absolute disaster.

"all clean," he pants, walking back over and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, accidentally leaving a dark streak of blood across his skin. "i will come back tomorrow with bleach from my mom’s house. to get the grease off the floor so the landlord doesn't notice anything."

"whatever," you say, jumping down from the drum.

you walk over to him, your platform sneakers clicking against the floor, stopping right in front of him. you have to look up to meet his eyes, and he looks down at you like you're a tiny, fragile doll. he freezes completely because you are so close, totally unbothered by the fact that you smell like a graveyard.

you sigh softly, stepping onto the very tips of your toes and stretching your arms up to reach his forehead. your thumb gently wipes the blood off his skin, smearing it into his hairline. you look into his eyes, letting the quiet stretch out until his chest is heaving under his heavy jacket. you could break him so easily, but your fingers are surprisingly gentle.

"you are a total mess, martin," you whisper, your voice getting sweet and low. "but you are my mess."

"i am," he chokes out, tears of actual joy hitting his eyes behind his glasses as he looks down at you. "i am yours. totally. anything you want."

"good boy," you smile, reaching up to tap his cheek just hard enough to leave a tiny red scratch from your nail. "go start the car. turn the heat all the way up. my feet are freezing, and if i get sick, i am eating our principal."

"i am going! the subaru is already running!" martin yells, bolting up the wooden steps, totally obsessed and happy.

you watch the door slam, a small, mean, but fond smile on your lips. you pull out the sparkly cherry gloss he bought you, putting a thick layer over your lips before stepping over a shiny, blood-coated track medal and walking out into the dark night.

or at least, that is what martin tells himself every single time he looks at you. even now, with blood drying dark across your neck and wet chunks of meat stuck to your collarbone, he looks at you like you are the only thing that matters in this whole miserable town.

the abandoned mill smells bad—old rain, rust, and the heavy, thick stink of split-open intestines. you sit on a broken oil drum, swinging your bare legs while your white pom-poms sit in a puddle of gross water nearby. they are totally ruined, soaked through with dark, clotting fluid, but you do not care.

your fingers, painted a pretty, sparkly pink, are busy digging into your mouth, pulling a jagged shard of a collarbone from between your teeth. track stars are way too chewy, and honestly, spitting out the gristle is such a chore.

"martin," you sigh, your voice soft and mean all at once. "my skin is so dry. look at my cuticles. this place is giving me wrinkles, literally. if my mom sees me looking this exhausted, she is going to ground me, and i have a hair appointment on thursday."

martin runs over from the dark corner, his thick glasses sliding down his nose. he is tall and built big, making his faded corduroy jacket look like a tent on his frame, the sleeves ending way past his wrists. when he stops right in front of you, you have to tilt your head back to look at him as he bends down, trying so hard to make himself look small and unthreatening.

"i got lavender ones, jennifer," he says, his hands shaking as he pulls one out. "they have aloe. for your skin. do you want me to clean your knees? i can do your shins too. i noticed there is some... um, tissue on your left calf."

you do not look at him, just moving your leg closer to his face. there is a thick, dark smear of fat and skin wiped across your shin where the boy had tried to crawl away before you finished him. "make yourself useful, martin. try not to get your sweaty boy-hands on my socks. they are brand new from the mall and they were expensive."

"i won't, promise," he whispers.

he drops straight to his knees on the cold concrete. his touch is so careful, almost shaking, as his large hand gently cups your ankle to wipe away the sticky, cooling red smears on your skin. he treats your leg like it is made of expensive glass, scrubbing so lightly because he is terrified of hurting you—which is hilarious, because you just tore a two-hundred-pound athlete in half with your bare hands.

he is so pathetic. you know it, and everyone at school knows it. his friends probably tell him that you are using him up, but they do not understand how hard it is to look away from you. they did not see you the night of the fire at the low shoulder concert.

they don't know what it feels like to watch your childhood friend tear a guy's stomach open with their bare teeth and still think you are the prettiest girl in the world. to martin, you are not a monster. you are just jennifer, and jennifer deserves the world, even if the world has to be fed to you piece by piece.

"you missed a spot by my ankle," you say, fixing the hood of your velour jacket. "seriously, eating athletes is a total workout. they are all muscle and fat. it is like chewing on a yoga mat, martin. next time i want a theater kid. they are way softer and probably taste like vanilla."

