STARRING: Juhoon x reader x Martin
Warning: idol au | female reader| fluff| slight angst | jealousy | Love triangle
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The first time Juhoon makes your heart do something stupid, it’s over a pair of in-ear monitors.
Not over a grand confession.
Not during some cinematic rainstorm.
No. It’s in the cramped hallway behind Studio B, where everybody’s yelling, somebody’s curling hair with enough hairspray to kill a small nation, and you’re crouched on the floor with three open cases of equipment like your life depends on it.
“Please tell me those are mine,” Juhoon says, breathless.
Which is mistake number one.
Because Juhoon in full stage styling should probably come with a warning label. His dark hair is pushed back off his forehead, his jacket is half on, half falling off one shoulder, and there’s glitter dusted over his cheekbone like the makeup artists personally conspired against your emotional stability.
You blink once. Twice. Then hold up the right pair of in-ears like a peace offering.
His whole face lights up. “I could actually marry you.”
From down the hall, Martin snorts. “He says that to everyone who saves him from his own mess.”
Mistake number two is looking past Juhoon to Martin.
Martin is leaning against the wall with a paper cup of iced coffee and the kind of lazy smile that’s gotten him out of trouble since birth. He’s already in stage clothes too, except he somehow looks less rushed than everyone else, like chaos politely steps around him.
“Not everyone,” Juhoon says, swiping the case from your hand. “Only people who are competent and beautiful under pressure.”
“Wow,” Martin deadpans, lifting his cup to you. “He upgraded from flirting to bribery. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes because that is the only safe option. “You both have rehearsal in four minutes. If you miss stage blocking because you’re standing here bothering me, I’m telling the manager it was on purpose.”
Juhoon grins. Martin smiles slower.
And that, really, is how all your problems begin.
You aren’t an idol. Thank God.
You work with Cortis’s creative performance team, which sounds glamorous until you explain that most of your day involves fixing schedule disasters, relaying notes from directors, carrying emergency fashion tape, and making sure seven grown men remember what planet they are on before going live.
You love your job, mostly.
You love the noise of it. The rush before performances. The feeling of watching everything click into place because you helped hold it together in ways nobody sees. There’s something addictive about standing in the wings while the crowd screams and knowing you helped build the moment they’re losing their minds over.
You do not love having a crush on one idol in the group.
You especially do not love apparently collecting a second one.
The Juhoon problem happens fast.
He starts showing up wherever you are, casual as breathing. Hovering by the styling room while you organize cue sheets. Appearing beside you in rehearsal with some dumb excuse about needing water when he absolutely knows where the water is. Sending you dramatic texts in the staff group chat because he “accidentally” saved your number during a content shoot when you handed him a battery pack.
You: that is not my department
Juhoon: emotional support is everyone’s department
He is bright in a way that makes resisting him feel bad for your health. Loud, affectionate, warm. He drapes himself across sofa backs. Pouts when he’s ignored. Compliments people like he’s tossing flower petals over a parade route. Everybody loves him because he makes it easy.
Including you, which is deeply inconvenient.
He doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t chase. He lingers.
He’s the one who notices when you skip lunch and leaves a protein bar on your clipboard without saying anything. He’s the one who mutters, “You’re gonna freeze,” and hands you his hoodie when filming runs late outdoors. He’s the one who stands a little too close while checking monitor footage with you, shoulder brushing yours, and acts like he doesn’t notice the way your whole body goes painfully alert.
Martin is the slow warmth after midnight, the kind that sneaks up on you until suddenly it’s everywhere.
It would be easier if they weren’t best friends.
It would be easier if they didn’t both look at you like there’s something worth noticing.
It would be easier if you were smarter.
Unfortunately, none of those things are true.
“Be honest,” your friend Mina says over takeout noodles at one in the morning. “Which one would survive a dating scandal better?”
You choke on your drink. “Excuse me?”
You stare at her over the rim of your cup. “You are the least helpful person alive.”
She points her chopsticks at you. “I’m practical. If we’re evaluating the disaster you’re clearly living through, then we have to look at all angles.”
“There’s absolutely a disaster,” Mina says. “A hot disaster. A chart-topping disaster. A limited-edition photocard disaster.”
You throw a napkin at her.
She keeps going, because of course she does. “Juhoon is obvious. Everybody can see that man orbiting you from space. Martin is worse because nobody sees it unless they know him, and I know him, and he looks at you like you’re a secret he wants to keep.”
You hate how fast your pulse jumps.
