V~

Not to everyone else—just to you, the person inside them. You stop seeing the routine the way you stop seeing the furniture in your own room, the way you stop hearing the hum of your own refrigerator. It's just there. It's just what the day looks like. You wake up, you make it through your first class, and somewhere between 9 and 10 AM you walk into Groundwork—the coffee shop that lives in the ground floor of the student center, the one with the slightly crooked menu board and the single plant on the windowsill that has no business being as healthy as it is—and you order the same thing you always order, and then you go to the library and you try to be a person who is doing okay.

That's the routine. It sounds simple because it is simple. That's exactly why it works.

What you don't notice, inside the routine, is all the small things that have accumulated around it. The way the morning light comes through Groundwork's east-facing windows at exactly the angle that makes the steam from your cup look like something from a film. The chip in the second stool from the left at the window bar, which you always sit at, which fits your thumb in a way that has become unconsciously comforting. The sound of the espresso machine pulling a shot, which is so specific and so regular that your body has learned to relax at the sound of it. You don't notice any of this because you don't have to notice it. It's just the morning. It's just what the morning is.

And you don't notice Eom Seonghyeon, not really, not in any way that you would be able to articulate if someone asked. You notice him the way you notice all the permanent fixtures of a space you inhabit regularly—passively, without intention, the way your eye tracks movement without your brain deciding to track it. He's tall, which is the first thing you'd registered without registering it. Who were you kidding, everyone's tall for you. He moves through the small space behind the counter with a particular quietness, not the practiced efficiency of someone performing competence but the natural ease of someone who is simply very good at existing in a physical space. He has a way of listening when someone orders that is different from the way the other baristas listen—not inattentive, they're all attentive, it's a good coffee shop—but specifically, like he's filing the information somewhere it matters.

He's the one who started calling you by your order instead of your name.

You don't remember when it started. You think maybe the third or fourth week, when you'd come in behind a rush of people and he'd already started making it before you reached the counter, and he'd looked up and said, with complete seriousness: white chocolate mocha? And you'd said yes, and he'd slid it across the counter, and that had been that. By week six it was just what he called you. By week ten you'd stopped thinking about it.

By the end of the semester's first half you had a routine, and the routine had Groundwork in it, and Groundwork had Seonghyeon in it, and none of it felt significant because none of it felt like a choice anymore. It was just the shape of your days.

Then the shape of your days changed.

——

It doesn't happen all at once.

That's the thing about mental health—it doesn't announce itself. It doesn't show up at the door with luggage and a formal notice. It just starts making the walls closer. You don't notice until you're already in the smaller room, and by then the door behind you is harder to find.

For you it comes in the form of weight. Not physical weight—just the weight of everything outside. The weight of the walk from your dorm to the student center, which is four minutes on a normal day and becomes, in the bad week, a concept so heavy you can't lift it. The weight of being perceived, of existing in a public space, of performing the basic social functions that a coffee shop requires: standing in line, making eye contact, saying your order, saying thank you. Things that cost nothing on a normal day.

It's not that you stop wanting to go. That's the part that's hardest to explain, the part that makes the bad week feel so cruel in its specificity. You don't stop wanting the coffee, the morning light, the sound of the espresso machine. You don't stop wanting the chip in the second stool from the left. You want all of it. The wanting is still there, complete and intact, just as real as it was on every ordinary morning before this one. It's the getting there that becomes impossible—the gap between wanting and doing that opens up like a fault line and just keeps widening until the two sides aren't visible to each other anymore.

So you don't go. You make instant coffee in your dorm room, the kind in the small paper packets that taste like the idea of coffee rather than coffee itself. You go to class because class has a time and a place and a consequence for absence, and consequences are a different kind of weight—a weight that moves you rather than stops you. You go to work for the same reason. But Groundwork is optional. There's no grade for it. No one takes attendance for the things that are good for you rather than required of you. And so the bad week takes it from you, quietly, the way it takes everything optional—without announcement, without drama, just a slow and patient subtraction.

Day one you don't go because you're running late and you tell yourself you'll go tomorrow.

Day two you don't go because the thought of the four-minute walk feels like more than you can spend right now and you tell yourself tomorrow, again, meaning it a little less.

Day three you don't go and you stop telling yourself tomorrow because tomorrow is starting to feel like a word that belongs to a different kind of week.

By day five the coffee shop exists in your head the way a lot of things exist during hard weeks—not as something real and accessible but as something you used to do. A habit that belonged to a more functional version of you. You can picture yourself there, the stool, the cup, the light, the way Seonghyeon says your order in place of your name—you can picture all of it with complete clarity, the way you can picture anything you can't currently have. The picture is very detailed. The distance between the picture and being inside it is enormous.

You go to class. You go to work. You message the people you have to message. You eat things that require no preparation. You sleep at the wrong hours and lie awake at the right ones. And everything else—everything in the category of optional, restorative, good for you specifically—you let the week have.

This is the thing about the bad weeks, and it matters to say it plainly: they are not permanent. They feel permanent, which is different. The bad week has a quality of always-having-been and always-will-be that is one of its more convincing lies. But it is a week. It is a specific, bounded, survivable period of time. And somewhere on the other side of it, there is a Thursday morning where the weight is different.

Not gone. Not mostly gone. Just distributed differently, sitting in a place that doesn't make the door impossible.

You get up. You put on clothes. You make the instant coffee, the last of it. And then you stand at the door of your dorm room for longer than you'd like to admit, doing the thing that the bad week makes necessary, which is negotiating with yourself. Reminding yourself of the facts: the walk is four minutes. You have done it a hundred times. The door of Groundwork opens easily. The second stool is probably free. The espresso machine will be making its sound.

None of these facts are large. That is exactly the point of them.

You open the door.

——

The first day you don't come in, Seonghyeon doesn't notice.

This is not a failure of attention on his part—it's a Tuesday, and Tuesdays are busy, and the student center fills up between nine and ten with the particular frantic energy of people who have 10 AM lectures and are gambling on having enough time to get coffee first. He makes seventeen drinks in forty minutes. He does not track absences on busy Tuesdays. He doesn't track absences at all, technically. That's not a thing baristas do.

It's more that he has, without deciding to, learned the rhythm of his regulars. The fourth-year who always asks for oat milk and always forgets to specify until after he's already started making it with whole milk. The pair of friends who come in together every Monday and Wednesday and order exactly the same thing in exactly the same order, the taller one first, the shorter one after, and always argue about who pays. The person who reads the same worn paperback every single morning, always at the table by the broken radiator, who he has never once seen turn a page but who is always there.

And you. white choco. Second stool from the left at the window bar. Something on your laptop that varies—sometimes notes, sometimes what looks like a paper, occasionally something that has the layout of a creative document. You wrap both hands around the cup even when it's warm in the shop. You always say thank you when he puts the drink down, even when he hasn't technically walked it over, even when you've just picked it up from the handoff counter, which he finds—not that he's thought about it specifically—kind of quietly thoughtful.

He doesn't notice the first day. He notices the second, the way you notice something that's almost a pattern—a flicker of recognition that doesn't quite land, a sense of something slightly off that dissolves before it can be named. The morning feels normally busy and normally chaotic and it's only in the lull after the rush that he looks at the window bar and registers the second stool from the left as empty in a way it isn't usually empty at this hour, and the thought passes through him and then past him, filed somewhere without a label.

The third day he looks for you.

Not obviously—he doesn't stand at the counter scanning the room. It's more that his awareness, which is always peripherally tracking the space around him, keeps returning to the window bar with the particular insistence of a question that hasn't been answered. He makes drinks. He steams milk. He pulls shots. And somewhere in the background, running below the surface of all of it, the part of his attention that tracks the room keeps finding nothing where something usually is.

He doesn't say anything to anyone. There isn't anything to say, really—no language for it that wouldn't sound strange. You're a regular, not a known person. He doesn't know your name, your major, your year, anything that would make your absence meaningful in a way he could explain out loud. He just knows your order and the chip in the stool and the way you hold the cup. He knows the general texture of you in the mornings, the specific quality of your presence in the space, which is quiet without being closed, the kind of quiet that doesn't make itself felt as unfriendliness but rather as a person who is simply occupied with their own interior life in a way that doesn't require the exterior world to perform for.

By the fourth day it is something he carries without knowing what to do with it.

This is the thing about Seonghyeon—the thing that anyone who has worked alongside him long enough eventually understands: care is not a decision he makes. It doesn't pass through deliberation. It's not I have assessed this situation and determined that concern is the appropriate response. It's just—the awareness of someone missing from a space they usually occupy, sitting in his chest with the specific weight of something that matters without his permission. He feels before he thinks. He acts before he explains.

And he cannot act here, because there is nothing to act on. You're a stranger, technically, and he has nothing that gives him a claim on your wellbeing, no context for your absence, no ground to stand on that would make asking after you anything other than strange.

So he carries it.

The fifth day he makes your drink anyway. Starts it out of habit—his hands know the order before his brain registers that the order hasn't been placed—gets halfway through steaming the milk, realizes what he's doing, and stops. Pours it out. Feels faintly absurd. His coworker Jisoo gives him a look from the other end of the counter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he says.

"You just made a drink and threw it away."

"I made a mistake." He turns back to the counter. This is not true but it is easier than the alternative, which is: I started making a drink for someone who hasn't come in in five days because my hands know the order better than my brain knows not to make it.

Jisoo looks at him for a moment with the expression of someone who knows exactly what the actual explanation is and is choosing to let it go. Jisoo is perceptive. Seonghyeon is aware that working alongside Jisoo means very little goes unnoticed.

He does not start the drink again the sixth day. But he notices the window bar. He always notices the window bar.

——

You go back on a Thursday.

There isn't a specific reason it's Thursday. There isn't a moment of clarity or a decision arrived at through reason. It's more that you wake up and the weight is distributed differently—not gone, not even mostly gone, but sitting in a place that doesn't make the door impossible. You lie in bed and you look at the ceiling and you think about the morning light in Groundwork and the sound of the espresso machine and the chip in the stool, and the gap between wanting and doing is still there but it's narrower, just barely narrower, and you think: maybe.

You get up. You put on the first clothes that don't require decision-making. You drink the last of the instant coffee and it is bad, as it always is, as it will always be, and that specific badness is oddly useful—it is the opposite of what you're going back for, a small orientation point. You stand at the door of your dorm room for a little while—longer than you want to admit—and you have the conversation with yourself that you've been having all week, the one that sounds like: it's just coffee. It's four minutes. You've done it a hundred times. It is not a big thing to do.

But also: you know it is a big thing to do this week. You know that's exactly why it matters.

You open the door.

The walk takes longer than four minutes because you walk slowly, conserving, spending carefully. The morning is doing the thing autumn mornings do on campus—that specific low gold light through the trees, the air cold enough to be present against your face. You notice it the way you notice things when you've been inside too long: slightly more intensely than usual, the way eyes adjust to brightness. It's good, the outside. Even now, even like this, it's good.

Groundwork has the door propped open, which it does on mild days, and the smell of it reaches you before you get there—coffee and warm milk and something underneath that is just the smell of the place, specific and unchanged. You stand outside the propped door for a moment. You breathe it in. Something loosens, the smallest amount.

You go in.

The morning rush is mostly over. Seven or eight people in the shop, two in line ahead of you. The espresso machine is doing its sound. The plant on the windowsill is doing its improbable thing of being alive. The second stool from the left at the window bar is empty.

You get in line. You look at the menu board—the slightly crooked one, the one you haven't needed to read in weeks—and you look at it anyway because looking at something specific gives your attention somewhere to be while the line moves.

You're one person back from the counter when Seonghyeon looks up from the drink he's finishing.

He sees you.

——

Later, he won't be able to explain exactly what happens in the moment he looks up and finds you in the line.

It's not like the movies—no slow motion, no swelling significance. It's more like: his brain, which has been keeping a quiet background tab open for six days with no label he'd been willing to give it, suddenly receives information and closes the tab. A resolution. The specific relief of a thing that was unfinished becoming finished, of a question that had been running below the surface of every shift all week finally receiving its answer.

The answer is: you're okay. You're here. You came back.

He also feels something else, underneath the relief, which he doesn't immediately identify and which he sets aside for later because right now there are drinks to make and people in line and a counter between him and the thing he's feeling, which is something close to oh. there you are. Said not with surprise but with the particular quality of recognition that is different from surprise—the feeling of something returning to where it belongs.

He finishes the drink in his hands. He passes it across the counter. He watches you move up in the line, one place, then another, and you're looking at the menu board with the unfocused attention of someone not really reading it, and he notices—because he notices things, it is simply how he is, the way he has always been—that you look like someone who has been through something. Not dramatically. Not visibly to anyone who wasn't paying the specific kind of attention he has been paying. Just: slightly more careful in how you're taking up space. Like you are here on purpose, consciously, and the purpose cost something to arrive at.

The person in front of you steps away with their order.

You step up to the counter.

You open your mouth.

And Seonghyeon—who has turned to the machine, who has his hand on the portafilter, who does not fully understand why he does this except that it comes from the same place everything comes from in him which is somewhere beneath deliberation, somewhere that acts before it explains itself—looks over his shoulder at you and says, loudly enough that it carries across the whole shop:

"White Chocolate Mocha is back!"

——

You didn't expect it.

That's the honest thing—you genuinely didn't expect it. You'd walked in braced for the ordinary experience of being a customer in a coffee shop, a transaction, the comfortable anonymity of it. You order, they make it, you pay, you go sit down. That's the script. You'd been running the script in your head the whole walk over, actually, the way you do when things are hard and the script is load-bearing, when knowing exactly what's going to happen is what makes the happening possible.

You hadn't written this into the script.

You hear it before you fully process it—the words, loud and easy, Seonghyeon's voice carrying them across the shop—and then you hear the response, which is Jisoo saying finally from somewhere behind the espresso machine, and then a third voice from the far end of the counter saying I was wondering when they'd be back—and it takes you a full beat, maybe two, to understand that they is you. That back is you. That this small, loud, entirely unplanned announcement is for you, about you, because of you.

Because they noticed you were gone.

The realization arrives in layers, the way the important ones always do. First the surface: they noticed. Then the layer underneath: they'd been tracking your presence long enough that your absence registered as a gap, as something missing, as information worth remarking on when corrected. Then the layer underneath that, the one that takes longest and hits hardest: you had been so sure, during the week, that no one would notice. That's one of the things the bad week does—it tells you, very convincingly, that the space you occupy in the world is negligible. That your absence from any given place would simply be absorbed. That the room would close around the space you'd left and carry on unchanged, because that's what rooms do.

You had believed it. You'd believed it because the bad week made it sound like realism rather than distortion, and when you're inside the bad week it's very hard to tell the difference.

And then Seonghyeon looked over his shoulder and said your order like it was a name, like it was a welcome, like your return to this specific place was a thing that warranted being said out loud —

Your eyes go warm before you can stop them.

"Hey," you say, and your voice comes out slightly unsteady, which you hadn't planned. "Sorry I—I was away for a bit."

He turns fully from the machine to face you. The full, unhurried attention. He's looking at you the way he always does when you're at the counter—like you have his complete consideration, like nothing else in the shop is competing for the part of him that's looking at you.

"Don't apologize," he says.

Simple. Said simply. But there's something in it that is not just politeness—not you don't have to apologize, no big deal but something that means what it says on every level, that lands with the weight of an actual position rather than a social reflex. Do not apologize for where you were. Do not apologize for the week. Do not apologize for coming back.

You look at him for a moment. He looks back.

"Your usual?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. "Please."

——

He makes it the way he always makes it. That's the thing you notice while you're paying—he doesn't make it differently, doesn't add anything or change anything, doesn't perform the making of it in a way that signals he's doing something intentional. He just makes it the same way he always makes it, with the same competent quietness, and the sameness of it is its own kind of comfort, which you couldn't have predicted would be comforting but is. The world inside Groundwork is unchanged. The menu board is still crooked. The plant is still thriving. The espresso machine still sounds like that. You're the one who changed and came back, and everything here was just waiting, ordinary and unaltered, for you to return to it.

He sets the cup on the handoff counter.

"Second stool," he says, conversationally, not quite a question, glancing at the window bar.

"Yeah," you say.

"It's free."

You look at the window bar. The second stool from the left is empty. The morning light is coming through the east-facing windows at the angle that does the thing with steam. You pick up your cup and you wrap both hands around it and you feel the warmth of it travel up through your palms, and something in your chest—something that's been held tight for a week, something you'd stopped noticing was tight—releases, slightly. Like an exhale you'd forgotten to take.

You go to the second stool.