"the theater kids are doing a play next month," martin says quickly, looking up at you with massive, sad eyes blinking behind his glasses. he is hanging onto every single word you say like it is gospel. "toby harris is the main character. he is really soft. i think he goes to yoga with his mom. i can tell him you need help with the stage stuff? i can make him come over to your house."

you finally look down at him, your dark eyes turning a little soft. even though he is a total loser, you have a tiny bit of space for him in your chest. he is your idiot. you reach out and put a cold finger under his chin, making his gasp a little. your nail leaves a small smudge of dark fat under his lip, but he does not even care.

he just stares at you like he wants to melt into the floorboards.

"you are such a good pet, martin," you smile, letting him see a hint of your sharp, blood-stained teeth. "what would i even do without you? carry my own bag? text people back myself? that would be tragic."

"i will always carry it," he says, his voice breaking a little because he is so emotional. "i bought the cherry lip gloss you like. the one with the glitter. the store only had two, but i drove out to the next town over just to get a third one for you. i keep them in my backpack so they don't get lost."

"good." you drop your hand, looking away because you are already bored of his staring. "boys here are so boring. they think a date is going to sonic and trying to touch my chest in the front seat of a honda civic. it is so uninspired. at least when i eat them, i get something out of it. i get sustenance."

martin swallows hard, looking over at the corner where the track star is resting. your eating habits are messy; you do not do a neat little vampire bite. you tear things apart like an animal. right now, the corner looks like a total butcher shop.

there is a broken ribcage sitting in the dark, split wide open like a wet wicker basket, with strings of purple, slidey things trailing out onto the dirt. a lone sneaker is still attached to a leg that is twisted entirely the wrong way, and the floor is slick with a dark puddle that keeps growing.

"do you... want me to bury him now?" martin asks, pointing a shaky finger at the mess. he stands up, casting a wide shadow over the basement room. "i brought a shovel from my dad's garage. it might take a few trips to get everything out to the woods."

"obviously you have to bury him," you say, rolling your eyes so hard it hurts. "if the cops find him, i will get stressed. when i get stressed, my face breaks out. do you want me to have a zit at prom, martin? because that would literally ruin my life. i already picked out my dress."

"no, never. your face is perfect. it looks like porcelain," he rambles, reaching into his backpack to pull out a heavy black trash bag. he walks over to the corner, his boots making a wet squish sound in the blood. he starts scooping the loose parts into the plastic, his large hands getting coated in dark, wet slime.

"i will fix it right now. it's fine. i will make sure nobody ever finds him."

you watch him work, leaning back against the rusty drum. his big corduroy jacket swishes around his jeans as he picks up pieces of the track team's star captain.

martin looks totally green, his face pale as a ghost, and he has to stop once to gag into his sleeve, but he still turns his upper body all the way around just to look back at you with total, desperate love every five seconds. he is literally holding a detached arm that is dripping onto his shoes, and he is still smiling at you like you are a prom queen.

it's kind of funny. he is so deep in your trap that he will literally handle severed limbs just to stay near you.

but watching him struggle with the heavy bag, your sharp edges melt just a tiny bit. he has known you since you were both just little kids playing in the sandbox, way before you became this hungry thing in a short skirt. he remembers when you were normal, and honestly, that's probably why you keep him around.

"hey, martin?" you call out, leaning your chin on your hand.

he stops instantly, holding a handful of messy hair from the severed head, looking back like a big dog waiting for a treat. "yes, jennifer?"

"you look stupid in that jacket."

martin’s face turns bright, burning red, completely ignoring the fact that he is standing in a puddle of human fluid. he smiles—that goofy, helpless smile that fills his whole face. "oh. thanks. i can take it off if you hate it? i have a sweater underneath."

"keep it on. it matches the dirt," you say, pulling out your phone to check your reflection in your black phone screen. "hurry up. i want fries from the diner. eating people makes me crave salt—it is so weird. like, my body completely rejects salads after a feed."

"on it!" martin says, working twice as fast now.

for the next twenty minutes, the basement just sounds like plastic ripping, wet squishing noises, and martin whispering apologies to the dead guy while he cleans up your leftovers.

you just hum a pop song, swinging your legs and watching the moonlight filter through the broken windows. martin is so reliable. other boys want to own you, but martin is fine letting you own him, as long as he gets to hold your stuff and ride in your passenger seat.

when he is done, sweating and smelling like copper and bile, he drags the heavy bags toward the coal chute, shoving them through the small opening with a loud grunt. he is covered in dirt and wet spots, looking like an absolute disaster.

"all clean," he pants, walking back over and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, accidentally leaving a dark streak of blood across his skin. "i will come back tomorrow with bleach from my mom’s house. to get the grease off the floor so the landlord doesn't notice anything."