She sighs dramatically and leans back in her chair. “Fine. Then answer one simple question. If both of them asked you out tomorrow, who would you pick?”
The problem with your best friend is that she’s evil.
The bigger problem is that you don’t answer fast enough.
Mina’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“Oh, you are down catastrophic.”
You bury your face in your hands.
Mina makes a sound somewhere between pity and delight. “Girl.”
The accidental closeness that ruins your week happens during jacket filming for the group’s comeback.
It’s supposed to be a simple behind-the-scenes shoot. A few candid clips, a little extra interview footage, some solo teaser photos. Nothing dramatic.
Which means, naturally, everything goes wrong.
Someone misplaces one of Martin’s accessories. The makeup room runs over schedule. One of the stylists gets called to another set. The photographer wants changes. The director wants faster turnaround. The manager wants everyone smiling through it.
You’re moving between rooms with a tablet under one arm and two phones in your hand when somebody catches your wrist and pulls you sideways through a half-open dressing room door.
You barely stop yourself from yelping.
Martin shuts the door behind you and presses a finger to his lips.
For one dizzy second, you’re too close. Stupidly, embarrassingly close.
He’s still in stage makeup, silver chain loose at his throat, hair slightly tousled from styling. One hand is braced beside your head on the door, not quite trapping you there but definitely not helping. Your pulse goes wild so fast it feels humiliating.
“Martin,” you whisper harshly. “What are you doing?”
“Three stylists, one manager, and Juhoon, in that order.”
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out. “That’s not an answer.”
His mouth quirks. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
There’s noise in the hallway. Voices pass. He stays exactly where he is.
Your back is to the door. His chest is inches away. You can smell his cologne under the sharp clean scent of hairspray and stage makeup, and you hate that your brain is cataloguing any of this.
“You know,” he says softly, “you get this look when you’re overwhelmed.”
You swallow. “What look?”
“Like you’re trying to hold the whole building together by force.”
His eyes flick to your mouth and back up so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
“Maybe,” he murmurs, “you should let someone take care of you once in a while.”
Your heart actually stumbles.
The hallway quiets. He doesn’t move.
Then the door swings open from the outside.
Juhoon stands there holding a bottle of water and an expression that goes blank in a way you’ve never seen on him before.
For a second, nobody speaks.
From where you’re wedged between Martin and the doorframe, it definitely looks worse than it is. Or maybe exactly like what it feels like.
Juhoon’s gaze drops to Martin’s arm beside your head. Then to your face. Then back up.
The lightness is fake. You know it instantly.
“I was looking for her,” he adds.
Martin steps back at last, easy and unbothered. “Congrats. You found her.”
Your face is so hot you’re genuinely worried you might burst into flames.
“It’s not—” you start, then stop, because what exactly is the sentence there? It’s not what it looks like? Nothing happened? Why are those somehow all worse?
It is one of the most convincing fake smiles you’ve ever seen.
“Director wants you on set,” he tells you.
Then he hands you the bottle of water, brushes past Martin, and walks away before you can answer.
The room feels different after that.
Martin glances at you. “Well.”
You stare at the open doorway like it personally betrayed you. “I’m killing myself. Right here.”
A soft laugh escapes him. “Please don’t. It’d be inconvenient for me.”
You turn to him slowly. “You are the reason this happened.”
“Technically,” he says, “the reason this happened is I wanted five seconds alone with you.”
Martin watches your face carefully, like he’s measuring how far he can push before you bolt.
Then, because the universe hates you, someone yells your name from down the hall and reality snaps back into place.
“Go save the world,” he says quietly.
You leave before your knees can embarrass you.
Juhoon avoids you for exactly one day.
That’s how you know he’s upset.
He doesn’t text. Doesn’t hover. Doesn’t appear beside you with snacks he definitely stole from catering. He’s still polite during work, still smiling for cameras, still Juhoon to everyone else—but with you there’s a deliberate gap. A space where all his easy affection used to sit.
It bothers you more than it should.
By the end of the day, you find him alone behind the stage risers after rehearsal, sitting cross-legged on an equipment case and scrolling his phone like he’s not pouting internally.
“Are you mad at me?” you ask.
There’s half a second where something open flashes across his face before he smooths it away.
He exhales through his nose and locks his phone. “Why does it matter?”
Your chest tightens. “Because you’re acting weird.”
He laughs once, soft and sharp. “Weird?”
He looks at you for a long moment. “You were alone in a dressing room with Martin.”
You stare. “That’s what this is about?”