——

He watches you go, which is not a thing he decides to do. His attention just follows you the way it has for weeks, tracking the way you settle into the stool, the familiar posture of it, the way your hands stay wrapped around the cup.

Jisoo materializes at his elbow with the expression of someone who has something to say.

"You noticed they were gone," Jisoo says. Not a question.

"We all noticed."

"You noticed first."

Seonghyeon turns back to the counter. There's a new customer approaching. "I notice when regulars stop coming in."

"You made their drink on day five and threw it away."

"I made a mistake."

"Seonghyeon."

"There's a customer."

He is aware that this is not a satisfying deflection. He is also aware that Jisoo is correct, which is worse. He did notice first. He noticed on day two, the flicker of it, the second stool wrong in the morning, and it had been sitting in him since, that small persistent weight of a person-shaped absence in a space they usually occupied.

He takes the new customer's order. He makes the drink. He does not look at the window bar.

(He looks at the window bar.)

You're on your laptop now, both hands still on the cup, and you have the look of someone who is carefully, deliberately choosing to be somewhere—not settled in the automatic way of a comfortable routine but the conscious way of someone who has made an effort to arrive and is aware of the effort. He understands this, in the way he understands most things about people: not through analysis, not through logic, but through something more immediate, more sensory. He sees it in how you're sitting. In the set of your shoulders. In the particular quality of how you're looking at the screen.

He doesn't know what your week was. He doesn't need to know. What he knows is the texture of your presence in this space and the texture of your absence from it, and he knows that you came back today anyway, which is the part that sits in him most heavily—the idea that returning was a choice you made, and that the choice cost something.

He goes back to work.

——

You stay for forty minutes, which is shorter than usual—usually you stay until almost eleven, until the morning light has shifted and the espresso machine has gone through four or five more cycles and your cup has been empty for long enough that it's embarrassing. Today you leave at 10:20, because forty minutes is what you have today, and forty minutes is enough. You did the thing. You came back. You sat in the stool and wrapped your hands around the cup and let the space be what it's always been, which is a place that holds you without requiring anything of you.

You're putting your laptop away when Seonghyeon appears at the end of the window bar. Not in a way that startles you—he moves quietly, it's just how he moves—but you look up and there he is, holding a small paper bag that he sets on the bar beside your elbow.

"We had extra," he says, which is so obviously not the whole truth that you almost smile. "Pastry. Day-old, technically, but still fine."

You look at the bag. You look at him.

He has the expression of someone who has done a thing and is now waiting, with a composure that suggests he'd rehearsed exactly none of this, to see how it lands. There's something underneath the composure that you can't quite name—something that is not awkward but is adjacent to it, the specific quality of someone who has acted from instinct and is now having to stand in the aftermath of the action.

"Thank you," you say.

"It would've been thrown out," he says, which is still obviously not the whole truth.

"Okay," you say, and this time the almost-smile becomes an actual one, small and real. You take the bag. "Thank you anyway."

He nods, once, the economical nod of someone who has received what he needed from the exchange, which is apparently: you taking the bag, you smiling. He goes back behind the counter. You finish packing up.

At the door you turn back, briefly. He's already making someone else's drink, back to the counter, his hands doing the automatic, practiced work of the machine. But Jisoo is looking at you, and gives you a small nod that contains approximately forty percent more meaning than a normal nod, and you're not entirely sure what to do with that so you push out the door into the cool morning.

You stand on the pavement outside Groundwork for a moment.

The autumn light is doing its low gold thing through the trees. The bag from Seonghyeon is warm in your hand, which it shouldn't be—it's a pastry, pastries are not inherently warm—which means he heated it, which means day-old, we had extra is a more obvious not-whole-truth than you'd even first thought. You stand there holding the warm bag and you let this fact settle into you properly, the way you haven't let yourself settle into things all week. Someone heated a pastry for you and called it an accident. Someone said your order like it was a name and wanted you to know you'd been noticed and then handed you something warm and called it convenience.

You've been operating, during the bad week and even a little bit after, on the belief that you are roughly interchangeable with the empty space you'd leave if you weren't there. That's the distortion talking—you understand that, intellectually, in the clear light of a Thursday morning. But understanding a distortion doesn't always make it stop working. It just means you can name it, which is a start.

Groundwork felt different when you were gone. Seonghyeon said so, plainly, in the Wednesday conversation, the way he says most things: without embellishment, without softening, just as a fact he'd arrived at. Regulars are part of how a place feels. When one's gone, the place feels different. This place felt different. You, specifically. Your specific absence. Not an empty stool—your stool, which he thought of as yours, which was yours in his accounting of the space.

You go to the library. You sit down and you open your laptop and you actually get work done, which is the first time in a week, and the work feels possible in a way that it hasn't felt possible recently, which is not because anything external has changed—your deadlines are the same, your coursework is the same, the world is entirely the same as it was two hours ago. What's different is something interior, something that was slightly recalibrated when Seonghyeon looked over his shoulder and said your order back at you like a welcome home.

You don't examine it too closely. Sometimes you have to let things be good before you understand why they're good.

——

It's different from before, in a way that's hard to articulate but that you feel clearly. The routine is the same—same order, same stool, same morning light—but you're inside it differently now, more consciously, the way you are conscious of breathing after you've been reminded that breathing is something you're doing. You're aware of it. You're choosing it, each morning, as a specific act rather than an automatic one. The choosing is tiring in a way that the automatic wasn't, but it is also its own kind of evidence: you are here. You decided to be here. The decision was hard and you made it anyway.

Seonghyeon doesn't make a thing of it. He doesn't say glad you're back every morning or treat you with the particular gentle carefulness that people sometimes deploy around someone they've identified as fragile—the specific tenderness that, however well-intentioned, can make you feel like a thing to be handled rather than a person to be talked to. He doesn't do that. He just goes back to calling you white mocha, back to having your drink started before you reach the counter on the days when the timing works out, back to existing in the space with the same quiet that he always existed in it. The sameness is deliberate, you come to understand. Not thoughtless. A form of normality extended as a courtesy, the message of it being: you are the same person who was here before. Nothing about how I see you has changed. Welcome back to ordinary.

But there are small things, underneath the ordinary.

The day-old pastry appears again on Friday, and then again on Monday, both times with the same explanation about extras that would be thrown away, which becomes less convincing with repetition. On Monday you say: "I know you're not just giving me extra pastries."

He's wiping down the counter. He doesn't look up. "They would be thrown away."

"Seonghyeon."

He does look up then. You've used his name—you'd read it off his name tag and filed it away and it comes out now naturally, which seems to register with him, the small shift of someone hearing their name spoken by someone who hadn't used it before. Something in his expression adjusts almost imperceptibly.

"I wanted to," he says, which is the most honest thing he's said about any of it, and he says it in the same even voice he uses for everything else, which makes it feel both more and less significant at the same time. He goes back to wiping the counter. "Is that all right?"

You look at him for a moment. The counter between you. His hands, which are steady and sure in the way of someone who does not perform steadiness but simply has it as a natural property of themselves.

"Yeah," you say. "It's all right."

——

It's on a Wednesday, two and a half weeks after you came back, that the actual conversation happens.

Not a planned thing. Not something either of you decided in advance. The shop is quieter than usual—mid-morning, mid-week, the particular lull between the pre-lecture rush and the lunch crowd, where the espresso machine goes mostly quiet and the place settles into a different, gentler register. You're at the second stool. Jisoo and the other barista are on break in the back. Seonghyeon is doing something administrative at the end of the counter—a clipboard and a pen, inventory or scheduling, something that doesn't require the machine.

He drifts, without quite deciding to, toward the window bar.

You look up.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you say.

He leans against the counter at the end of the bar, which puts him about a meter away from you—close enough for conversation, far enough to not be intrusive—and he does the thing with the clipboard where he sets it down and puts the pen on top of it and then looks at you with the full, unhurried attention that you have come to understand is just how he looks at people he's talking to. Not performing attention. Just: having it.

"You've been back for a while," he says.

"Two weeks," you say. "Almost three."

"Yeah." He pauses, not uncomfortably. "You doing okay?"

It's a simple question. He asks it simply, with no scaffolding around it—no I don't mean to pry or you don't have to answer or any of the nervous wrapping that people sometimes put around direct questions to soften them. He just asks it, in the same voice he uses for everything, which somehow makes it feel more honest than if he'd been careful about it.

You consider the question.

"Better," you say. "Than I was." You wrap your hands around your cup. The drink is almost done—you've been here an hour, which is normal again, which is good. "I had a bad week. The week I didn't come in."

He nods. He doesn't say I could tell or I figured or anything that would make you feel observed in a way that's uncomfortable. He just nods, and the nod says: I hear you, I'm not going to make a thing of it, keep going if you want to.

"It's a mental health thing," you say, and you say it in the voice you've been practicing, the one that doesn't apologize for the words. "Sometimes leaving gets hard. Like, genuinely hard. And everything optional becomes—not accessible." You pause. "The coffee shop is optional. So it goes."

"But you came back," he says.

"Yeah."

"That's not nothing."

You look at him. He's looking back with the expression that you've learned means he means exactly what he said, nothing more and nothing less—no comfort-performance in it, no of course you came back, anyone would. Just: that's not nothing. A specific acknowledgment of a specific thing.

"I almost didn't," you say, which is more honest than you'd planned. "I stood at the door of my dorm for a while."

"But you opened it."

"Yeah."

"Okay," he says, simply. "That's what matters."

You sit with that for a moment.

"When you said it," you say, "when I walked in. White chocolate mocha is back." You look at your cup. "I didn't expect that. I thought no one would—" You stop. "I thought it wouldn't be noticeable. That I was gone."

He's quiet for a moment in the particular way that means he's not searching for words so much as letting the right ones arrive.

"You're here every day," he says. "And then you weren't." He says it like it's simple, because to him it is simple. "That's noticeable."

"I'm just a customer."

"You're a regular." He says it with the particular dignity of a distinction that matters to him. "That's different. Regulars are part of how a place feels. When one's gone, the place feels different." He pauses. "This place felt different."

You look at him.

He looks back, with the composure that you have learned is not indifference but its exact opposite—the composure of someone who feels things precisely and has learned to hold them without spilling them everywhere. You've been learning to read him in the weeks since you came back, the way you learn to read a space you inhabit regularly. He is not easy to read, exactly, but he is not illegible either. He is the kind of person who means what he says and says considerably less than he means, which once you understand it becomes its own form of clarity.

"Thank you," you say. "For noticing. And for—the pastries. And for saying it when I walked in." You pause. "I needed to hear that I'd been gone. That it mattered."

Something in his expression shifts. Not dramatically—Seonghyeon doesn't do dramatic shifts. Just a small movement in the quality of his attention, a slight softening.

"You don't have to thank me," he says. "I just noticed."

"I know," you say. "That's why I'm thanking you."

He looks at you for a moment. And then he does something you haven't seen him do before, which is: he smiles. Not the small professional courtesy-smile that he sometimes deploys with customers. Something quieter and more genuine—a smile that starts in his eyes and gets to his face a moment later, as if it had to travel some distance.

"How's the drink?" he asks, which is an obvious subject change, which you appreciate.

"Good," you say. "It's always good."

"I know." He picks up the clipboard. "You want another?"

"I have class in twenty minutes."

"That's a yes, then. You always cut it close on Wednesdays."

You blink at him.

He's already turning back to the machine, clipboard under his arm, with the particular easy movement of someone who has not said anything remarkable and does not understand why you're looking at him like he has.

"You noticed that too?" you say.

"You're always here Wednesdays," he says, pulling the portafilter, not looking at you. "And you always have the thing at eleven. Your bag gets restless before you do."

You look at your bag on the bar, which has been shifted slightly by your knee in the way of someone who is anticipating needing to leave, a motion so automatic you hadn't known you were making it.

"My bag," you repeat.

"It starts moving around ten-forty," he says. "So I start the drink at ten-thirty-eight."

You stare at the back of his head. He is making your drink with complete focus and composure, as if he has said something perfectly ordinary.

"That is," you say, "a very specific observation."

"I work here every day," he says. "I notice things."

"You notice things," you echo.

"It's useful in a coffee shop." He glances over his shoulder at you, briefly, and there's something in his eyes that might be the ghost of amusement. "Also other places."

——

Your drink appears on the handoff counter at ten-forty-two, which is four minutes before you need to leave to make it to your eleven o'clock class in time, which is exactly right.

You stand to go. You sling your bag. You pick up the drink, both hands around it, the familiar warmth of it.

"Seonghyeon," you say.

He looks up from the counter.

"Same time tomorrow?"

And there it is again, the smile that has to travel before it arrives, the quiet genuine one.

"I'll have it ready," he says.

You go. The door of Groundwork opens easily, the way it always does, and the morning is outside waiting—the gold light through the trees, the cold air against your face, the four-minute walk to the building where your class is. The campus is full of people with places to be and you are one of them, which is not a small thing, which is in fact the whole thing, which is what you carry with you as you walk: the plain warm fact of being here. Of having come back. Of being the kind of person who opens the door even when the door is heavy.

Someone noticed when you were gone.

Someone heated a day-old pastry and called it an accident. Someone learned which stool is yours, and the way your bag moves before you do, and when to start the drink so it's ready at exactly the right time. Someone said white chocolate mocha is back loud enough for the whole shop to hear, not because it was a logical response to the situation but because it was the honest one—because he'd noticed and he wanted you to know he'd noticed, and that's just how he is, with the people who become part of how a place feels.

You didn't know any of that, when you walked back in on a Thursday with your heart in your throat.

You know it now.

The light through the trees is very gold. The drink is very warm. You have four minutes, which is exactly enough.

You walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Juhoon!” Martin exclaims. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The CORTIS comeback showcase is buzzing with people. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Her?” Seonghyeon proposes.

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

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

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

That checks the box. 

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

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

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

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

“That's all I need,” Martin replies. 

Martin prays he’s right.

The comeback showcase goes well. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks heat up. “I… I was not!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conversation with Martin is surprisingly easy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you | 7:35am you have inkigayo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you | 6:24pm im on my way see you 🧡🧡🧡

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

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

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

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

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

“You look…” Martin stutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dreaded ‘what are we?’ question. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The one that he precisely wanted to wear today. 

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

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

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

Is that my jacket? he asks you. 

Your response? It’s mine now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pout at his words. 

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?” he asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

Shit.

You might have feelings for him. 

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

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

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

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

Martin furrows his brows. “What for?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have to end it with Martin. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, that would work, you think. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widen in horror. Oh no. 

Martin leans forward, suddenly curious. Double oh no.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” you huff. “Let’s do it.” 

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

“Perfect.” he says. 

To you, this was anything but. 

Tuesday rolls around much faster than you thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not in love with you, is he? 

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

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

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

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

He wants to kiss you. Really, really badly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin Edwards might really be in love with you.

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch, you think. That stings. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” Martin beams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin’s heart drops. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This must be what heartbreak feels like, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“James, whatever do you mean?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dead serious,” you retort. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin Edwards lost you, and you lost Martin Edwards. 

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

Martin feels absolutely awful. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” he asks. “How did you find–” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Step four: Steal all his favourite clothes. 

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

Step five: Interrupt him at the studio…

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

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

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

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

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

Losing the love of my life.  

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

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

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

“I… is she at the office?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are.” Martin replies. 

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

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

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

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

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

And now, Martin Edwards is truly, irrevocably yours.

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

every single night, without fail, after the grueling practice schedules, the long showers, and approximately seventeen near-death experiences caused by seonghyeon and keonho being left unsupervised together, the six of you would inevitably gather in the living room. it had become an actual routine; an unspoken rule you’d followed starting at 11:30 pm every night: ‘girl talk time,’ you’d collectively named it, despite the glaring biological fact that only one girl was present in the group. the first time someone pointed that out, james had simply shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘girl talk is a state of mind.’ nobody had questioned it since.

☆

tonight, the room was a canvas of comfortable chaos, everyone scattered around the floor. martin was making hot chocolate. juhoon was folded inside a blanket burrito. keonho was upside down on the sofa for reasons nobody understood. james was sitting beside you, one arm around your waist. you were painting the nails of his other hand a shade that matched yours. seonghyeon was dramatically sighing, which usually meant he had gossip.

“what happened?” martin made the mistake of asking.

immediately he sat up. “oh my god.”

the room collectively perked up like hungry wolves.

“what?”

“what happened.”

“tell us.”

“i walked into studio 7b today,” he started slowly.

“damn.”

the reactions came immediately.

“no way.”

“again?”

“not 7b, damnnn.”

seonghyeon pointed dramatically into the air. “i saw two of our sunbaes holding hands.”

the room exploded.

“who?”