"whatever," you say, jumping down from the drum.

you walk over to him, your platform sneakers clicking against the floor, stopping right in front of him. you have to look up to meet his eyes, and he looks down at you like you're a tiny, fragile doll. he freezes completely because you are so close, totally unbothered by the fact that you smell like a graveyard.

you sigh softly, stepping onto the very tips of your toes and stretching your arms up to reach his forehead. your thumb gently wipes the blood off his skin, smearing it into his hairline. you look into his eyes, letting the quiet stretch out until his chest is heaving under his heavy jacket. you could break him so easily, but your fingers are surprisingly gentle.

"you are a total mess, martin," you whisper, your voice getting sweet and low. "but you are my mess."

"i am," he chokes out, tears of actual joy hitting his eyes behind his glasses as he looks down at you. "i am yours. totally. anything you want."

"good boy," you smile, reaching up to tap his cheek just hard enough to leave a tiny red scratch from your nail. "go start the car. turn the heat all the way up. my feet are freezing, and if i get sick, i am eating our principal."

"i am going! the subaru is already running!" martin yells, bolting up the wooden steps, totally obsessed and happy.

you watch the door slam, a small, mean, but fond smile on your lips. you pull out the sparkly cherry gloss he bought you, putting a thick layer over your lips before stepping over a shiny, blood-coated track medal and walking out into the dark night.

james jogs over, water sliding down his toned frame, hair messy from the wind. before you can steady yourself he’s there, hands on your waist pulling you upright.

“don’t drown trying to show off for me, baby,” he says, the word slipping out so easy it shorts your thoughts. you slip anyway, face hitting the water, and he hauls you up laughing, palms warm and firm.

the other guys yell something teasing from the stand but he ignores them, stepping closer behind you on the board, breath tickling your ear with instructions.

every correction feels deliberate, his body brushing yours. “clumsy girl needs extra attention today, huh?” you stutter out a thank you, voice small, but inside you’re melting, mind wandering to how those hands would feel elsewhere.

he ruffles your wet hair before swimming off, leaving you lovesick and aching in the best way, the lowkey toying only making you crave him harder.

KIM JUHOON

golden hour spills across the beach bar when he slides onto the stool next to yours, all sharp jawline and quiet confidence.

“bored already?” he asks, ordering another coconut drink for you without waiting for an answer.

you nearly choke on your straw, mumbling something awkward about how good he looks in the lifeguard chair. his smile turns playful-mean as he leans in, feeding you a slice of mango from his plate, fingers brushing your lips.

“you’re adorable when you get like this,” he murmurs, voice velvet. “keep staring and i’ll start charging admission.” the others shout jokes from afar but juhoon just chuckles, tucking a stray hair behind your ear slowly. the touch sends sparks down your spine.

you’re too gone to notice the teasing edge, lost in the fantasy of his hands and that intense gaze. he pats your head like you’re precious before heading back to his post, calling over his shoulder, “don’t trip on your way to me later.”

your heart stays racing long after the sun dips.

MARTIN EDWARDS PARK

you’re crouched in the sand building a lopsided castle when his shadow falls over you, tall and steady. he drops down beside you without asking, red shorts bright against the white beach, whistle dangling between his fingers.

“you’ve been out here for hours,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he presses a finger into your tower until it collapses.

“trying to impress me with your architecture skills?” your cheeks burn instantly. you mumble something about the tide and structural integrity, fingers clumsy in the sand.

he laughs softly, brushing grains off your knee on purpose, lingering just long enough.

from the tower the others whistle and catcall, but martin just smirks, eyes dark with amusement. “cute. but if you keep staring like that i might have to pull you in for a private lesson.”

his hand grazes your arm again as he stands, leaving you flustered and floating, already replaying the touch while the sea breeze cools your heated skin. you don’t care that it’s a game to him. you just want more.

EOM SEONGHYEON

you’re drifting on a raft in the infinity pool, water cool against your skin, when he swims up silently and hooks his fingers on the edge, pulling you toward him like gravity.

his eyes catch the light as he looks up at you.

“lost in your thoughts again?” the question feels intimate, his voice smooth enough to make your toes curl. he steadies the raft with one hand, the other brushing your leg “accidentally” while the boys tease from the beach.

“don’t melt on me yet,” he says with a soft laugh, flicking pool water at your face.

you squeak out a compliment, awkward and breathless, and he hums a little tune under his breath just for you, close and warm. every move feels calculated to keep you hooked, toying with how easily you blush.

your mind wanders, turning into mush—imagining that voice in sweeter, quieter moments, but outwardly you just smile shyly.

he finally lets the raft go with a wink. “stay safe, cutie… or don’t. i like the rescues.” you spend the rest of the afternoon replaying it, sunk deep in the crush.