“That’s a crazy sentence to say to someone currently living through it.”
“He looked like he wanted to kiss you.”
The bluntness of it cuts right through you.
“And?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Silence presses down between you.
There it is. Honest and ugly and impossible to misunderstand.
He stands up from the case and shoves his phone in his pocket. “Forget it.”
“No,” you say, taking a step forward. “Don’t do that.”
“Say something real and then act like you didn’t mean it.”
His eyes flash. “What do you want me to say?”
You don’t know. That’s the problem.
That he’s jealous? That he has no right to be? That you kind of wish he did?
Your voice comes out smaller than you intend. “I want you to stop treating me like I’m the confusing one here.”
For a second he just stares at you.
Then he runs a hand through his hair and laughs, except there’s no humor in it. “You think I’m not confused?”
The words drop between you like a live wire.
Every thought in your head scatters.
He looks almost annoyed at himself for saying it, which would be funny if your heartbeat weren’t currently trying to kill you.
“I like you,” he repeats, quieter this time. “I’ve liked you for a while. And I know this job is a mess and I know I shouldn’t say anything and I know Martin—”
Your whole body goes still. “Martin what?”
Juhoon’s gaze slides away for the first time all conversation.
He huffs out a breath. “Martin likes you too.”
The world tilts a little.
You hate how unsurprised a part of you is.
“I’m not stupid,” he mutters. “I know him.”
“Still what? Fell for you anyway?” He gives you a helpless look, something soft cracking through all the frustration. “Yeah. Kind of couldn’t help it.”
You don’t know what to do with your hands. Or your face. Or your life.
He watches the panic blooming across yours and immediately looks guilty.
“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “I’m not asking for anything right now. Okay? I just… I needed you to know why I was being weird.”
You nod because speech has left the building.
He offers you a tiny smile, sad around the edges. “You’re really pretty when you’re stunned, by the way.”
You make an offended noise purely on instinct, and that finally gets a real laugh out of him.
Then someone calls his name from across the stage, and the moment snaps.
Before he leaves, he squeezes your shoulder once.
Warm. Brief. Devastating.
“Don’t overthink it tonight,” he says.
Which, naturally, guarantees that you do.
Two days later, the rumor breaks.
Not a major news article. Not some career-ending scandal. Just a blurry set of photos posted by an anonymous account, followed by the internet doing what the internet does best: losing its mind over absolutely nothing.
The pictures are from the jacket shoot.
In one, Martin is leaning close in the dressing room doorway, your face half-hidden, his arm braced near your head.
In another, taken from a different angle down the hall, Juhoon is looking toward the room with an unreadable expression.
It takes exactly forty-five minutes for fans to create seventeen theories, thirty edits, and a trending tag.
By noon, half the company is tense.
By two, management has issued a bland internal reminder about professionalism and privacy.
By four, Mina is texting you in all caps.
Mina: OH MY GOD YOU WEREN’T JOKING
Mina: also martin looks sickeningly good i’m sorry
You nearly throw your phone into a wall.
The group’s evening showcase recording is still happening, because the entertainment industry could continue through an asteroid strike. Everyone is pretending nothing is wrong.
Everyone except you, because you are one badly timed comment away from dissolving into vapor.
The waiting area backstage is electric with tension. Staff are moving faster than usual. Managers are muttering into phones. The members are in hair and makeup, half joking, half not.
Martin catches your eye from across the room. He looks calm, but the set of his shoulders tells you he’s angry.
Juhoon, on the other hand, is performing calm so hard it loops back into obviousness.
You spend the next hour avoiding both of them.
It works until ten minutes before stage call.
You’re checking the final cue sequence when one of the coordinators runs up to you. “Can you grab the revised intro mics from green room two? Now.”
“Yeah,” you say automatically.
Because green room two is empty except for Martin.
He’s standing by the mirror, jacket half-buttoned, staring at his phone with the look of a man contemplating murder.
He looks up when you enter.
For one second neither of you speaks.
Then he pockets the phone and says, “Are you okay?”
You almost laugh from sheer disbelief. “Am I okay?”
He winces, but stays where he is. “I’m sorry.”
Your grip tightens on the tablet in your hand. “For which part?”
“For the rumor. For the photos. For putting you in that position.”
Something sharp and tired in you finally snaps. “You did put me in that position.”
You hate the hurt that flashes across his face, but not enough to stop.
“You keep doing this thing where you act like you’re being subtle, Martin, but you’re not. And now this whole mess exists because you wanted a moment.”
His voice is quiet. “It wasn’t just me in that moment.”