“who?”

“drop the names.”

“i’m not naming names.”

“booooo.”

“boring.”

“you suck, eom.”

“...fine! one of them was niki hyung.”

“i knew it!”

“let’s get it, hyung!”

james grabbed a cushion to settle in, shifting you so that you were in a more comfortable position against him. “continue.”

the next hour consisted entirely of tea—company tea, friend group tea, just about anything.

“i saw one of the new trainees get rejected and she immediately called and told three different people saying she was ‘too busy to date anyway.’”

the room screamed.

“no!”

“dude, that’s hella embarrassing.”

“that’s insane, damn.”

then martin contributed—”i heard one of the dance instructors accidentally called one of the idols by their ex’s name.”

the room nearly collapsed under the weight of the collective uproar. keonho literally rolled off the sofa onto the hardwood floor. you couldn’t breathe from laughing.

“no.”

“no way!”

“oh my god, actually?!”

meanwhile james was crying, or laughing, or both, into your shoulder, his whole body shaking with amusement.

☆

other days, inevitably, the conversation shifted like it always did. from gossip, to life, to feelings, to whatever happened to be bothering someone. tonight the focus was you, because you were curled up under a blanket looking miserable. james noticed first. his hand immediately found yours under the fabric.

“you okay?”

you groaned. “no.”

“what happened?”

“my period.”

instant sympathy radiated from all five boys around you. every single one of them immediately looked concerned, shifting the collective atmosphere instantly. even after knowing about it for so long, they still reacted like you’d been diagnosed with something terminal.

“bad?” juhoon asked slowly.

“so bad.”

“how bad?” seonghyeon chimed in.

“imagine somebody put barbed wire around your organs.”

the room collectively winced and ‘ooof’d.

“and twisted it constantly. again and again.”

“oh.”

“and then ripped it out all at once.”

“what the fuck.”

“and repeat it for a week.”

“that’s actually horrible, what the fuck?”

“every month.”

james looked genuinely upset, pulling you a little closer. “baby.”

“i’m fine,” you muttered.

“you don’t sound fine.” martin nudged your leg with his.

“okay, whatever. i’m not. this world sucks. cramps suck. schedules suck. everything except you guys just sucks.”

the thing was—the boys had spent years learning. not because they had to. because they wanted to. at first they’d been clueless. absolutely hopeless. 

now? martin already got up to make your favourite tea. juhoon was looking for heating pads. james was trying his best to gently massage your lower back. keonho was googling foods that helped cramps. seonghyeon looked personally offended at your uterus.

“this is ridiculous,” he said suddenly.

you laughed. “what is?”

“the female body. why does everything hurt you guys?”

“that’s your conclusion and question?”

“yes.”

“you train twelve hours a day and this is what you find unfair?” you laughed.

“absolutely!”

twenty minutes later, you were laying across the sofa with your head in james’ lap, and heating pad on your stomach. the boys surrounded you, just listening to you talk.

“wait,” juhoon interrupted slowly. “so it just hurts for no reason?”

“basically.”

“52 weeks every year?”

“yep.”

the room became silent.

“that's awful.”

“thank you.”

“women are stronger than soldiers. i’d pick military service over even a fraction of what you’re going through any day.”

the rest of them nodded seriously.

“you’re all ridiculous,” you burst out laughing.

☆

another night, it would be completely different, because somebody else would need help. like the time keonho developed a crush, and unfortunately made the mistake of admitting it in front of all of you. the room immediately transformed into an interrogation room.

“who is she?”

“what’s her name?”

“when do james and yn meet her parents?”

“when did this happen?”

keonho looked terrified while you looked absolutely delighted.

“oh we’re doing this?” you grinned, cracking your knuckles.

“we’re doing this.” james high-fived you.

three hours later, the boys were still asking questions, treating your answers like divine knowledge—drifting from keonho’s crush to girls, in general.

“what does it mean if she sends heart emojis?”

“it depends.”

“on what?”

“everything.”

“yn.”

“bro, i’m serious.”

“no wonder we’re confused.”

then, keonho asked the question of the century, “what’s the difference between the red heart and any other coloured heart?”

you nearly choked as the room froze.

“why do you all want to know the emoji differences?”

“because we’re trying to survive. the world is cruel to hopeless boys like us.”

“well, the red heart means she doesn’t really care enough to go through the trouble of finding a different coloured heart, or she just likes the original emoji.”

“that doesn’t help in the slightest.”

“ok, so you want me to stop?—”

“no! go on.”

“what’s the black heart for?” seonghyeon asked curiously.

“she probably hates you, dude,” keonho said helpfully.

“or maybe she’s just a little emo?” martin offered.

☆

the best part was that nobody made fun of anyone, not when it mattered, because somehow those late-night conversations had become the safest place in the dorm—where james asked questions he’d never ask anyone else; where juhoon talked about feeling overwhelmed; where martin admitted he worried too much; where seonghyeon confessed he hated disappointing people; where keonho admitted he got insecure sometimes, and where you could complain about cramps, bad days, weird friendships, awkward situations, and literally anything without being judged. the conversations always started with gossip, and ended with something softer… something important.

☆

the first sign that something was wrong on another night was the fact that the dorm was suspiciously quiet for nine pm. you stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the five boys sitting around the living room—no video games. no screaming. no martin and seonghyeon arguing over absolutely nothing, just five pairs of eyes looking at you.

“…why are you all looking at me like that?”

martin immediately sat up straighter. “yn.”

“no.”

“i haven’t even asked yet.”

“no.”

“please?”

“no.”

keonho gasped dramatically. “she knows.”

“she always knows,” juhoon sighed.

you narrowed your eyes. “what do you guys want?”

the boys exchanged looks. then james finally blurted out, “they need help. more girl talk.”

you blinked twice. “...what?”

“girl talk,” seonghyeon repeated seriously.

“why? it’s still 9 pm. we have two more hours left.”

“well…”

“why are you asking me right now?”

“because you’re a girl.”

you stared. the boys stared back. you stared harder.

“that’s the stupidest thing i’ve ever heard.”

“please,” juhoon said. “we’re struggling.”

“struggling with what?”

“women.”

immediately you turned around. “nope.”

“yn!”

“good luck.”

“yn!”

ten minutes later you were trapped—literally trapped. they’d dragged every cushion and beanbag into the living room and formed what looked like a hostage negotiation circle. you sat in the middle, the boys surrounding you like a group of kindergarten students.

“okay,” you sighed. “what exactly do you need?”

four hands shot up. james sat calmly beside you, his hand gravitating to your waist.

“oh my god.”

“me first,” keonho yelled.

“no.”

“me,” seonghyeon interrupted.

“no.”

“me!” juhoon tried, letting go of his fake nonchalance.

“no.”

martin raised his hand politely. you pointed at him. “yes.”

“sometimes girls say they’re fine.”

“yes.”

“but they’re not fine.”

“yes.”

“how do you know?”

the others immediately nodded, hanging onto your every word. 

“a very important question,” one of them added.

“groundbreaking research,” another said.

you rubbed your temples. “okay. usually you can tell from the tone.”

“so if she says she’s fine?”

“mhm.”

“she isn’t fine?”

“exactly.”

“...but she said she was.”

“yes.”

“so she’s not?”

“correct.”

all four boys looked absolutely horrified. “that makes no sense.”

“it makes perfect sense.”

“it literally doesn’t.”

“martin,” you said, turning to look at him. “imagine james says he’s over losing a game of league.”

james immediately scoffed. “baby, i’m always over it.”

“you cried over mario kart two days ago, by the way,” juhoon pointed out helpfully.

“that was different.”

martin’s eyes widened as the realization hit the room.

“oh.”

“ohh.”

“ohhhhh.”

twenty minutes later, the questions somehow got worse.

“what’s the difference between cute and handsome?”

“depends.”

“on what?”

“everything.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“it is.”

“it absolutely isn’t.”

juhoon leaned forward. “okay, okay. if a girl says your outfit is cute.”

“good. but also, which blind girl called your skinny jeans cute?”

“shut up. what if she says you’re handsome?”

“also good, obviously.”

“if she says you’re funny?”

“good. even better.”

“if she says you’re annoying?” the entire group looked at seonghyeon. 

you immediately burst out laughing. “why are you all looking at him?”

“because it happens a lot,” martin answered.

“very frequently.”

“almost daily.”

seonghyeon looked deeply offended. “i have fans, okay?”

“you annoy them affectionately,” james clarified.

an hour later, the conversation had completely derailed into late-night… somethings.

“would you rather date someone funny or handsome?” one of them asked.

“funny,” you replied without hesitation

the boys froze.

“what?”

“funny.”

“not handsome?”

“i didn’t say not handsome.”

“then why funny?”

“because if someone’s funny, i can look at them forever.”

the room became suspiciously silent. you looked up from your spot. they were all sitting straighter.

“stop.”

“no one said anything.”

“you’re all thinking something.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

james literally pulled out his notes app, his fingers tapping on the screen. “funny.”

“james, oh my god.” you hid your face in your hands.

“ok, but james is unfunny and ugly. what gives, yn?”

“shut up.”

then somehow the conversation shifted to crushes. you made a mistake—a terrible, catastrophic mistake. because the moment you casually mentioned that most girls usually remember tiny details about people they like, they all exploded again.

“what tiny details?”

“everything.”

“be specific.”

“like favourite drinks, favourite colours, things they mention once—”

they all looked terrified, staring at you like you were a different species. “once?”

“yes.”

“one time?”

“yes.”

“yn.”

“hmm?”

“women are scary.”

“thank you.”

by midnight the boys had learned absolutely nothing, or maybe too much. you couldn’t tell. 

they were all sprawled around the living room floor, half asleep. you were resting against the sofa. juhoon was under a blanket. james was lying face-down on the carpet. martin and keonho were arguing quietly in the corner. seonghyeon was sitting beside you. the atmosphere was warm, comfortable, home.

then juhoon suddenly spoke into the quiet room. “can i ask one last question?”

“sure.”

“do girls actually like flowers?”

“of course.”

the boys nodded thoughtfully.

“okay.”

“noted.”

“good information.”

“useful.”

then keonho looked over, his expression serious. “what do girls like most?”

you thought for a second, looking at their tired faces, then smiled. “honestly?”

“yeah.”

“being listened to.”

the room went completely quiet.

“that’s it?”

“pretty much.”

“no secret formula?”

“no.”

“no cheat code?”

“no.”

“no complicated mission?”

“not really, no.”

the boys exchanged looks. then seonghyeon groaned dramatically from his spot. “that’s so much harder.”

you laughed so hard you nearly fell off the sofa, and within seconds the others were laughing too. the sound filled the corners of the messy dorm—loud, chaotic, and comfortable, exactly like every night with your five extremely stupid, extremely lovable boys.

☆

one night, long after everyone should’ve been asleep, you found yourself looking around the room. five sleepy boys. half under blankets, half asleep, still listening to each other, still talking. 

james was tracing circles against your hand absentmindedly, martin was yawning, juhoon was asleep sitting up, and keonho was using seonghyeon as a pillow. nobody wanted to go to bed and break the spell of the evening.

“this is probably my favourite part of being in cortis.” you smiled.

the room grew quiet. james looked down at you.

“the fame?”

“no.”

“the money?”

“no.”

“then what?”

you looked around the living room, at your family, at your idiots, and smiled. “just… you guys.”

james kissed the top of your head while the others grinned half-asleep like they’d just won an award. and honestly? maybe they had. 

because not everyone got five best friends who wanted to understand every little part of your world—even the parts they’d never experience themselves. and somehow, every night, squeezed together in a messy dorm living room, they made sure you never had to carry any of it alone. 

© hyuneskkami ❦

bookmarks!

prologue “i’m a mirrorball” act one “i’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me” act two “you are not like the regulars (the masquerade revellers)” act three “shinin’ just for you” act four “i’m still a believer, but i don’t know why” act five “i’ll show you every version of yourself tonight” epilogue “i want you to know”

ᘍ ֺ PROLOGUE of shinin’ just for you ໑

ᘍ ֺ ACT ONE of shinin’ just for you ໑ wc: 1,433

IT’S CURRENTLY LUNCH - APPROXIMATELY eight hours before the annual school masquerade starts. 

“what do we want!” you hear a singular voice cheer across the courtyard. 

turning towards the unexpected sound, you see a figure standing on a bench with a hand on either side of their mouth to create an echoing effect. 

“a change of masquerade snacks!” the voice continues. “and when do we want them!” 

“…what is he doing?” wonhee asks out loud to your group, as you all watch in bewilderment as martin edwards yells by himself on the lawn. 

“we want them now!” he shouts to the student body, who currently have their attention on him. lunch items were slowly swallowed and basketball dribbles began to pause, as the crowd silently eyes martin -  your friend group included.

“is he answering his own chant?” iroha adds, as you all stifle your giggles. it’s not unusual for martin to be doing something like this. after years of being in the same school together, you’ve come to recognise his knack for earning a reputation of being unpredictable. 

most students awkwardly go back to their lunchtime conversations and activities, as they realise it’s just another one of his antics. but martin’s ridiculousness prevails even as his own friend group sits close-by disapprovingly. 

as a member of the student committee himself, he knows he should go back to the rest of the boys as they plan final preparations for the masquerade tonight. however, james’ updated list of all the refreshments that are to be brought out this coming evening fuelled martin with so much disagreement, he’s taken it upon himself to fight for the rights of the student body. 

everybody knows cheese balls aren’t going to cut it - it’s the one night of the year where all the students manage to get along. everything has to be perfect. 

“what do we want!” martin begins again, about to add an impromptu cartwheel to gather more momentum to his cause. 

as he lifts his long arms though, james sighs and effortlessly calls him back. 

“bro,” he says with a rub to his forehead. “what the hell are you doing? we’re not changing the snacks - they’ve already been ordered!” 

deciding against his cartwheel, martin lamely hops off the bench and walks back to the group of boys sitting on the grass. not without a quick glance over at the courtyard though - just to see if he persuaded anybody else to join him in the fight against james’ awful snack choices. 

his eyes meet yours across the lawn. you - being the one person he secretly wanted to know was watching - made martin mentally fist pump in success. 

in reality though, he gives you a cheery smile and points to you in solidarity.

mortified at this, you avert your gaze as quickly as possible, turning back to your own friends.

“stop looking at y/n and focus,” james tells him sternly, as he takes his place next to juhoon. 

the other boys - mainly seonghyeon - huff out a laugh at martin’s actions. 

“chill out man! we have everything covered for tonight. well, except for the snacks,” martin answers. 

the theme this year was unanimously voted as ‘enchanted’ by the student body, and as the head of student council, james took no time to make sure every detail of the night was taken care of. 

to be honest, martin didn’t really know what he was doing as a student council member. he apparently had a role for the community portfolio, which was technically only given to him because he was the singular person who applied for that position. 

however, he was able to spend more time with his friends after school, so he couldn’t complain too much about the extra responsibilities. 

“if you had a problem with the food, why didn’t you bring it up when we were ordering them last wednesday?” juhoon asks him earnestly. 

thinking back to that particular meeting, martin remembers he and keonho had spent that entire hour planning out their costumes instead. almost like halloween, the annual masquerade lets the students be someone else, just for a night. 

a nice change, that might even give martin the boost of confidence to strike up the courage to ask the girl of his dreams for a dance - at least, that’s what keonho suggested. 

martin hasn’t been able to get the idea out of his mind though. sure, he’s talked to you here and there, even asking to borrow a pen once in english class two years ago. but that’s where most of his efforts end, as there’s no way someone as smart and cool as you would ever take him seriously enough to say yes to a date. 

maybe keonho’s right, martin hoped. maybe tonight, he’ll have the guts to do it. 

he jumps back to reality and accepts defeat against the class president. martin simply shakes his head, “cheese balls it is,” allowing james to continue running over the evening’s schedule. 

“i hope you’ve all memorised when you’re on bathroom duties. it’ll only be an hour each so we won’t miss out on much.” james reminds the group, as he shuffles through his notes. 

the boys nod confidently. the only downside to being behind the scenes of planning the masquerade is having to partially leave the fun to make sure no student is sneaking alcohol into the function.

martin’s luck came in clutch, with his rock-paper-scissors skills winning him the best time slot of the 12am-1am duty. by then, he’s guessing most of the students will be going home. so it’s going to be way more breezy than juhoon’s 8pm-9pm shift - the first hour of students arriving. 

“it’s going to be so fun!” seonghyeon cheers in encouragement. they’ve worked tirelessly these past few weeks planning the event, having high standards to reach after the ‘great gatsby’ themed masquerade last year. 