AHN KEONHO

dusk settles soft around the bonfire when he bounces over, youthful energy lighting up the sand.

you’re pretending to adjust your towel near the flames, nerves buzzing. “our little superfan is hovering again,” he teases, poking your cheek with a grin.

the boys laugh loudly but he just wraps a spare towel around your shoulders, arms brushing everywhere on purpose, slow and warm.

“blushing harder than the fire. cute. don’t combust before i get to play with you more.” his words hit low in your stomach.

you stammer something about how cool he looks, mind flooding with endless thoughts of his gorgeous face and plush lips. he sticks his tongue out at the others then back at you, winking. “stick around, clumsy. we like having our personal mascot.”

the mean-sweet edge only fuels the lovesick haze. you don’t mind being his toy. not when his touch lingers like that, leaving you warm and wanting under the stars.

james jogs over, water sliding down his toned frame, hair messy from the wind. before you can steady yourself he’s there, hands on your waist pulling you upright.

“don’t drown trying to show off for me, baby,” he says, the word slipping out so easy it shorts your thoughts. you slip anyway, face hitting the water, and he hauls you up laughing, palms warm and firm.

the other guys yell something teasing from the stand but he ignores them, stepping closer behind you on the board, breath tickling your ear with instructions.

every correction feels deliberate, his body brushing yours. “clumsy girl needs extra attention today, huh?” you stutter out a thank you, voice small, but inside you’re melting, mind wandering to how those hands would feel elsewhere.

he ruffles your wet hair before swimming off, leaving you lovesick and aching in the best way, the lowkey toying only making you crave him harder.

KIM JUHOON

golden hour spills across the beach bar when he slides onto the stool next to yours, all sharp jawline and quiet confidence.

“bored already?” he asks, ordering another coconut drink for you without waiting for an answer.

you nearly choke on your straw, mumbling something awkward about how good he looks in the lifeguard chair. his smile turns playful-mean as he leans in, feeding you a slice of mango from his plate, fingers brushing your lips.

“you’re adorable when you get like this,” he murmurs, voice velvet. “keep staring and i’ll start charging admission.” the others shout jokes from afar but juhoon just chuckles, tucking a stray hair behind your ear slowly. the touch sends sparks down your spine.

you’re too gone to notice the teasing edge, lost in the fantasy of his hands and that intense gaze. he pats your head like you’re precious before heading back to his post, calling over his shoulder, “don’t trip on your way to me later.”

your heart stays racing long after the sun dips.

MARTIN EDWARDS PARK

you’re crouched in the sand building a lopsided castle when his shadow falls over you, tall and steady. he drops down beside you without asking, red shorts bright against the white beach, whistle dangling between his fingers.

“you’ve been out here for hours,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he presses a finger into your tower until it collapses.

“trying to impress me with your architecture skills?” your cheeks burn instantly. you mumble something about the tide and structural integrity, fingers clumsy in the sand.

he laughs softly, brushing grains off your knee on purpose, lingering just long enough.

from the tower the others whistle and catcall, but martin just smirks, eyes dark with amusement. “cute. but if you keep staring like that i might have to pull you in for a private lesson.”

his hand grazes your arm again as he stands, leaving you flustered and floating, already replaying the touch while the sea breeze cools your heated skin. you don’t care that it’s a game to him. you just want more.

EOM SEONGHYEON

you’re drifting on a raft in the infinity pool, water cool against your skin, when he swims up silently and hooks his fingers on the edge, pulling you toward him like gravity.

his eyes catch the light as he looks up at you.

“lost in your thoughts again?” the question feels intimate, his voice smooth enough to make your toes curl. he steadies the raft with one hand, the other brushing your leg “accidentally” while the boys tease from the beach.

“don’t melt on me yet,” he says with a soft laugh, flicking pool water at your face.

you squeak out a compliment, awkward and breathless, and he hums a little tune under his breath just for you, close and warm. every move feels calculated to keep you hooked, toying with how easily you blush.

your mind wanders, turning into mush—imagining that voice in sweeter, quieter moments, but outwardly you just smile shyly.

he finally lets the raft go with a wink. “stay safe, cutie… or don’t. i like the rescues.” you spend the rest of the afternoon replaying it, sunk deep in the crush.

AHN KEONHO

dusk settles soft around the bonfire when he bounces over, youthful energy lighting up the sand.

you’re pretending to adjust your towel near the flames, nerves buzzing. “our little superfan is hovering again,” he teases, poking your cheek with a grin.

the boys laugh loudly but he just wraps a spare towel around your shoulders, arms brushing everywhere on purpose, slow and warm.