“No,” you say. “It wasn’t.”
There’s too much truth sitting in the air now. Too much you haven’t said. Too much you maybe never should have let build this far.
Martin steps closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you can’t pretend this is casual.
“Then tell me I imagined it,” he says.
Your heart pounds so hard it hurts.
“Tell me there was nothing there. Tell me you don’t feel anything when I’m close to you, and I’ll drop it.”
His eyes darken with something aching and relieved all at once.
Before you can answer, the door opens hard.
Because apparently this is your personal punishment for every bad decision you’ve ever made.
His gaze flicks between the two of you. The tension in the room is so obvious it might as well be another person.
“Stage call in seven,” he says.
Juhoon gives a short laugh. “Seriously?”
“No, because I’m trying very hard to be normal about this, and you two keep vanishing into rooms together like I’m not supposed to lose my mind.”
Martin’s expression hardens. “Then maybe stop making it about you.”
Juhoon steps fully into the room. “Oh, that’s funny coming from you.”
“You knew,” Juhoon says to Martin. “You knew I liked her.”
Martin’s jaw clenches. “And you knew I did too.”
“Yeah, and I still didn’t pull her into a dressing room at work.”
The words hit the room like a slap.
Juhoon laughs again, harsher now. “Honest? You want honest? Fine. I’m tired of watching you act like you’re the only one with feelings here.”
“No,” Martin says, eyes still locked on Juhoon. “You want honesty? Then be honest about the fact that you flirt with everyone and expect it not to matter.”
Juhoon goes deadly still. “You think this is a game to me?”
“I think you hide behind being charming.”
“And I think you hide behind being quiet so nobody can call you selfish.”
The silence after that is brutal.
Your anger burns hot enough to cut through the panic.
Because if they say one more thing, you might actually throw something expensive.
You set your tablet down on the counter with deliberate care. “I am not a prize. I am not a debate. And I am definitely not doing this five minutes before a showcase because the two of you forgot how to act.”
Neither of them says a word.
Your voice shakes, but only a little. “You both like me. Great. Fantastic. Terrible timing. But this thing where you act jealous and then make it my problem? I’m done.”
Juhoon looks stricken. Martin looks guilty. Good.
You point at the door. “You have a stage to go on.”
Then you point at both of them, because if you’re going to lose all professionalism, you might as well commit. “And after that, if either of you still want to talk to me, you’ll do it like normal people instead of emotionally constipated celebrities.”
Then, somehow, Martin huffs a laugh.
You stare at them in outrage. “Why are you laughing?”
“Emotionally constipated?” Juhoon repeats faintly.
Martin rubs a hand over his face, still half smiling despite the tension. “That was deserved.”
You hate them both a little.
A staff member yells for stage positions from down the hall.
Juhoon sobers first. His expression softens when he looks at you. “After the showcase?”
You cross your arms. “After the showcase.”
Martin nods once. “Okay.”
And because the universe is a comedian, you immediately have to go run cue coordination like you didn’t just verbally body-slam two idols in a green room.
The showcase is incredible.
Cortis walks onstage like they were born there, like rumors and tension and almost-confessions can’t touch them once the lights hit. The crowd screams loud enough to shake the floor. The opening VCR rolls perfectly. The stage transitions are clean. Juhoon doesn’t miss a beat. Martin is magnetic. Everyone does their job.
You hold everything together.
And then, after the final ending ment and the encore wave and the last camera cut, it’s over.
Your adrenaline crashes so hard you have to sit down on an overturned road case backstage before your legs give out.
He’s changed out of his stage jacket, hair damp at the temples, expression careful.
A second later, Juhoon appears from the other side of the corridor, clearly having spotted you both already there.
“Wow,” he says weakly. “This feels hostile already.”
“Sit down,” you tell them.
Martin takes the case opposite yours. Juhoon drops onto the floor beside you and leans his shoulder lightly against your knee, then seems to realize he might be pushing his luck and slowly leans away again.
For a few seconds, nobody speaks. The hallway beyond you buzzes with post-show cleanup, but this little pocket of space feels oddly separate.
You clasp your hands together to keep from fidgeting. “I’m still mad.”
“Very fair,” Juhoon agrees.
This is stupid. Ridiculous. So deeply not how your life was supposed to go.
“Did either of you think,” you begin, “that maybe confessing your feelings would have worked better before turning into a weird jealousy competition?”
Juhoon raises a hand. “In my defense, I wasn’t trying to compete.”