“we’re all going to get there early to add final decoration touches, right?” keonho asks the group. getting unanimous nods again, james is finally satisfied at how the evening’s going to look. 

“yeah, i’ll get there half past seven. i’ll bring our masks too - i finished painting them last night.” no one could have asked for a better class president, but more importantly a better friend, than james. 

“you’re the best, man,” martin responds, crawling over to give him a fist bump.

on the other side of the lawn, you’re sitting underneath the shade of the giant willow tree with your girls - equally as excited about the magical evening ahead. 

you too, have been planning your costumes for a while. though the dressing up aspect is technically optional, you would never miss an opportunity to have a themed dress. 

“bring your things to mine straight after school,” minju says, as her place is the designated getting-ready house, “yunah, i’ll curl your hair first since it’s the longest.” 

“i secretly think doing our hair and makeup together is always the best part of the masquerade,” iroha whispers to you. 

you can’t help but agree, “girlhood tradition,” you respond with, solemnly nodding. 

“liar!” wonhee mischievously says, eavesdropping on your side of the circle. “we all know your favourite part is hoping for your prince charming to ask you for a dance!”

you give the girl a teasing push to shush her embarrassingly exposing comment. “it is not!” 

the other girls, now tuning into the conversation can’t help but agree with wonhee. even with your high standards for love, you all know that at heart, you’re a hopeless romantic. 

“will our y/n finally say yes to a dance this year?” yunah asks the group, in a tone that mocks national geographic journalists reporting the behaviour of wild animals. 

“will our baby bird finally meet someone who checks off all her boxes?” moka joins in. 

“you’re acting like i say no to all the people who ask me for a dance. i literally said yes to two people at the last masquerade.” you say defensively. 

“that was iroha and me!” minju laughs. 

you sigh sheepishly. “alright, alright. if someone recognises my costume this year… i’ll take that as a sign from the universe, that i should maybe give them a chance.” 

“i really hope your prince charming likes ancient plays then…” iroha replies, before rerouting the conversation back to which shade of blue nail polish would match her alice in wonderland themed dress and mask. 

you can’t help but smile to yourself as you watch the girls exchange their opinions. you’ve all been counting down the nights until the enchanted masquerade. and now, it’s finally here - it’s endless possibilities and all. 

ᘍ ֺ ACT TWO of shinin’ just for you ໑ wc: 2,333

you have to admit, though james takes his role of class president way too seriously, his dedication to his craft is astounding. you’ve been gaping at how beautifully the sports hall is decorated, from the moment you walked in.

fairy lights are hanging from the walls, ropes of tinsel and streamers are swirled around the room, and of course, there’s a ginormous mirrorball in the middle of the ceiling, making every surface shine with glitter. 

even the tables are draped in lacy fabric, with delicate candles and faux leaves and clovers randomly placed across them. you notice these details, as you adjust your dress to sit comfortably next to iroha.

“y/n, you look so pretty, i genuinely can’t stop admiring you!” your best friend says excitedly, finishing her plate of refreshments. 

“now you’re just feeding my ego too much. look at you, iroha! you look like a princess,” you giggle back. 

taking a more abstract approach to the enchanted theme, you’re dressed tonight in an off-the-shoulder gown, its skirt portion adorned with embroidered wildflowers against the smooth, white fabric. the white mask on your face matches your gown after glueing on small, ribboned roses to its edges. you also owe minju the world, for pinning more nature themed clips into your hair’s up-do, leaving you looking like you’ve stepped straight out of an ophelia painting. 

your friends and you have been admiring other people’s costumes too - everyone’s really given their all this year. the atmosphere is so magical, with the perfect enchanting music choices adding to the evening, courtesy of the music captain, ahn keonho’s, mixtape. 

the ball only having started an hour ago, is already in full swing. minju, yunah, and moka are on the dance floor, twirling together to the rhythm of enya’s ‘carribean blue’. you give them a wave as they look back giddily, before suddenly standing up. 

“just gonna go get a drink,” you say to iroha and wonhee as you drift away from the table. 

out of the many options, you opt for a sip of the strawberry lemonade. even the ice cubes are star shaped, you observe, as you place your cup on the ledge of the beverage table.

“‘god has given you one face…’” a voice says from behind you. recognising the beginning of the infamous ‘hamlet’ quote, you turn around, and are faced with a boy. 

“‘…and you make yourself another,’” you finish. a smile can’t help but grow on your face at the stranger. a fellow shakespeare admirer, how you’ve prayed for days like this! 

he’s tall, though maybe it’s his black suit pants being held up by brown suspenders, making him appear that way. on the back of his white long-sleeved button up, you see golden wings peaking out from each side of his broad shoulders. an angel? who would have thought the boys this year would take the enchanted theme to heart. 

“kind of an on-point line for a masquerade party, no?” the boy says, continuing your conversation. he bends his head down slightly, and you finally meet his eyes. even in the dark light, you can tell they’re warm and dark brown.

“…i didn’t give it much thought until you brought the scene up. you’re well-versed in your shakespeare.” you nod approvingly. 

the rest of his face though, is delicately hidden behind a gold mask - one that matches his wings. it hides many of his features, but not the devilishly handsome grin he gives you. “required reading.” 

“you read 'hamlet' in ninth grade too? that means we’re in the same year.” your interest has piqued at the thought of the boy’s identity - you’ve most definitely had to have met before. 

he nods, but with a curious expression. “you don’t know who i am?” 

you huff out a small laugh, “should i?” 

you try even harder to recognise where you’ve seen those eyes and that smile before. but the hall is dark, and with hanging fairy-lights and disco beams as your only source of aid, it becomes almost impossible. 

“i know who you are. plus, y/n, only you would dress up as a depressing character like ophelia for a ball.” 

“are you here to save me from her fate, guardian angel?” 

“kind of the opposite, but i’ll keep ophelia’s divine protector in mind for next year. i’m icarus.” 

“ah, the fallen angel.”

“falling for you,” he says with a wink. 

you shake your head at the corny line, who was this guy?

“your costume is just as depressing! icarus literally dies in front of his dad too.” 

“true… but my wings are still in-tact.” he defends, giving you a small turn to show his costume from behind. “so i’m icarus just before he flies too close to the sun.” 

“we’ll both save each other from our tragic endings tonight then,” you hold out your hand. 

“deal.” he says, hand grasping yours. his hold is gentle, and even after giving your palm a soft shake to settle the promise, he doesn’t let go. 

not wanting to stop talking with this strange, charming boy, you press him even further. “you’re really not going to tell me who you are?” 

“nah. it’s fun seeing you not able to figure something out for once.” 

you roll your eyes, and let his hand go gently. “if you really know me, then you’ll know i won’t give up easily. i’ll find out who you are by the end of the night, icarus.” 

“be my guest, ophelia.” his smile grows larger as he takes in your costume tonight up-close. “i like what you did with your hair— the flowers. they really suit you.” 

you take a small swallow at how intensely he’s looking at you. “thank you,” you manage to breathe out. 

“i actually came over here to ask you… if you wanted to dance?” the boy coughs out. 

“i can’t believe you used shakespeare as a pick up line!” 

he sheepishly scratches the back of his head, “it got you talking to me, didn’t it?” 

“touché.” you reply. technically he’s passed your secret test, and you won’t be able to figure out who he is if you don’t spend more time with him. so why not take his offer up? “alright angel boy, let’s dance.” 

the both of you are grateful for how dark the hall is, hiding both of your matching rosy cheeks as the boy picks up your hand again to lead you onto the dance floor. 

you see iroha and wonhee in the corner of your eye. their shocked faces would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t trying to steady your nerves. ‘who is that?’ wonhee mouthes to you in astonishment. 

you give a small shrug, and the three of you burst into giggles from across the hall. 

without you knowing it’s him, martin edwards park has somehow led you into the middle of the dancing couples. the current song has just finished, and in the few seconds of silence before the next one plays, he tries to remember all the dancing tips keonho gave him earlier today. he traded $10 for a lesson from the guy, and now his mind has completely forgotten all the steps they went over.

you, noticing your angel boy’s hesitancy to take hold of your waist, guide his hands there yourself. “first time?” you ask, with no tone of tease - you were just as nervous.

“is it that obvious?” he exhales, and you both share a chuckle. until, chet baker’s smooth voice begins to play from the speakers. the first verse of ‘i fall in love too easily’ starts to play, which visibly calms your dancing partner down. 

as you tenderly place your arms on his shoulders, the two of your begin to sway. his lessened nervousness has had a tripling down effect on your own anxieties, letting you ease into his arms. 

“keep moving your feet, icarus. you’re under investigation now.” 

“fire away,” he responds, with no plans of making this easy for you. 

“we’ve definitely talked before this, right?” 

“yes. matter of fact, we saw each other today at school.”

“that doesn’t help, i walk past a bajillion people a day at school.” 

his grin is back, and it takes a second before you can focus and try again. “which classes do we have together?”

“if i told you that, it would be way too obvious.” 

“what about any sports you do? or clubs you’re in?” 

“also too obvious.” 

you let out a grumble of frustration, much to his amusement. 

“not even a little hint?” you add a pout, just in case it gets you a couple points.

to your delight, it works! “i’m in the admiring y/n club. have been for years.” 

you let go of one of his shoulders to hit him jokingly. “i’m glad somebody is having fun with this. if our places were reversed, i would give you a genuine hint.” 

“that was a genuine hint. it’s not my fault you’re too busy with your books to notice anything or anyone else.” he jabs back, attempting to dodge another playful hit.

you notice the song has stopped, and nina simone’s ‘mr. bojangles’ has begun to play. some dancers surrounding you have parted ways, choosing a different partner to share the next melody with, but neither you or the boy you’re with make a move away from each other. 

continuing the conversation, “what is your favourite shakespeare play?” you question.

“how does this help you figure out my identity?”

“it doesn’t, but i’m starting to not mind. you’re fun to talk to either way.”

he hums at this, “i’ll say… 'julius caesar.' the characters remind me of my friends.”

“i don’t think that’s the compliment you think it is,” you giggle at the thought of a group of boys in your year, fighting each other over leadership and organisation disagreements. 

his eyes crinkle at the sound of your laugh, it’s so contagious he lets out a chuckle too. “alright then, is 'hamlet' your favourite play?” 

“nope.” you respond with a pop at the last syllable. 

he feigns a gasp, “ophelia! the biggest betrayal yet!” 

you playfully roll your eyes at his dramaticness. “it’s 'julius caesar' too. i guess we both just have a thing for the tragedies.” 

as your chatter continues - conversation with him, somehow being the easiest thing in the world - all the other students have faded away. it’s like the two of you are the only people existing in the bubble that’s been conjured up. 

your two dances have turned into three. then into four, and after the fifth song has played, you’ve stopped keeping count. 

the heels you’re wearing tonight have allowed you an extra boost of height to be able to connect your hands behind the boy’s head, unknowingly bringing him even closer. 

“are you tired?” he asks lightly. the lovely melody of van morrison’s ‘someone like you’ had quieted down your questions. the two of you opting to dance to this particular tune in silence. 

“a little,” you admit, just as softly. your feet have begun to ache, but you don’t want this to end. 

“this can be our last dance then… i think we’re hogging up the mirrorball’s sweet spot.” 

“sick of me already?” you tease. 

“no way, you’ve still got to figure out who i am.” he responds, “we can hide behind those bleachers if you don’t want to go back to your table.” 

you hum in relief. you still get more time with him. 

biting the inside of your cheek nervously, you move your head closer, to rest it on your dance partner’s chest. 

he pauses in surprise, and you’re about to move back, until his grip on your waist slightly tightens, silently giving you permission to stay exactly the way you are. 

the height difference between you two is perfectly matched, where the side of your face is bent down to be directly on his heart, and you can listen to its steady beat as you continue swaying. 

the moment is so peaceful, that you decide, whoever this boy ends up being, you hope tonight isn’t the last time you two talk. 

suddenly, from the back pocket of your dress, your phone begins to buzz profusely. you break away partly from your angel boy, to take a quick look. 

“sorry, it’s my parents. oh my gosh! it’s already midnight… they’re nearly here to pick me up.”

“wait— it’s already twelve?” 

suddenly he breaks away from your arms fully, almost bumping into the people dancing behind you two, in the process. “y/n, i’m so sorry. i have to go!”

“w-what? now?” you say, scrambling to look up from typing a reply to your parents.  

he’s talking so fast, you can barely even understand him. “i promised my friends i’d do something for them, but spending the night with you, y/n, was a dream. get home safe, okay? i’ll see you at school!” he says in a rush, walking backwards to still look at you, dodging the other dancers as best as he can. 

you start following him, but it’s almost like a maze - people moving in and out of your view, blocking your path. “but— wait!” you try to shout. “i don’t even know your name!” 

after the last couple finally moves out of your sight however, your angel boy has already fled the hall. glancing around to see even a hint of golden wings hiding somewhere in the crowd, you’re left in defeat on the edge of the dance floor. 

come back, you plead in your head to him, whoever he is, wherever he went.

ten minutes passed though, and after hugging your friends a farewell, you leave the hall with an unexpected heaviness of sorrow and regret, due to not figuring out who he was while he was still in your arms. 

you watch the lights pass by on the drive back to your house, having only the memory of your mystery angel boy to hold in your heart.

ᘍ ֺ ACT THREE of shinin’ just for you ໑ wc: 2,332

“just ask prez?” iroha had suggested to you in first period. 

you were restless all weekend, mind reeling over the masquerade - the dancing, the easy conversation, your angel boy. you needed to find out who he was.

“james would get me expelled for even mentioning the idea of breaking the school rules,” you sigh. your idea was, you’ll admit, simple in theory but complicated in action. 

if you could just get access to the responses to the form the student committee had sent out when tickets were purchased, you could slowly, but surely, find out who was dressed up as icarus.   

“you technically are invading everyone’s privacy. hmm, what about seonghyeon? or keonho? just buy them robux to get them to do your evil bidding.” iroha replied. 

being as sweet as she was, iroha was trying to support your crazy idea as much as possible. she didn’t entirely understand why you were going through all this trouble, but she’d seen the way you two were dancing with each other the whole night. she’d never seen you smile like that before.

“no, they’re too innocent to be wrapped into this…” 

“alright, what about juhoon?

“i was thinking of him too, but he’s so close to prez. can we trust him not to get me into trouble?” you had said, discreetly turning around to peek at juhoon, who was sitting behind you and iroha.

“you’re right.” she answered as she turned back too. then, her gaze had shifted to the tall, blonde boy sitting next to juhoon’s left, “okay… well.. there is one committee member left.” 

“no way,” you stated immediately as you followed her gaze. 

“y/n, what other choice do you have at this point?”

“martin? but he’s so strange!” 

“in an endearing way!” iroha protested back, “maybe he’s a little odd sometimes… but i know he’d be willing to help. he’s actually kind of nice when he isn’t prancing around.”

and that’s how you ended up here, standing in the library, where martin’s currently bumping his head to the tunes playing in his earphones as he sketches in his maths notebook. 

“hi.” you say, giving him a tap on his shoulder to gain his attention. 

his eyes flick upwards passively, but when he sees you standing before him, his whole body jolts upwards. “hi y/n!” he says loudly, making your eyes widen as the students sitting around him glance at the two of you.

you point to your own ears, attempting to tell him he still had his earphones in. getting the message, he takes them out and even moves his bag off the chair next to him, gesturing to you to take a seat. 

“are you busy?” you ask him, as you settle down.

“nope. i’ve been waiting for you to finally come and say hello to me,” he says with a soft smile.

this momentarily distracts you from the task at hand, “what? why?” 

martin blinks at you in confusion. now you’re both puzzled. did you really not know who you were with at the ball?

“nevermind… uh, i meant, it’s nice to finally talk to you?” he responds with an awkward smile. 

you knew conversing with martin wasn’t going to be easy, as he was known for speaking his mind, so you just ignore his antics and move on. “listen… i actually have a favour to ask you, but no matter if you agree to do it or not… you can’t tell anyone.”

“i’d never turn down an illegal idea.”

“it’s not illegal!” you try to reassure him quickly, “actually, i don’t know it if is or not… but i was wondering if you could get me access to the masquerade form responses.” 

“the ticket buyers? what for?” martin asks. this conversation was muddling him more and more as the seconds pass.

you take a deep breath. 