“blushing harder than the fire. cute. don’t combust before i get to play with you more.” his words hit low in your stomach.

you stammer something about how cool he looks, mind flooding with endless thoughts of his gorgeous face and plush lips. he sticks his tongue out at the others then back at you, winking. “stick around, clumsy. we like having our personal mascot.”

the mean-sweet edge only fuels the lovesick haze. you don’t mind being his toy. not when his touch lingers like that, leaving you warm and wanting under the stars.

james jogs over, water sliding down his toned frame, hair messy from the wind. before you can steady yourself he’s there, hands on your waist pulling you upright.

“don’t drown trying to show off for me, baby,” he says, the word slipping out so easy it shorts your thoughts. you slip anyway, face hitting the water, and he hauls you up laughing, palms warm and firm.

the other guys yell something teasing from the stand but he ignores them, stepping closer behind you on the board, breath tickling your ear with instructions.

every correction feels deliberate, his body brushing yours. “clumsy girl needs extra attention today, huh?” you stutter out a thank you, voice small, but inside you’re melting, mind wandering to how those hands would feel elsewhere.

he ruffles your wet hair before swimming off, leaving you lovesick and aching in the best way, the lowkey toying only making you crave him harder.

KIM JUHOON

golden hour spills across the beach bar when he slides onto the stool next to yours, all sharp jawline and quiet confidence.

“bored already?” he asks, ordering another coconut drink for you without waiting for an answer.

you nearly choke on your straw, mumbling something awkward about how good he looks in the lifeguard chair. his smile turns playful-mean as he leans in, feeding you a slice of mango from his plate, fingers brushing your lips.

“you’re adorable when you get like this,” he murmurs, voice velvet. “keep staring and i’ll start charging admission.” the others shout jokes from afar but juhoon just chuckles, tucking a stray hair behind your ear slowly. the touch sends sparks down your spine.

you’re too gone to notice the teasing edge, lost in the fantasy of his hands and that intense gaze. he pats your head like you’re precious before heading back to his post, calling over his shoulder, “don’t trip on your way to me later.”

your heart stays racing long after the sun dips.

MARTIN EDWARDS PARK

you’re crouched in the sand building a lopsided castle when his shadow falls over you, tall and steady. he drops down beside you without asking, red shorts bright against the white beach, whistle dangling between his fingers.

“you’ve been out here for hours,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he presses a finger into your tower until it collapses.

“trying to impress me with your architecture skills?” your cheeks burn instantly. you mumble something about the tide and structural integrity, fingers clumsy in the sand.

he laughs softly, brushing grains off your knee on purpose, lingering just long enough.

from the tower the others whistle and catcall, but martin just smirks, eyes dark with amusement. “cute. but if you keep staring like that i might have to pull you in for a private lesson.”

his hand grazes your arm again as he stands, leaving you flustered and floating, already replaying the touch while the sea breeze cools your heated skin. you don’t care that it’s a game to him. you just want more.

EOM SEONGHYEON

you’re drifting on a raft in the infinity pool, water cool against your skin, when he swims up silently and hooks his fingers on the edge, pulling you toward him like gravity.

his eyes catch the light as he looks up at you.

“lost in your thoughts again?” the question feels intimate, his voice smooth enough to make your toes curl. he steadies the raft with one hand, the other brushing your leg “accidentally” while the boys tease from the beach.

“don’t melt on me yet,” he says with a soft laugh, flicking pool water at your face.

you squeak out a compliment, awkward and breathless, and he hums a little tune under his breath just for you, close and warm. every move feels calculated to keep you hooked, toying with how easily you blush.

your mind wanders, turning into mush—imagining that voice in sweeter, quieter moments, but outwardly you just smile shyly.

he finally lets the raft go with a wink. “stay safe, cutie… or don’t. i like the rescues.” you spend the rest of the afternoon replaying it, sunk deep in the crush.

AHN KEONHO

dusk settles soft around the bonfire when he bounces over, youthful energy lighting up the sand.

you’re pretending to adjust your towel near the flames, nerves buzzing. “our little superfan is hovering again,” he teases, poking your cheek with a grin.

the boys laugh loudly but he just wraps a spare towel around your shoulders, arms brushing everywhere on purpose, slow and warm.

“blushing harder than the fire. cute. don’t combust before i get to play with you more.” his words hit low in your stomach.

you stammer something about how cool he looks, mind flooding with endless thoughts of his gorgeous face and plush lips. he sticks his tongue out at the others then back at you, winking. “stick around, clumsy. we like having our personal mascot.”

the mean-sweet edge only fuels the lovesick haze. you don’t mind being his toy. not when his touch lingers like that, leaving you warm and wanting under the stars.