Martin gives him a look. “That’s not helping.”
Then Martin says quietly, “I liked you first.”
Juhoon whips around. “Oh, now we’re keeping score?”
“It’s not a score. It’s a fact.”
“You do realize that sounds insane out loud.”
Against your will, laughter bubbles up. You press your lips together, but it’s too late.
Both of them look at you.
And somehow that—your laugh, small and unwilling—is what finally breaks the tension.
Juhoon smiles first. Soft this time, not performative. Martin follows a second later.
You exhale. “I hate this.”
“No, you don’t,” Juhoon says.
Martin tilts his head. “Only the parts where we made it hard.”
He’s right, which is annoyingly inconvenient.
You pick at the edge of your sleeve. “I care about both of you.”
“That’s the problem,” you continue. “If this were simple, I’d already know what to do.”
Juhoon’s expression goes unreadable for a moment, but not shut down. Just bracing.
Martin leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Then don’t make a decision tonight.”
He shrugs, though his voice stays steady. “You don’t owe either of us an answer on a timeline.”
Juhoon glances at him, surprised.
Martin keeps his eyes on you. “If you need space, take it. If you want us to back off, we back off. If you want honesty, you have it.”
Something in your chest loosens.
Juhoon is quiet for a second, then nods. “Yeah.”
He offers a crooked smile. “I hate that he sounds mature right now, but yeah. I’m not trying to corner you. I just… want a real chance.”
The honesty in it makes your throat tight.
You stare at the floor for a long moment, then laugh softly to yourself. “This is so messed up.”
Juhoon brightens slightly. “Messed up but with potential.”
“Do not make me throw a shoe at you.”
Silence settles again, gentler this time.
You should ask for space.
Instead, because apparently you’re committed to making things worse before they get better, you ask the dangerous question.
“If I did choose,” you say quietly, “would it ruin your friendship?”
Juhoon answers first. “No.”
Martin answers at the same time. “Not permanently.”
Juhoon rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the optimism.”
Despite everything, the warmth between them is still there under the sharp edges. Old and familiar. A little bruised, maybe, but not breakable.
And that matters more than either of them probably realizes.
You glance at Martin first.
He’s steady, thoughtful, harder to read unless you know where to look. But you do know now. In the quiet ways. In the careful ones. In every moment he noticed what you needed before you had to say it.
Open-hearted, impossible, bright enough to make whole rooms shift around him. He feels everything out loud. He makes you laugh when you want to stay guarded. He makes wanting feel less frightening.
Maybe part of you has known for longer than you admitted.
You stand before you can overthink it.
Both of them look up at you.
You point at Martin. “You.”
“You’re impossible,” you say. “And you make terrible decisions in dressing rooms.”
Juhoon chokes on a laugh.
Martin just watches you, very still.
Then you turn to Juhoon, whose smile has faded into something more careful, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen from him.
“You,” you say softer, “are even worse, because you say things that get stuck in my head for days.”
His throat moves as he swallows.
“I care about both of you,” you repeat. “But when I picture who I want to run to first—who I look for first—it’s you.”
For one second Juhoon just stares.
Then all the hope on his face comes alive at once, bright and disbelieving and so tender it nearly undoes you.
“Me?” he says, like he needs confirmation from God.
You laugh helplessly. “Yes, you, idiot.”
He’s on his feet instantly.
Then, to his credit, he stops himself before touching you, like he’s waiting for permission.
That tiny hesitation—so unlike him, so careful with you—melts something in your chest completely.
So you close the distance yourself.
The sound he makes is soft and startled.
His hands come to your waist like he’s still not fully convinced this is real. Yours catch lightly at his jacket. He looks at you for one heartbeat, two, giving you every chance to change your mind.
When he kisses you, it’s not polished or dramatic or anything like the kind of kiss idols fake for cameras.
So sweet it almost hurts.
He kisses like he’s smiling into it, like he’s been wanting to do this for too long and still can’t believe you’re letting him. Your whole body goes light and electric at once, and for a second the world reduces to the feel of his hands, the softness of his mouth, the way he leans in just enough to ask without demanding.
When you finally pull back, both of you are breathless.
Juhoon rests his forehead against yours and laughs under his breath. “I’m actually the luckiest man alive.”
“Relax,” you murmur, dazed. “It’s one kiss.”
“Counterpoint,” he says, eyes shining, “best kiss of my life.”
“Oh my God,” Martin says from somewhere behind you.
You jolt, mortified, and Juhoon hides a laugh against your shoulder.