“i… met someone. at the ball.” you begin weakly. it felt less embarrassing when you were explaining this to iroha this morning. you can’t even look martin in the eyes as you tell him your proposed plan, “but, he left before i could find out who he was - you know, costumes and everything. i want to see if i could find out who was dressed as an angel… and, well…”

“you need my help getting to the responses,” martin finishes for you. 

you finally look up, cheeks burning at the confession, and growing even hotter when you see him trying not to laugh at you. 

this was not how martin was expecting the first conversation post-masquarade was going to go with you. snapping out of his thoughts, he tries to play this as casually as possible. “james would kill me if he found out.”

ignoring his stifling giggles, you give this plan one last attempt. “that’s why he wouldn’t have to know! come on martin, you understand don’t you? i’m a girl in love,” you say with a joking shrug.

“in love? was it that serious between you and your mystery guy?” he almost looked like the cheshire cat with how wide he smiling now.

even though you know martin’s teasing you, you can’t help but soften at the reminder of that night. 

“yeah,” you let out. “it was really special to me.” 

the sincerity however, stops his giddy laughing. he watches you in silence at how serious you are at finding out who you were with all night.

taking his sudden quietness as judgement, you immediately feel a surge of regret even asking him for this favour. standing up and grabbing your bag from off the floor, you begin to say “i’m sorry, martin. just forget this. i don’t know why i’m-” 

“wait!” he interrupts you, standing up as well. 

you both pause your movements, hesitant eyes meeting gleeful ones. 

“james’ laptop should be in the captains’ office. we should go now before he goes home for the day.” 

you’re left gaping at martin’s reveal of aid. he begins to pack up his items, and once everything’s in his bag, he leads the two of you outside the library.

“...you’re actually going to help me?” you ask, trailing behind him in disbelief.

“yeah, why not? a sidequest is a sidequest. and i’m kind of invested in how this is going to play out.” he says, turning towards you.

unable to hide his amusement, martin forces you to recall your night to him, specifically requesting you spare no details. 

though of course, he’s been replaying that entire evening in his mind all weekend too. 

he listens intently as you provide a recount of how he had asked you for a dance, which turned into spending the entire masquerade swaying on the dancefloor together. the short story lasts you as long as the walk to the captain’s office.

you’ve just finished telling martin how your mystery boy had to leave after you mentioned the time, when you almost collide into james as you and martin turn the corner. 

martin gently grabs your arm to pull you to his side, avoiding the collision. “watch where you’re going, bro,” he playfully says to james, giving him a fist bump in greeting. 

“what are you still doing here?” the class captain says, fist bumping him back but with a suspicious look - all too knowing that martin would never willingly be in the leadership rooms if a meeting wasn’t called.

but martin doesn’t miss a beat, calming your immediate nerves at being caught. “y/n here, is missing her jacket. i’m taking to her lost and found.”

james, finally noticing you in front of martin, gives you a nod. “y/n.”

“prez.” you’re able to say back, hoping your fear isn’t showing too much on your face.

“good luck finding your jacket.” he says kindly, before looking back up at martin, “getting a coffee from the staffroom before i leave. want anything?” 

“nah, we’ll be gone before you get back.” martin says. this part is technically not a lie. if all goes well, you and martin will be out of the captain’s office before james ever steps back in.

with a final nod james walks past the two of you, and once he’s out of sight, you let out a sigh of relief. 

martin opens the door to the captain’s office - a small room that holds just a table, printer, and cabinet. it’s empty, with the exception of james’ laptop being left wide open on the corner of the desk. martin wastes no time in tapping the laptop’s mouse to get it running again. conveniently, james’ password for everything is his favourite anime character’s full name and birthday.

“i’m in!” martin says, as if he’s a world renowned hacker. 

you can’t help but let out a smile at martin’s cartoonish-like behaviour. iroha was right - as strange as he was, martin was being awfully nice by doing this for you. it’s like you two have been friends for ages, the way it’s not awkward breaking and entering with him.

“well, we are officially partners in crime.” you say, crouching next to him as he leans over the laptop, searching for the file. 

finally, martin manages to find the google form. your eyes widen at the number of responses, “there were more than seven hundred people there that night?”

“it’s the event of the year,” he replies, pressing the ‘editing access’ button. “alright, what’s your email?” 

you didn’t think this far ahead. not necessarily wanting to share that you had been using your shopkinslover111 tag since the fifth grade, you suggest using martin’s email instead. “it’s less iffy if your name’s on there, than mine, right?”

“good point.” martin types in his - somehow, normal - email and the screen loads to show the updated form. “all done! should be able to have the responses from my point of view now.”

“martin, thank you so-” but before you can finish, the door of the captain’s office begins to creak. knowing the lost and found area is across the hall, you two are about to get caught red handed messing around on james’ laptop.

closing your eyes in anticipation about how you can try to talk your way out of a detention, your thoughts are flooded away by martin grabbing your arm again, forcing you inside the nearby cabinet, before he squishes inside next to you and closes the door. 

in two seconds, james walks into the room, humming the melody of an old paramore song. he sets his coffee down before closing his laptop and packing his things.

inside the cabinet, you're standing so close to martin you’re practically hugging. you've stopped breathing, too scared to make even the slightest move. martin, getting a glimpse of your fearful expression in the dark lets out a deep huff out of his nose to try not to laugh again. only the two of you would get into this type of scenario.

the sudden noise makes you glare at martin, willing him to stop. you’re so close to getting away with this. martin’s shakes of silent laughter only ceases, when james’ movements pause, looking up from his bag to the cabinet. from the slight hole in the cabinet door, you can see james tilt his head in your direction. 

“must be hearing things,” james mumbles to himself, as he grabs the rest of his things and finally, heads out. 

once the door closes behind james, martin bursts out into a fit of cackles. his shoulders are bumping into your own because of how close you two still are. 

“why are you a walking giggle-knuts! you could have gotten us caught!” you try to scold, but his laughter is contagious, and there’s a slow smile creeping on your lips too.

“you should’ve seen your face!” he retorts back.

laughs quieting down, you’re both acutely aware of the position you’re in again. his leg is almost resting on yours, and you’re so close to his face, you can see the usually hidden dimple on his cheek. why have you never noticed how cute martin was before this?

“we should get out of here before someone else comes in.” martin whispers. 

not trusting your voice, you just give him a nod, following him out once more. 

outside the school, in the fresh air, you and martin are about to part ways. “thank you again for doing this.”

“no problemo.” martin says with a grin, “i can meet you after school again so you can use my account to find your mystery guy.” 

“that’d be perfect,” you feel the urge to hug him out of gratitude, but force yourself to stay still before you embarrass yourself in front of him even more than you already have today. “bye, martin!”

he’s biting the insides of his own cheek to stop the smile from coming out, and opts for giving you a wave instead, “see you, y/n.”

ᘍ ֺ ACT FOUR of shinin’ just for you ໑ wc: 922

“hey trouble,” martin greets you with a smirk. he places a brown paper bag next to you, as he opens up his laptop. 

“hey yourself. what’s this?” you say, discovering a strawberry glazed donut inside. 

“saw you didn’t eat much for lunch today. alright, only four hundred entries to go! have fun,” he says simply, leaning back into his chair as if at ease. 

“stop staring me at lunch. you’re making our plans way too obvious with your stalking– like, what if james begins to suspect something?”

“nah, he’s used to me looking at you.”

“what?”

“what?” martin replies, taking a bite out of his own donut. why anybody would want a mint chocolate donut is beyond you…

for the past two days, you’ve been meeting martin at the library after school again. you’ve been borrowing his laptop to go through each entry, reading hundreds upon hundreds of responses to find the one that says ‘icarus’ as their costume.

currently, there’s been no luck. 

“you always say the weirdest things, martin.” you sigh, as you click past the first response of the day. 

vampire, mad hatter, prince aladdin, but no fallen angel. 

your supposed partner in crime, has been no help after getting you access to the form. preferring to watch in amusement as you read each entry rather than assist in taking a load of his own responses.

his heart suddenly stops working though, when he sees you’ve managed to find his response. 

“‘guy who falls and breaks, i forgot his name,’” you read martin’s response out loud. “you seriously went as humpty dumpty?”

he pushes out a nervous laughter, while watching your face for any signs of recognition. “eggs are underrated.” 

you can’t help but stare at him for a while. 

what if…?

“hey martin… did we see each other at the masquerade?” 

“i had to leave early to help the guys with bathroom duty,” he starts, trying to word this properly. we did more than just see each other at the masquerade.

if it was anyone else, you’d be annoyed at how cryptic he’s being, but you’ve gotten used to it after these past few days. you’ve actually come to like his unique way of expression, though you’d never admit it out loud. 

“so… no then,” you answer for yourself, looking back at the laptop.  

slight disappointment flows through you. maybe it would have been nice to consider martin as one of the options for mystery boy. the time you’ve spent together so far has surprised you with how much you’ve enjoyed yourself. his silly jokes and his encouraging presence– but you don’t dwell on the idea too much. you’re here to find the guy you actually want to get to know more, not martin edwards.

besides you, martin is losing his mind. 

it’s me, y/n! it’s me!

he wants to grab your shoulders and shake you. how much more obvious can he get? 

he agreed with your plan on a whim, just happy to be talking to you again. he had no idea where to go from now, to get you to realise the boy you were dancing with the whole night, was right in front of you. 

“maybe we should just scrap this whole thing,” you suggest with a sigh, after another hour of looking through responses. 

“what? you’re giving up? there’s only like, three hundred more.”  

“it’s almost been a week since the dance… and he knows who i am. don’t you think he would have found me by now? maybe i was over romanticising things again, and he didn’t even like me that night. not enough to even tell me who he was anyways.” 

there’s a short silence between you two. until finally, martin starts shaking his head. 

“you’re… so…” but he trails off, not because he can’t think of anything, but because martin has so many ways of describing you so beautifully, he doesn’t know which one to choose. “you’re perfect. y’know, in your own way.”

your eyes glance up, expecting to see a sarcastic expression on his face, but all you can see is sincerity. 

“that guy’s probably punching himself every minute he’s not taking the chance to just go up to you and say he’s the one you danced with all night. really… he’s acting like a fool for waiting so long.” martin says, but it’s as if he’s talking to himself more than to you. “maybe… he’s just scared that telling you who he actually is will ruin the magic of it all… and that you’ll be disappointed with who was behind the mask.” 

you’re silenced. furiously shaking your head at martin, “no way, martin. you don’t get it— whoever he is… what we had… i’ve never felt that way with someone before.

“i know it’s way stupid to be feeling this way over a guy i talked to for a night. i’m not expecting us to get married the second i see him again… i just, want to see where it could go. it’s like… our story just begun, there’s no way it can end there. you know?”

another beat passes between you two. taking your words to heart, martin simply nods. 

“let’s wrap up today then. but, meet me again tomorrow. under your willow tree, same time, okay?” 

you let out a defeated chuckle, “alright, martin. one last try tomorrow.”

spinning what you said in his head again, martin knows you’re right - even though you both love tragedies, he’s not letting your happy ending with him get away this time.

ᘍ ֺ ACT FIVE of shinin’ just for you ໑ wc: 788

martin’s never realised how scenic the school’s willow tree is. the wispy shade it provides him is almost getting his heart to steady itself as he sits at its trunk, patiently waiting for your arrival. 

he has no idea if this is going to work - given how all of his past hints have gone right over your head. but martin’s made a promise to himself; if you don’t understand, he’ll come out and just say it. no matter what ends up happening, you’ll know who your mystery boy was, by the time the sun sets today.

“deciding we should touch grass today?” you say, walking towards him. in the sunlight, martin looks like a fairytale. his blonde hair is down today, making his features look even softer. 

truthfully, he didn’t have enough time in the morning to put it into its usual spikes, after spending the night twisting and turning instead of sleeping. 

“where’s your laptop?” you begin to ask, but stop as martin begins to stand up too. 

“hi, y/n.”

his awkwardness never fails to make you let out a calm laugh. “hello, martin. want to stop being weird and tell me what’s going on?” 

“you really want to know who you were dancing with all masquerade?” he asks gingerly. 

your eyebrows furrow, “what kind of question is that? of course i do.”

“alright,” he breathes out. swallowing down the last of his nerves, he picks up a book from behind him, already opened up to the middle, and hands it to you.

your eyes are on act three, scene two of a play. the pages are annotated in different colours - clearly, martin has reread this a multitude of times. but in the middle, there’s a quote highlighted in pink, that catches your attention. this must be what martin wants you to pay attention to: 

bear with me;

my heart is in the coffin there with [you],

and i must pause till it [comes] back to me.

you know this line from the top of your head, but you close the book to check the cover out of instinct. 

“martin, this is ‘julius caesar.’” you can almost hear how loud your heart is pounding– or maybe it’s martin’s heartbeat, because he feels like he’s about to faint.

but all he can do is nod, “my heart’s in there with you, y/n. i’m pausing until you come back to me.” 

his rendition of the quote takes you right back to when your mystery boy had quoted ‘hamlet’ to get you to turn around. only he knew ‘julius caesar’ was your favourite shakespeare play. for only he was who you shared that moment with.

finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together, your knees are feeling like jelly. martin edwards was your mystery dance partner. martin edwards was your angel boy.

“it’s you,” you breathe out. “it’s been you this whole time!”

with hope in his heart at last, he’s watching you with the softest gaze in the world. “i know i should’ve told you when you first found me on monday but i-” 

you’ve dropped the play though, and jumped into his arms, wrapping yourself around martin’s shoulders in a tight embrace. 

martin, who was already on the brink of passing away, wills himself to wrap his arms around your waist - and it’s just like you’re dancing together at the ball again. your heartbeats can almost recognise each other. 

“it doesn't matter. i’ve found you now,” you say, to finish his sentence for him. lifting your head to face his - martin’s eyes looking even more lovelier without the gold mask hiding the rest of him - you’d think this was a dream if it wasn’t for him holding the both of you up.

suddenly, you burst out into laughter. “why did you tell me you dressed up as humpty dumpty?” 

this cracks a smile out of him too, “i never said that! i just didn’t deny you assuming i went to a masquerade as an egg.”

shaking your head, you can’t wipe the matching grin off your face. of course it was martin - how didn’t you see it earlier? 

“you’re right. they are underrated. but you still made me go through all those responses for days!”

“that was me buying myself time– i kept trying to tell you, i swear,” he’s shaking his own head now too. 

you were right, this was still just the beginning of the story with him, “i’m so happy it’s you.”

“even though you think i’m strange?” 

“especially because you’re strange,” flashing your teeth with a genuine smile. “i’ve never been more grateful for shakespeare than i am right now.”

you and martin - ophelia and icarus - saved from their respective fates. together. 

ᘍ ֺ EPILOGUE of shinin’ just for you ໑

you always wondered why alex felt familiar.

not in the simple way, not in the way friends or lovers did. it was deeper, older, like something carved into the marrow of your bones long before you ever had a name. sometimes, when he laughed, you felt the weight of déjà vu bloom warm in your chest. sometimes, when he held your hand, you swore you’d done it across centuries.

the fall of rome - 476

rome was loud that morning.

you and alex sat in the tiny courtyard of your insula, the thin walls doing nothing to keep out the noises of the city: merchants shouting, sandals scraping stone, children chasing each other beneath lines of drying linens. the air smelled like warm bread and dust, and alex was slicing figs with the dull little knife you always told him to replace.

“you worry too much,” he said, grinning as he fed you a piece.

“I don’t worry,” you lied, because you absolutely did.

the city felt wrong. it had for weeks - an unease crawling beneath the cobblestones, in the hollow eyes of the guards, in the whispered talks of the people. there were rumors of the germanic forces pushing in, rumors of the emperor losing control. but rumors were everyday things in rome.

still, they sat heavy on your tongue.

alex brushed a stray hair behind your ear. “whatever happens, we’ll be fine. we always are.”

the words warmed you. he’d said them so many times, in so many small ways - when food was scarce, when taxes were raised again, when the nights felt too long and the world felt too big. you always believed him, because his voice felt like a promise the universe itself would bend to uphold.

you didn’t know yet that the universe was cruel.

the ground shook faintly beneath you - so faint you thought you imagined it. but alex stiffened.

“did you feel that?” he asked quietly.

before you could answer, a horn blared in the distance. not the usual morning calls. this one was sharp, urgent, a warning.

the city erupted.

screams tore through the streets as people ran in panic. children crying, dogs barking, men shouting orders you couldn’t understand. smoke rose from somewhere beyond the forum, curling dark and heavy into the sky.

alex’s hand found yours instantly.

“inside,” he urged, already pulling you toward the door of your home.

your heart hammered against your ribs, fear crawling icy up your spine. “alex, what’s happening?”

“the visigoths, or someone else - I don’t know,” he said, breath unsteady. “we need to leave. now.”

you stumbled into the one-room space you shared - cramped but yours, filled with things you’d collected together: clay cups, a wool blanket you’d bartered for, a small wooden carving he’d made for you when you first moved in.

he grabbed a bag and began stuffing things into it with frantic hands.

“I don’t know where we’ll go,” he said, voice shaking, “but we’re not staying here to die.”

you tried to help - shoving clothes, dried food, anything you could grab into the bag - but your hands trembled too badly. the fear didn’t sit quietly in your chest; it consumed it.

alex paused, cupped your face gently.

“hey. look at me. breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“no, you’re panicking.”

“I wonder why,” you snapped, though it came out strained and thin.

the floor trembled again. louder this time. heavy. like something collapsing nearby.

alex’s eyes darted to the window. people were sprinting past, carrying whatever they could manage. someone shouted that the western gates had been breached.

“alex - “ you whispered.

he grabbed your hand again, harder this time. “we’re leaving. we’ll go out the back, toward the hills. we just have to get out of the city.”

you both slung the bag over your shoulders. you didn’t bother with sandals - you just ran.

the back alley smelled of dust and smoke, the stones warm beneath your feet. alex held your hand so tightly your fingers ached, but you didn’t dare let go. every sound was too close - shouts, crashes, the clatter of armor, buildings groaning under stress.

you’d never been so scared. but alex kept glancing at you, as if making sure you were still there, still alive. as if he could single-handedly hold the world together if he needed to.

“almost there,” he said, even though you both knew he had no idea.

you turned a corner -

and the world roared.

a building up the road gave way - crumbling like wet sand, bricks and stone breaking apart as if the earth itself had decided it had carried enough weight. the collapse sent dust exploding into the air, people screaming and scattering.

alex jerked you backward, shielding you with his body, but the street was too narrow, the falling debris too wide.

stone cracked. the ground buckled.

he shoved you toward the wall, pressing you against it, his arms wrapping around you like he could protect you from everything.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice shaking but steady where it mattered. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you - ”

but there was no time.

a massive stone block, loosened from the top of the collapsing structure, came crashing down. you felt the shadow of it a split second before impact.

alex tightened his hold on you, face buried in your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered - though you didn’t know why. he had nothing to apologize for.

the stone struck.

pain - brief, bright, blinding - then everything went weightless.

you crumpled together beneath the rubble, his body still curved around yours as if he could stop the universe from taking you away.

dust filled your lungs. the world dimmed.

you were fading, slipping like water through fingers.

but alex’s hand found yours again, fingers trembling as they threaded with your own.

his voice was soft, barely there.

“don’t go without me.”

“I won’t,” you breathed.

you couldn’t see him anymore, but you felt his forehead press to yours, warm even as the world grew cold.

in your final moments, there was no fear.

just him.

just the strange, ancient warmth in your chest - the feeling that you’d done this before, that you loved him before, that maybe you’d love him again.

your breaths synced, slow, weakening.

alex’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“we’ll find each other,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I know we will.”

and your last exhale carried the truth of it.

because even as the city burned and the world ended around you, you felt something tugging at your soul - a thread connecting you to him, pulling the two of you together through whatever came next.

death took you both within seconds. his arms around you, sheltering you from something he couldn’t handle himself.

the mongol invasion on kievan rus - 1240

you found him in this lifetime as well. alexander, the glorious heartthrob prince of kievan rus, whos heart was only devoted to you

your husband now.

and though duty tethered him to thrones and treaties and endless war councils, he always came back to you at night, sliding his cold hands beneath your furs and whispering, “I swear I’ve held you before.”

the winters were long. the nights were longer. but with him, even the harshest winds softened.

until the year the mongols came.

the air tasted of smoke long before the fires reached your city. rumors swept through the streets like wolves - stories of villages burned, cities erased, armies crushed like insects beneath an unstoppable force.

alex kept a brave face for his people, but you heard the way his voice cracked when he told you, “they’ll be here soon.”

you didn’t sleep after that. neither did he.

the morning the bells tolled the alarm, you felt cold dread crawling up your spine, bringing with itself an eary feeling, like you’ve dealt with this before. but where?

alex burst into your chamber before the servants even finished lighting the lamps, his hair still messy from sleep, his cloak thrown on unevenly.

“we’re leaving,” he said, breathless. “we have to.”

“alex,” you whispered, stepping toward him. “the city - “

“the city is already lost.” his voice trembled, and that scared you more than the shouts echoing from outside. “I won’t lose you with it.”

he grabbed your hands, pressing his forehead to yours like he always did when fear threatened to swallow him whole.

“I’m not giving you up,” he whispered. “not in this lifetime. not any.”

you didn’t tell him you felt the same strange ache you’d felt in rome. the same pull. the same fear of endings.

instead, you nodded and let him lace your cloak around your shoulders.

soldiers ran through the halls. servants cried. the air shook with the distant thunder of hooves and siege engines.

alex’s grip on your hand never faltered as he led you through hidden corridors you’d only heard stories about. the stone walls were cold beneath your fingertips, the torches flickering as if they, too, felt fear.

“we’ll reach the river,” he said. “there are boats waiting. once we cross, we can regroup with my cousins.”

you could hear the hope he didn’t quite believe.

you made it outside the citadel, into the bitter winter air. snow crunched beneath your boots, your breath fogging into white clouds. alex’s cloak whipped behind him as he pulled you toward the stables.

but fate had always been faster.

by the time you reached the last corner before freedom, you heard them.

the mongols.

their war cries shattered the morning silence, arrows cutting through the sky like black rain. soldiers clashed at the gates, screams echoing against stone.

alex pushed you behind a cart as an arrow struck the wall inches from your head.

“stay close,” he breathed.

“I always do.”

he gave you a look - one you’d seen before in a collapsing roman street. one full of love and fear and resignation.

you didn’t want to remember that. not now.

he grabbed your hand again, and the two of you ran.

you made it halfway to the river before the riders cut you off - swift, merciless, surrounding you in a tightening circle. snow sprayed beneath their horses’ hooves, the air sharp with cold and blood.

alex stepped in front of you instantly, sword drawn though he already knew it wouldn’t matter.

“you’ll have to go through me,” he hissed.

a commander shouted something in a language you didn’t understand. two riders dismounted, approaching you slowly, weapons ready.

you clutched alex’s sleeve. “don’t do this. we can still - “

“there’s no running this time.” he glanced back at you, his eyes impossibly soft in the chaos.

“I’m sorry, любы моя.” (my love) (a/n-took my insane time to research nicknames in old east slavic wtf)

he wasn’t apologizing for dying.

he was apologizing for failing to save you again.

the first soldier grabbed him. alex struggled - fought with every ounce of strength, every instinct to survive, to protect you - but a second soldier slammed a spear against the back of his knees, forcing him into the snow.

“alex!” you cried, trying to reach him, but strong arms yanked you back, pinning your wrists.

he looked up at you, snowflakes catching in his dark lashes, blood streaking his lip.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m with you.”

the commander barked another order. two more soldiers stepped behind alex, raising their blades.

you thrashed against your captor, desperation clawing at your throat. “please - don’t hurt him, please - “

the soldier holding you didn’t understand your words, but something in your voice made him pause.

alex looked at you - really looked - like he wanted to memorize your face.

like he’d done this before.

“don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “we’ll find each other again.”

you shook your head, tears blurring the frost-bitten world. “I don’t want another life. I want this one.”

alex’s smile trembled but stayed soft. “so do I.”

the swords rose.

alex held your gaze. his last word was your name.

the blades fell.

you screamed, the sound tearing your throat raw. your knees buckled, but the soldier behind you didn’t let you fall. he only shifted his grip, and you felt the cold press of steel against your ribs.

no hesitation.

no mercy.

the blade pushed into you - a burning shock that stole your breath, your strength, your voice. the snow beneath you darkened.

the soldier let you go, and you collapsed beside alex, the world fading at its edges.

your hand searched blindly, trembling, desperate - until warm fingers clasped yours.

alex’s voice was faint, already fading.

“I’m right here.”

your breaths synced again - slow, shallow, weakening.

snow fell gently over your bodies, soft as a blessing.

as your vision blurred, you swore you saw something - like a thread of light stretching from your chest to his, tying you together, tugging you forward.

you exhaled one last time.

alex exhaled with you.

and the world went quiet.

in death, as in life, you found each other.

and somewhere, between winter and eternity, the universe began again - already weaving your souls back toward one another.

the june rebellion / the paris uprising - 1832

paris always smelled like smoke.

sometimes from chimneys, sometimes from guns, sometimes from the anger boiling in the streets. but tonight, as you leaned out your window, trying to catch a glimpse of alex through the maze of alleyways below, it smelled like all three.

the barricade stood tall at the end of your street - wood planks, overturned carts, broken furniture, anything the boys could get their hands on. alex had helped build it himself, sleeves rolled up, hair messy, face streaked with sweat and determination.

he’d kissed you quickly before joining the others, whispering,

“I’ll be back by dawn. I promise.”

you wanted to believe him.

you always wanted to believe him.

the night stretched long and desperate. the air was heavy with the bitterness of revolution - cries for freedom, for bread, for justice, echoing through the narrow parisian streets. alex stood guard atop the barricade with the others, musket in hand, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion weighing down his shoulders.

you kept your candle burning in the window so he’d know you were awake, watching over him as he watched over everyone else.

sometimes he glanced up and saw the faint glow. sometimes he lifted a hand in a small wave.

every time, your heart clenched with that ancient ache - like you were holding onto someone the universe had ripped from you before.

the clock struck three.

still no attack.

the boys sang quietly to keep their fear away - soft melodies about liberty, brotherhood, the new dawn they believed in with their whole hearts. alex didn’t sing. he just stood guard, tense, alert, like something in him knew tragedy better than anyone else on that barricade.

and then the silence changed.

you felt it before you heard it - like the air tightening, like the night holding its breath.

alex stiffened.

the boys quieted.

somewhere far, too far, metal clattered.

then -

“they’re coming!” someone shouted.

the world erupted.

soldiers poured into the street like a flood, rifles raised, boots pounding on cobblestones. the boys scrambled, loading guns, shouting orders, firing wildly into the darkness. smoke exploded into the air. cries pierced the night.

your candle flickered violently, and you gasped, hands flying to your mouth as you leaned out the window.

alex was already at the front.

he didn’t hide.

he never hid.

musket against his shoulder, he fired into the mass of soldiers, face set in that determined, stubborn way that meant he’d fight for every person behind him.

you whispered his name, even though he couldn’t hear you. gunshots cracked like thunder. smoke blurred the barricade. boys fell - some with screams, some with nothing at all. alex kept fighting.

he dodged a bayonet, slammed his rifle butt into a soldier’s jaw, moved with the kind of desperate courage only someone who’d died for a cause before would have.

you pressed your palm to the freezing glass of your window.

“alex… alex please…”

he reloaded, hands shaking.

a soldier took aim.

you saw it.

alex didn’t.

“alex!” you screamed, voice cracking.

he turned -

the gun fired. the bullet hit him in the shoulder, spinning him backward. he staggered, dropped his weapon, fell hard onto the cobblestones behind the barricade.

you didn’t think.

you didn’t breathe.

you didn’t feel your feet on the stairs as you sprinted down the building, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the gunfire.

by the time you burst out onto the street, the revolutionaries were retreating deeper into the alley, the barricade collapsing under the force of soldiers pouring through.

but all you saw was him.

alex, lying on the ground, blood darkening his shirt, breath shallow, eyes half-open.

you dropped to your knees beside him, hands immediately cupping his face.

no matter the century, he always looked at you the same way - like he knew this ending.

“hey,” he breathed, smiling weakly. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you said, voice already trembling.

gunfire exploded around you. you didn’t care. your entire world was the boy bleeding beneath your hands.

he winced as he tried to lift a hand to your cheek. “I told you I’d come back by dawn.”

“I don’t care about dawn,” you whispered, tears spilling onto his skin. “I just want you. I just want you to stay.”

alex’s chest rose and fell rapidly - too rapidly. he was losing blood, losing strength, losing time. but his fingers found yours, squeezing with a tenderness that made your throat close.

“do you remember,” he whispered, “when you asked me if I was afraid of dying for the revolution?”

you shook your head, sobbing. “don’t talk like that, please - “

“you should know the truth.” he exhaled shakily. “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of leaving you. every life, I’m afraid of leaving you.”

your sob tore through the night.

you pressed your forehead to his, clutching his face with trembling hands. “I won’t let you leave me,” you cried. “not again, alex. not ever.”

he gave a tiny, pained laugh. “if I could stay, I would. I always try.”

a shout rang out behind you. heavy footsteps pounded closer.

the soldiers had broken through fully now, sweeping the street, finishing off the wounded.

you curled over alex protectively. “they’re coming.”

alex tried to pull you closer to his chest. “go. run.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“please,” he whispered, voice breaking now. “I can’t bear - “

you kissed him before he could finish. his hand came up to the back of your neck, weak but sure, fingers threading into your hair like he was memorizing it. the taste of him was iron and smoke and heartbreak.

the shot hit you before you felt the pain. a brutal, sharp force slammed into your back, knocking your breath from your lungs. you gasped, pulling away from the kiss, hands clutching alex’s shirt as your body trembled violently.

he saw the blood immediately. “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no - “

you collapsed forward, your weight sinking into him. he cradled you desperately, hands shaking uncontrollably as he pressed you to his chest.

another shot rang out nearby.

alex’s body jerked.

for a moment, neither of you breathed.

your head rested against his shoulder, his cheek pressed to your hair, both of your heartbeats stuttering, slowing.

his fingers tangled with yours.

your breaths synced - ragged, shallow, fading. too familiar.

alex’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’ll find you again.”

you squeezed his hand weakly. “I’ll wait.”

the world dimmed. gunfire echoed faintly. paris, the revolution, the barricades - they all slipped away as darkness folded gently over the two of you.

your last breath left your lips against his throat.

his last breath followed yours by seconds.

nowadays

it’s late afternoon. the sun is sinking low, painting your living room in soft orange light, touching everything with gentleness - alex’s cheekbones, the curve of his smile, the hand he has resting lazily on your thigh as the two of you sprawl across the couch.

the tv plays some half-forgotten movie neither of you are paying attention to. your legs are tangled, his hair is messy, and the blanket is sliding off both of you because neither of you want to move to fix it.

alex exhales quietly, brushing his thumb over your knee.

“can I ask you something kinda weird?”

“always.”

he glances at you, eyes warm but holding something thoughtful underneath. “do you think reincarnation is real?”

you blink, laughing softly. “that is kinda weird.”

“you didn’t say no.”

you shrug, snuggling closer into his side. “I don’t know. maybe. it’s kinda nice to think about.”

alex hums. not dismissive - more like he’s weighing something inside himself, deciding if he should say it.

“what?” you ask, nudging him with your foot.

he stares at the ceiling, the sunset reflecting gold in his eyes. “I’ve just… sometimes I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

you freeze for a heartbeat.

he doesn’t notice - he keeps talking, voice soft and steady.

“like when I first met you, there wasn’t that awkward getting-to-know-you stage. it was just…” he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers. “oh. it’s you.”

your chest tightens with something you can’t name.

“you ever feel that?” he asks quietly. “like maybe we were… something else before this?”

you swallow hard. “sometimes.”

his smile widens, slow and gentle. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

silence wraps around you like a blanket - warm, full, familiar. the kind of silence that feels like conversation without words.

alex turns his head toward you, brushing his nose lightly against your temple. “if reincarnation is real,” he murmurs, “I think we probably found each other a lot.”

you laugh softly. “what, like we’ve been dating for a hundred lifetimes or something?”

“maybe more.”

you pretend to roll your eyes, but your heart is beating too fast. “and what makes you so sure?”

“because every time I look at you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I feel like I’ve already loved you before.”

your breath catches - not because the moment is dramatic, but because it feels like something inside you clicks into place, like puzzle pieces that have been trying to fit for centuries.

you laugh again, but it’s softer this time. not to deflect at all. “that’s… insanely romantic.”

“yeah, well.” he nudges your shoulder lightly. “don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

you look at him fully now, studying the face that feels like home in a way you’ve never been able to explain. the freckles. the smile lines. the warmth that radiates from him like a memory.

your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “so if we did meet in past lives… do you think we were, like, doomed lovers or something?”

alex grins. “doomed? nah. we’re too stubborn.”

you raise an eyebrow. “alex. be serious.”

“okay, okay.” he shifts closer, resting his forehead gently against yours. “I think… maybe things didn’t always work out.”

you feel a strange shiver pass through you - like déjà vu, but deeper.

alex continues, thumb stroking the back of your hand like he’s soothing something old.

“but I also think we kept trying anyway.”

your voice dips. “why?”

he presses a kiss to your cheek, slow and warm.