Martin is standing now too, expression long-suffering but not upset. If anything, he looks… resigned. Soft around the edges. A little sad, maybe, but peaceful enough that guilt doesn’t crush you whole.
You step away from Juhoon. “Martin…”
He lifts a hand. “It’s okay.”
He gives you a small smile. “No, it kind of is.”
He exhales and glances at Juhoon before looking back at you. “I wanted it to be me.”
“But,” he adds, “I also wanted you to choose freely. And you did.”
Juhoon’s expression sobers.
Martin shoves his hands in his pockets and tilts his head. “If it helps, I plan to be dramatically annoying about this for at least two weeks.”
Relief and affection hit you so hard you laugh.
“That feels fair,” you say.
Then Juhoon says, with absolutely no sense of self-preservation, “Can I still win if I’m humble about it?”
Martin throws a crumpled cue sheet at his head.
You laugh so hard you nearly fold in half.
The two of them start bickering immediately—quietly, because staff are nearby, but with enough energy to prove the apocalypse has indeed been avoided. You watch them and feel something settle inside you at last.
The aftermath is less glamorous than anybody would think.
There are no dramatic public reveals. No secret Dispatch photos under moonlight. No press conference romance arc.
There are company rules, sneaky timing, late-night texts, and a deeply ridiculous amount of lying by omission.
The rumor dies down in less than a week, mostly because the internet gets distracted by a new scandal and because management releases enough unrelated content to drown it.
Internally, things shift.
Juhoon becomes even more unbearable.
He sends you good morning texts with way too many emojis. Tries to sneak hand touches when nobody’s looking. Brags to absolutely no one out loud but somehow carries himself like a man who has won a private national championship.
Martin, true to his word, is annoying about it—but in a survivable way.
He steals your snacks. Makes pointed fake-gagging noises if Juhoon gets too lovesick within earshot. Calls you “traitor” exactly three times before admitting he’s mostly kidding.
And yet, somehow, the three of you find a rhythm.
A weird one. A careful one. But a real one.
One night after a music show win, the group ends up back at the company building later than expected because somebody forgot part of a costume bag and the manager is having the worst evening of his life.
You’re in one of the empty rehearsal rooms, rechecking tomorrow’s call times, when Juhoon slips inside and closes the door behind him.
“You’re lurking,” you say without looking up.
“I’m visiting my girlfriend.”
You slowly lift your head. “Your what?”
He grins, shameless. “Too much?”
Your face is hot instantly. “You cannot just say that.”
He walks over, softer now, and leans a hip against the table beside you. “Don’t die. I just got you.”
That stupid, impossible warmth blooms in your chest again.
You set the clipboard aside. “You’re so dramatic.”
You do. Which is embarrassing.
He studies your face for a second, then brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness.
“Was tonight weird?” he asks quietly.
“With Martin. With everything.” His mouth tips wryly. “I know I’m enjoying myself a lot, but I don’t want you carrying the awkward part alone.”
There it is again—that hidden care under all the sunshine. The thing people miss because they only see the surface.
You shake your head. “It wasn’t weird. Not really. We’re okay.”
Then he leans in just a little, voice dropping. “Can I kiss you again, or will that get me reported to HR?”
You stare at him for a full second.
Then, because you’ve apparently stopped making safe choices entirely, you tug him down by the collar.
His laugh disappears into your mouth.
Less startled. More certain.
Still sweet, but deeper now, his hands sliding carefully to your waist like he’s learned the shape of what you’ll allow and intends to treasure every inch of it. He kisses you like he means it. Like he knows exactly how lucky he is and still wants more.
When he pulls back, your lungs feel suspiciously optional.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Definitely worth the HR report.”
You smack his shoulder weakly.
The rehearsal room door flies open.
You and Juhoon spring apart so fast it’s honestly humiliating.
Martin stands there holding two sports drinks and a protein shake.
He takes one look at your faces, then slowly backs out.
“No, stay,” Juhoon says, laughing.
“I would rather not,” Martin replies.
“I’m actually your oldest victim.”
You bury your face in your hands while they start arguing again.
Then Martin tosses you the protein shake. “You skipped dinner.”
You catch it automatically.
He shrugs, but his smile is real. “Don’t mention it.”
Juhoon slings an arm around his shoulders. Martin immediately tries to shove him off.
You watch them, shaking your head, and realize something simple and terrifying and good:
for all the chaos, for all the rumors and jealousy and badly timed feelings, you’re happy.
And maybe that’s the most unbelievable part of the whole story.