“because when something feels this right, you don’t let go. not even when you’re born again.”

your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking.

the sunset brightens behind him, haloing him in gold. for a split second, he looks different - younger, older, in armor, in rags, in linen, in dirt and snow and smoke.

you blink.

it’s gone.

alex brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “what about you? if reincarnation’s real… you think we’ve done this before?”

you look at him - at the boy curled up against you in the quiet of your shared home, laughter lines and soft eyes and a heart you swear you’ve held while dying.

“yeah,” you whisper. “I think we always find each other.”

he smiles - not wide, not bright. soft. certain.

you rest your forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in.

“and do you think,” you say, letting your fingers trace the pulse at his throat, “that maybe this time… we finally get it right?”

alex stills.

slowly, he tilts your chin up with his hand, searching your face with a depth that makes your breath tremble.

“I think,” he says, voice thick with emotion he doesn’t hide, “that this is the life we get to stay.”

you don’t know why, but your chest aches - not in a painful way, but in a healing way. like something inside you has finally unclenched after centuries.

alex pulls you fully into his arms, wrapping you up like he’s afraid the universe might still try to steal you back.

“whatever happened before,” he murmurs into your hair, “whatever we lost… we have this.”

“this lifetime,” you whisper.

“this forever,” he corrects softly.

outside, the last light of the sun dips behind the horizon, and your living room fills with the gentle hum of the tv and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

you don’t remember dying with him.

but you feel, deep down, that you’ve held him like this at the end of the world.

and now - finally - you’re holding him at the beginning of a new one.

the universe has stopped tearing him from you.

the thread between your souls, stretched thin over centuries, has finally gone slack - no tension, no pull, no ache.

just rest.

just peace.

just him. forever and beyond.

ততততত

© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.

You didn't laugh. You saw his knuckles white around the hilt. You saw the humiliation burning in his ears. You walked down the steps, stood before him, and tied your favor—a small silk handkerchief—around his wrist.

"Rise, Sir Maxwell," you said, your voice trembling only a little. "I am safe with you."

He looked up then. And you saw the promise being forged in his eyes—stronger than any steel he would ever wear.

Ten years later, no one laughs.

Max has grown into the armor. He is a mountain of polished steel and terrifying silence. He is known as the Queen’s Shadow (a title he hates, because he belongs only to you).

In the throne room, he stands behind your chair, hand resting perpetually on the pommel of his greatsword. He does not speak. He does not eat at the feasts. When foreign dignitaries try to intimidate you, Max simply shifts his weight, the metal of his armor clanking ominously, and they suddenly find their throats very dry.

He is the perfect knight: obedient, lethal, and utterly emotionless.

The moment the heavy bolts of your solar are thrown shut, the knight vanishes, and Max appears.

It’s a ritual. You sit by the fire, and he begins the arduous process of removing the armor that keeps the world out.

"The Baron of West valley is an idiot," Max grumbles, his voice muffled as he pulls off his helmet. He shakes out his hair—damp with sweat, messy, and soft.

"He brought me a peacock, Max. A live peacock."

Max snorts, tossing his gauntlets onto the table with a heavy thud. "I should have fed it to the hounds. Would have saved us the noise."

He walks over to you, stripped down to his tunic and breeches, looking human again. Vulnerable. He kneels to poke the fire, the orange light dancing on his face.

"You scared him, you know," you say softly, watching his hands. "When you stepped forward? I thought the Baron was going to faint."

Max looks over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips—that rare, precious expression he saves just for you. "Good. No one looks at you like that while I draw breath."

He sits on the rug at your feet, resting his back against your chair. It’s a scandalous breach of station. A knight sitting on the floor? Leaning against a Princess? If the Stepmother walked in, heads would roll.

But here, he is just Max.

He reaches back, blindly seeking your hand. You give it to him. He doesn't kiss it—he isn't that bold yet—he just holds it. He plays with your fingers, tracing the calluses you got from the embroidery needles, his thumb rough against your soft skin.

"Tell me about the book you're reading," he murmurs, closing his eyes, his guard finally, finally down. "Does the knight save the princess?"

"No," you whisper, looking down at the top of his head. "The princess saves the knight."

It happens during a joust.

Max is riding in your colors. He has just unhorsed the arrogance out of a visiting Prince. The crowd is roaring. Max trots his massive warhorse over to the Royal Box to receive the victor's wreath.

He flips his visor up.

He is winded, sweat trickling down his temple, a bruise forming on his jaw from a lance strike. He looks rough, violent, and exhausted.

But then his eyes find you in the crowd.

The violence drains out of his face instantly. He smiles. It’s a small, tired, dazzling smile that ignores the King, ignores the Queen, and ignores the cheering masses. It is a smile that says, 'Did you see? I did that for you.'

He lowers his lance, catching the wreath you toss, but he keeps looking at you like you are the sun and he is a man who has spent winter in the dark.

Your heart stops. You realize, with a terrifying clarity, that you don't just trust him with your life. You want him. You want the man beneath the iron.

And you know, tragically, that he will never ask for you. He thinks he is just the steel wall standing between you and the world. He doesn't know he is your world.

By the time Max is twenty-two, the joke is dead. Buried.

Stories of his prowess are whispered in taverns and war rooms alike. They say Sir Maxwell fights like he has nothing to lose but you. He doesn't fight for honor, or for glory, or for the King. He fights with a terrifying, surgical efficiency designed to eliminate threats to Her Highness in the shortest amount of time possible.

He is the youngest Knight Commander in the history of the realm. The older knights, who once laughed at his baggy chainmail, now step aside when he walks down the corridor. They salute him first.

The Queen hates him. But for the first time in her life, she is powerless against a servant.

You are in the solar. The Queen is tearing into you—criticizing your needlework, your posture, your refusal to marry the awful Duke of the South. Her voice gets shrill. She steps closer, raising a hand as if to grab your chin aggressively.

Sching.

It’s a small sound. Not a drawn sword, just the sound of a thumb pushing a blade one inch out of its scabbard.

The Queen freezes.

She looks over your shoulder. Max hasn't moved. His face is a mask of stone. But his eyes... his eyes are fixated on her raised hand with the cold, detached interest of a butcher looking at a cut of meat.

He doesn't say, "Don't touch her." He doesn't have to. The silence screams it.

The Queen slowly lowers her hand, her throat bobbing. She smooths her dress, suddenly pale. "We will... discuss this later," she mutters, and practically flees the room.

Max simply clicks the sword back into place. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Your father is old, tired, and sharp as a tack. He sees what the Queen refuses to see.

The King stands on the balcony overlooking the training yards. His High Advisor stands beside him. Below, Max is sparring. It’s not a fair fight; he is taking on three other guards at once, moving like water, disarming them with a boredom that borders on arrogance.

"He is... intense, Sir. Perhaps too intense. The Queen worries he forgets his place."

The King chuckles, watching Max help a fallen opponent up, only to immediately look up at Y/N’s window to check if she’s watching. "He knows his place perfectly. His place is between my daughter and the rest of the world."

"But surely, for the Princess's marriage... having a guard so attached... it might deter suitors."

"Good. Let it deter the weak ones. I have watched men promise to die for this kingdom and flee at the first sight of blood. But that boy?" The King gestures to Max, who is now wiping his sword, his gaze still fixed on Y/N’s window "He doesn't serve the Crown. He serves her. If the castle burned down tomorrow, he wouldn't try to save the throne. He’d carry Y/N out of the fire. That is the only man I want by her side."

It’s not just that he can fight. It’s that he anticipates.

You are at a crowded summer festival. It’s loud, chaotic, and dangerous. You don't even see the drunk man stumbling toward you with a jagged bottle. You are busy laughing at a puppet show.

But before the man can get within five feet, a gloved hand shoots out from the shadows. Max catches the man’s wrist in mid-air. He doesn't make a scene. He doesn't shout. He simply twists the man’s wrist with a precise, sickening pressure that forces the man to his knees in silence.

Max leans down, whispering something into the drunkard’s ear that makes the blood drain from the man's face. The man scrambles away, terrified.

You turn around, blinking. "Max? Did something happen?"

Max is already back in his relaxed stance, adjusting his cuffs, looking perfectly serene. "Nothing, Princess. Just a fly. I swatted it."

He offers you his arm to guide you through the crowd. His grip is firm, warm, and unbreakable. And in that moment, amidst the chaos of thousands of people, you know you are in the safest place on earth.

The festival wine was stronger than usual. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion of smiling for twelve hours straight.

You are sitting on the rug in front of the hearth in your private solar, your heavy ceremonial shoes kicked off into a corner. Max is sitting on the low bench nearby. He has shed the armor—the breastplate, the pauldrons, the heavy greaves—leaving him in just his linen shirt and trousers. He looks human. He looks tired. He looks beautiful.

He is holding a goblet of wine loosely in one hand, staring into the dying fire.

"Prince Valerius stepped on my train three times," you mumble, leaning your head back against the sofa. "And he smells like pickled herring."

Max huffs a laugh, taking a sip of wine. "He smells like old money and desperation. But the Queen likes him."

"The Queen likes anyone who doesn't talk back to her," you counter, turning your head to look at him. The firelight dances in his dark eyes. "She says he’s a 'sensible match.' A powerful alliance."

Max’s jaw tightens. He swirls the wine in his cup. "He’s a coward. I saw him flinch when the fireworks went off. If danger came for you, he’d use you as a shield."

"And you wouldn't?"

Max looks at you then, and the air leaves the room. The look is so intense, so raw, it almost sobers you up. "I am the shield, Y/N. That is the only thing I am."

"You're more than that," you whisper. You crawl slightly closer on the rug. The alcohol makes you brave. "You're my best friend. You're... everything."

Max closes his eyes for a second, a pained expression crossing his face. "Don't."

"Why not? Why can't I say it?" You feel a sudden surge of frustration. "Why does it always have to be about duty? My father wants me to be happy. He tells me that every day."

"He does," Max agrees, his voice rough.

"But he’ll marry me off to Valerius. Or some other Prince with a weak chin and a crown." You laugh bitterly. "Because the King needs a son-in-law worthy of the throne."

Max sets his goblet down with a sharp clack. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, invading your space. He smells like woodsmoke and steel and soap.

"Do you think the King is blind?" Max asks, his voice low, vibrating in the quiet room. "Do you think he doesn't know who actually leads his armies? Who actually keeps his daughter breathing?"

"Max..."

"He doesn't care about Valerius," Max snaps, the alcohol loosening the lock on his tongue. "He told me. Tonight. In the hallway."

You freeze. "What did he tell you?"

Max stares at you, his eyes searching your face, tracing the line of your jaw, your lips. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, debating whether to jump.

"He asked me if I was tired," Max murmurs. "I said I wasn't. He laughed. He clapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Good. Because I sleep soundly knowing you are the one watching her. I wouldn't trust her heart to a Prince, Maxwell. Only to a soldier who knows its worth.'"

Your breath hitches. "He said that?"

"He gave me the blessing, Y/N," Max whispers, the confession torn out of him. "He gave me the permission to... to be more than a guard. He practically told me that if I asked for you, he wouldn't say no."

The silence is deafening. The King, your father, had given the green light. The obstacle of rank, of station, of politics—it had been swept away by a father's love and a King's trust.

"Then why?" you ask, your voice trembling. You reach out, your fingers brushing the scar on his forearm. "If he approves... if he knows... why are you still over there?"

Max looks down at your hand on his arm. He covers it with his own, his grip tight, almost desperate. For a second, he leans in. His face is inches from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him. You think he’s going to kiss you. You think he’s finally going to break.

But then, he pulls back.

He stands up abruptly, pacing away from the fire, putting the room between you.

"Because he’s wrong," Max says, his voice cold again, the mask slipping back into place. "He sees a Commander. He sees a loyal dog. He doesn't see the truth."

"What truth?" you demand, standing up on shaky legs.

Max turns to you, his silhouette dark against the window.

"That I am selfish," he says. "That I am not noble. A Prince would marry you to gain a kingdom. I..." He chokes on the words, then finishes, barely audible. "I would burn the kingdom to the ground just to keep you warm. And that makes me dangerous for you, Y/N. Not worthy."

He walks to the door, grabbing the handle. He doesn't look back.

"Sleep well, Princess. I’ll be outside."

The door clicks shut.

The silence is worse than the screaming.

Ten minutes ago, the corridor outside your chambers was a cacophony of steel clashing against steel, shouting, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the stone. Max had shoved you into the narrow servant’s passage behind the tapestry—a hiding spot only the two of you knew from childhood.

"Stay," he had roared, a sound so primal it didn't sound like him. "Do not move until I come for you."

Then he had drawn his greatsword and stepped back into the hallway to hold the line alone against six men.

Now, it is quiet.

You wait. You count the seconds. The air in the passage is cold and smells of dust. Every shadow looks like an assassin. What if he doesn't come back? What if the silence means he…

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Footsteps. But they aren't the rhythmic, disciplined march of a patrol. They are heavy, erratic, frantic. Someone is running.

The tapestry is ripped aside with violent force.

You flinch, pressing your back against the stone, a gasp caught in your throat.

It’s Max.

He looks terrifying. His helmet is gone. There is a cut above his eyebrow, bleeding freely into his eye. His armor is dented, covered in soot and blood that isn't his. His chest is heaving like a dying animal’s. He looks wild—eyes wide, pupils blown, scanning the dark passage with a manic desperation.

"Y/N?" he chokes out. It’s a broken sound.

You step into the sliver of moonlight. "Max. I’m here. I’m safe."

The moment he sees you, the "Monster of the Realm" vanishes.

The change is instantaneous and shattering. The tension that was holding his body upright simply snaps.

CLANG.

His sword—the legendary blade he has never once let fall, the extension of his own arm—drops from his hand. It hits the stone floor with a deafening ring that echoes in the silence.

He doesn't care. He doesn't even look at it.

He crashes to his knees before you, sliding slightly on the stone, and wraps his arms around your waist. He buries his face in your stomach, holding on so tight it hurts. He is shaking. The most dangerous man in the kingdom is trembling like a leaf in a storm.

"Max," you whisper, your hands instinctively going to his hair, trying to soothe him. "Max, you’re hurt—"

"I couldn't find you," he gasps against your dress. His voice is wet, muffled, stripped of all rank and protocol. "The smoke... I lost the door... I couldn't find you."

He pulls you closer, his armored shoulders heaving with dry sobs. He isn't checking the perimeter. He isn't securing the area. He is drowning, and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

"I’m here," you say, tears pricking your own eyes as you realize the depth of his terror. "I’m right here."

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. His face is a ruin of emotion—sweat, blood, and stark, naked fear. He runs a trembling hand over your face, checking for injuries, touching your cheek as if to confirm you aren't a hallucination.

"I thought I’d lost you," he whispers, his voice cracking. "And without you… I have nothing."

He stares into your eyes, and the wall he has built for ten years crumbles into dust.

"I love you," he says. It rushes out of him, desperate and terrified. "I shouldn't have said it like this... I shouldn't... but I love you. God, Y/N, I love you."

He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, his breathing ragged.

"Please don't die," he begs, a whisper against your skin. "Order me to do anything else, but don't die."

The adrenaline will fade. The guards will arrive. The King will come running down the hall. But the words are out. The sword is on the floor. The line has been crossed.

The words hang in the dusty air of the secret passage.

“Max… I’ve loved you for years.”

For a heartbeat, Max doesn't move. He stares at you, his chest heaving, blood trickling unnoticed down his temple. He looks like a man who has prepared for every possible form of pain, every attack, every betrayal—but he was completely unprepared for joy.

He blinks, the harsh adrenaline draining out of his eyes, leaving them wide and vulnerable.

"Years?" he breathes. His voice is a ghost of its usual command.

You nod, smiling through the tears, reaching out to cup his face. Your thumbs brush away the soot on his cheekbones. "Since the day you practiced dancing with me in the doorway. Since you learned how to braid my hair because my maid was sick. Since always, Max. It’s always been you."

And then, he breaks.

He doesn't cry—not in the way he did a moment ago. He simply melts. The tension that has held his spine rigid since he was fourteen years old evaporates. His shoulders slump. The frantic energy leaves his hands.

He lets out a long, shuddering exhale, a sound of absolute surrender.

"I thought I was alone," he whispers, turning his face into your palm, kissing the center of your hand with a reverence that makes your knees weak. "I thought I was guarding a treasure I could never touch."

"You aren't guarding it," you whisper, pulling him closer until there is no space left between the silk of your dress and the cold steel of his breastplate. "You own it."

Max makes a low, choked sound in his throat. He surges forward.

He kisses you.

It isn't a tentative, courtly kiss. It isn't the kiss of a subordinate to a superior. It is desperate. It is messy with tears and salt and exhaustion. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for a decade and has finally been allowed to eat.

His hands, usually so careful not to bruise you, grip your waist with possessing force. He pulls you down until you are kneeling on the stone with him, ruining your dress, ignoring the blood, ignoring the world.

For the first time in his life, he isn't scanning the exits. He isn't listening for footsteps. He is just... here. With you.

The Knight is gone. The Guard is gone. There is only Max.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes are closed. A peacefulness has settled over his features that you have never seen before.

"I’m going to marry you," he murmurs, the words vibrating against your skin. It sounds less like a proposal and more like a tactical fact he has just accepted. "I don't care what the Council says. I don't care about the protocols. I’m never standing outside your door again, Y/N. I’m going to be on the other side of it."

You laugh, a wet, shaky sound. "Is that a threat, Sir Maxwell?"

He opens his eyes. The darkness is gone. They are warm, brown, and full of a quiet, terrifying devotion that has finally found its home.

"No," he says softy, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. "It's a promise."

The morning sun streams into the King’s private solar, but the air inside is frigid.

You stand in the center of the room. Max is beside you. He is back in his uniform, his posture perfect, his face calm. But there is one crucial difference: he is holding your hand.

Not supporting your elbow. Not guiding you. Holding your hand, fingers interlaced, his thumb resting possessively over your knuckles. He grips you like he is daring the world to try and separate you.

Your Stepmother is pacing, her face flushed with indignation.

"It is unacceptable!" she shrills, gesturing wildly at the two of you. "The entire guard saw him last night! On his knees! Weeping like a child! And now this... this display? He has forgotten his station, husband. He must be discharged. Exiled!"

Max doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look at her. He looks straight at your father, the King, who is sitting behind his desk, reading a scroll with infuriating calmness.

"Your Majesty," Max speaks, his voice steady, though you can feel the slight tremor in his hand. "If I have brought shame upon Her Highness, I will accept my discharge. I will leave the Guard today."

He pauses, then squeezes your hand tighter.

"But I will not leave her," Max adds, his tone hardening into steel. "You will have to exile me to the other side of the world, and I will still find my way back. I love her. I am done pretending I don't."

The Stepmother gasps. "You see? Treason! Insubordination!"

The King slowly rolls up the scroll. He sets it down. He takes off his reading glasses and looks up. His expression is unreadable.

"Quiet," the King says softly to his wife.

"But—"

"I said, quiet."

The King stands up. He is old now, his movements slow, but he still carries the weight of the crown. He walks around the desk, stopping in front of Max.

Max squares his shoulders, bracing for the anger. Bracing for the order to leave.

Your father looks at Max. Then he looks at you. He sees the way you are leaning into Max, the way Max’s body naturally curves to shield you, the invisible tether that binds you together.

The King sighs, a long, weary sound... and then, a smile breaks through his beard.

"Finally," the King grumbles. "I was beginning to think I’d be dead before you two idiots figured it out."

The Stepmother freezes. Max blinks, stunned. "Sir?"

The King laughs, shaking his head. "Maxwell, look at me. Do you think I gave you the command of her detail ten years ago because of the Queen's little joke? No. I gave it to you because I saw how you looked at her when she bandaged your hand in the courtyard."

He steps closer, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder—not as a King to a subject, but as a father to a son.

"I have watched Princes come into this room," the King says, his voice thick with emotion. "They talk about land. They talk about dowries. They talk about what Y/N can do for them."

He looks at you, his eyes shining.

"But you," he nods at Max. "You don't just protect her. You see her. You honor her. You hear her when she speaks, and you listen to what she doesn't say."

The King takes your free hand and places it firmly on top of Max's.

"And most importantly," your father whispers, "you choose her. Not the crown. Not the title. Her. You chose her when she was a lonely child, and you chose her when there was a knife at her throat."

"I would choose her in every lifetime," Max chokes out, his composure finally cracking.

"I know," the King says firmly. "That is why you are the only man I will ever allow to take this hand."

He steps back, beaming at the stunned silence in the room.

"You have my blessing, Maxwell. Now, stop trembling. It scares the servants."

Six Months Later.

The cathedral is packed. The nobility is whispering. The Stepmother is sitting in the front row, looking as if she has swallowed a lemon, but she is silent.

You stand at the altar. The organ music swells.

Max is waiting for you.

For the first time in fifteen years, he is not wearing a sword. He is not wearing armor. He is wearing a velvet doublet of deep royal blue, embroidered with silver. He looks terrified. He looks breathtaking.

As you walk down the aisle, his eyes lock onto yours. He mouths a single word, invisible to the congregation, but clear to you.

Safe.

You reach the altar. He takes your hands. His palms are warm.

The Priest begins the ceremony. When it comes time for the vows, Max deviates from the script. He doesn't look at the book. He looks at you.

"I used to think my duty was to stand between you and the world," he says, his voice ringing clear through the silent hall. "To be your shield."

He smiles, and it is the smile of the boy who learned to laugh in your private chambers.

"But today, I promise to be your partner. To walk beside you, not behind you. To be your shelter, not your cage. I give you my sword, my life, and my heart. Yours, Y/N. Always yours."

You squeeze his hands. "And I promise to save the knight," you whisper, a callback only he understands.

He laughs, tears in his eyes, and as he kisses you, the crowd erupts.

The joke is over. The Queen lost. The Knight got the Princess.

And for the first time in the history of the Kingdom, the King sleeps soundly, because he knows his daughter isn't just safe. She is loved.

© 2025 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

You stood behind the counter, hair tied up, apron dusted in flour, fingers working through the third cookie dough of the day despite telling Oscar you were just going to be trying a few new recipes.

He leaned on the doorframe, voice soft so he wouldn’t startle you. “Looks like your bakery exploded in here.”

You huffed a laugh, but your shoulders didn’t really lift with it. “Sorry. I guess I got carried away.”

Oscar walked over, looping an arm around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder as he looked at the chaos in front of you. 

Old recipe cards were spread out across the counter, leaving only a little of the original marble visible at this point. Some were yellowed, some had been smudged with time, but all of them bore the same looping handwriting of your grandmother. 

“And you didn’t call me for taste-testing?” he teased.

You shrugged in a way that tried far too hard to be casual. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He kissed your cheek. “You could never bother me.”

You didn’t answer. You just pressed your thumb into the dough with more force than you meant to show. Oscar, who knew you better than you had ever cared to admit, didn’t push. He knew losing your grandmother was hard on you. Instead, he reached for one of the pies cooling on the rack.

“This one’s done, yeah?”

“Mostly.”

“Perfect.” He sliced a piece, leaned against the counter, and took a bite. His eyes fluttered shut as soon as the first bite of the cherry filling touched his tongue. “Oh my god. This is ridiculous.”

That earned a real smile from you. Small, but real.

“I followed her recipe,” you said softly, nodding at one of the cards sprawled on the counter. “Well, mostly, at least. I added a bit more zest and changed the crust.”

Oscar, mouth still full, pointed his fork at you. “Then you'd better write it down before you forget. One day, I want to wave it around and brag about this pie.”

He winked and placed a kiss on the top of your head before heading toward the living room.

You didn’t move for a long moment. You just stared at the old cards. Some were so fragile but so stained with love from over the years. Then your eyes drifted towards the pie Oscar couldn’t stop praising. His words replayed in your mind, soft and thoughtless in the way things often did before they changed everything.

Write it down before you forget.

When the silence settled enough, you picked up one of the recipe cards that had fallen from the box. This time it wasn’t just a recipe. It had a mini love letter written at the bottom of it. Your eyes scanned your grandmother’s writing, talking about how she created her lemon slice because your grandfather always claimed he didn’t like sweets, despite the fact that she had a sweet tooth that preceded her. She was determined to make something he couldn’t resist.

I wanted something he’d love with even when he didn’t know he would, she’d written.

Your throat tightened.

You pressed your hand to the counter, breath catching as grief and tenderness tangled. And then, just like she once had, you decided to write something down too.

For Oscar, for the kids you hoped you’d have someday, for whoever needed to feel loved long after you were gone.

Months later, the kitchen was quiet except for the scratching of your pen. Oscar was in the McLaren garage, deep in prep for qualifying, while you were deep in a recipe card of your own.

Oscar’s Favourite Meat Pie (Piastri Family Edition) This recipe makes him hum. Literally hum in happiness, like he’s a happy engine. First cooked: a rainy Tuesday when he came home exhausted from a media shoot and told me he just wanted something “warm.”

And below the instructions, you wrote him a letter. You made sure that each and every recipe got one. Some were short, while others were so long you had to staple another card to them to keep writing. Still, all of them were so full of love it almost hurt to think about the fact that you were going to hide them. 

You added family recipes Oscar’s mother had taught you or given you. You added your family’s recipes with your own twists. 

Then, when the collection finally grew thick enough to feel whole, you hid it. On the top shelf of the pantry, behind the old baking trays from your first bakery that you just couldn’t ever part with. Somewhere only someone who truly knew you, or got unbelievably lucky, would ever find them.

Years later, the house buzzed with noise. Shipping tape peeling, boxes thudding shut, your daughter Ava humming some pop song she loved, your son Finn complaining about the heat as he hauled his father’s old karting gear from storage.

Oscar stood in the living room, looking around like he was seeing every memory at once. You two bringing the kids home from the hospital, the birthdays, the nights you danced barefoot in the kitchen while something baked in the oven, the mornings you welcomed him home with pancakes after races.

His parents were getting older, and his home in Australia was seeming farther and farther away. Oscar had retired from racing years ago. The kids were teenagers and wanted, and needed, more space. So, you both decided it was time to sell the Monaco apartment and opt for an Australian house and backyard. 

You touched his arm as you passed by him, offering a kiss to his temple. “I’m running to the store for more tape. Need anything?”

He shook his head with a small smile. “Just come back.”

You squeezed his hand and left.

Not long after, a voice floated through the house. “Dad? I found… something.”

Oscar turned as Finn approached, holding a small, worn notebook with flour fingerprints still on the cover. Ava followed behind him, curious.

“It was behind all of mum’s baking pans,” Finn said. “She said everything old-looking should go to you first.”

Oscar frowned lightly before completely freezing the moment he opened it.

The first thing he saw was your handwriting, then your date stamps, then all of your little, doodled hearts in the margins. He quickly skimmed your notes about him, then your notes about the kids before they were even born.

Every page was a memory he didn’t know had been saved. He sank onto the half-plastic-wrapped couch without a word.

Ava touched his shoulder. “You okay, Dad?”

He nodded, but his throat was thick. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m good. Just—just give me a minute, okay?”

They left him with it as they returned to their rooms to finish packing.

Oscar turned page after page, breath catching on letters written to him years ago:

I made this when you got your first driver’s championship with McLaren. You were too tired to celebrate when we got home, so I celebrated for us. Oscar, if you ever find this, I hope you know that you were my favourite comfort long before you ever realized it. When our kids are older, I want them to know what love tasted like for us before they were here.

His vision blurred more and more as he flipped through the pages. 

When he finally made it to the end, he carefully closed it and held the book tight to his chest like it might break if he let it go. 

The moment you step back inside, he’s already waiting for you in the kitchen, the little book held gently in both hands.

Your stomach drops as soon as you see it. “Oh.”

Oscar’s eyes lift to yours. They’re soft and wet, with tears brimming at the edges.

“When did you start this?” he whispered.

You tried to smile. It wobbled. “When my grandma passed.”

“And you never told me?”

“I didn’t want it to be something you felt you had to react to,” you said quietly. “I wanted it to be something you’d find if you ever needed it. Something that lived on a shelf until life gave you a reason to open it.”

Oscar swallowed hard. “Why?”

You stepped closer, placing your hand over his. “Because she left me her recipes, her stories, her love in little, handwritten pieces. And it helped me move on more than anything else could have. So I thought that maybe one day you’d need that too, or the kids would. Something to say ‘I loved you then, I love you now, I’ll love you even when I’m not here to say it.’”

He pulled you into a hug so tight your breath caught. You felt him exhale against your neck, all the fear you knew he’d been carrying tucked into the warmth of your shirt collar.

“Thank you,” he murmured against you. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

You smiled into his shoulder. “You loved me all of these years, and that’s always going to be enough.”

He held your cheeks, kissing you gently and reverently. When he pulled away, he tried to laugh, but his voice cracked. “You know, I probably scared the kids into thinking these are pictures from our honeymoon or something.”

You laughed. “They are going to wonder why you won’t just throw it away.”

He kissed you again, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m making you one,” he whispered. “Maybe it’ll only have one recipe, but I’m doing it.”

“What recipe?”

He smiled. “Guess I’ll have to take up baking too and make one.”

Fare thee well. - 18

This simple string of letters and numbers had been burned into Oscar’s brain since he was eleven, and the first letter came in the mail. He had just started karting with the number 81, so when he saw a sign-off from his number reversed, young Osc figured that it was destiny. The idea of having a pen pal was very charming to young children, which meant that the Piastri household had some minor arguments over which child would get to send back the response. Oscar, being the scheming young child he was, waited for everyone to forget about the letter before sneaking into his mom’s room and leaving with the envelope in hand. His mom had no choice but to let him send back a reply when he exited his room, a formal essay-length response in hand. He had held a high level of intelligence since he was young. Looking back, the writing was poor. But for an eleven-year-old? He was practically Shakespeare. He did the logical thing and signed off in a similar manner.

You as well. - 81

Your letters consisted of anything under the sun. Maybe one day you’d discuss the science of space, mentioning some random fact about the stars and the planets at the end of your letter, which had been all about every minor detail of your day. But on other days, you were bombarding your companion with questions, so curious about his peculiar talents. You had never met someone who was into racing, so of course, you took the next step any child would: You began to get into motorsports so you could support your new friend. The Formula series intrigued you the most, which Oscar was delighted to hear all about, because it turns out he totally agreed. ‘That’s my dream,’ he wrote. ‘You’re gonna see me up there one day.’

‘I know I will.’ And once more, ‘Fare thee well. - 18.’

But one day, he stopped replying. 

Hard to say why.

On your first day working with McLaren, things had gone awry. You lost your phone in the paddock, which was the worst possible outcome for the current situation, as your entire job relied on it. You had gone through extensive training – probably much more than necessary for a mere media worker – and it ended up being pointless, for you made the number one mistake you were advised against. You lost the equipment! You tried to retrace your steps, but that just led you back to the exact point at which you realized your phone was gone. You searched through your pockets and bags once more, and when you turned out empty-handed once more, you felt like crying. 

“Deep breaths. You’ll find it. It’s fine,” you whisper to yourself, looking around in the semi-crowded paddock as panic starts to settle in. It feels like everyone who passes by is staring at you, making it blatantly apparent that you’re out of place. Their eyes spoke to you, ‘You don’t belong here,’ and you were starting to think they were right. What on earth made you think you were qualified enough to work in an F1 paddock? Your self-affirmations were now lagging behind, because every whispered internal insult was produced at a far quicker rate. “Idiot,” you whispered, mainly talking to yourself as you wandered back into the garage for what felt like the tenth time, scanning over the place for any bit of guidance. “Who loses their phone?”

“Is this it?” 

You practically leap out of your skin. You murmur a curse under your breath, hand over your heart as you take a careful, deep breath. Behind you was Oscar Piastri, the fresher McLaren driver who had been catching a lot of fame based on recent performances. In his hands is, indeed, your cellular device. For a moment, you feel like you might drop to your knees and start crying as you praise him, because he’s just brightened your day tenfold. “How’d you know?” You grab the phone, turning it in your hands and examining it as if part of you was concerned it was somehow a knockoff. Oscar, who was most definitely living up to the poite cat allegations, wore a small, only slightly awkward, smile.

“I heard you talking to yourself.” You feel your cheeks flush. First day, and you were already embarrassing yourself. In front of one of the team’s drivers, no less. “I found it at the entrance. I was gonna turn it into lost and found, but then you walked in.”

You pocket your phone, hoping that it will be a much safer place for it to reside, and then clasp your hands together. “Thank you so much, Oscar. I’d… I’d honestly probably die without it.” You let out a sigh of relief, internally thanking the universe for delivering you a temporary savior.

“Are you part of the media team?” He gives a thoughtful hum when you nod characteristically. “You must be new then. I can see how that would be bad for your career.”

“I am, yeah.” Was it that easy to tell? Maybe it was based on the fact that you had already lost something important, or perhaps it was because you had wandered around the whole paddock like a dunce. Either way, you weren’t surprised he knew you were a newbie. “I have a feeling I’d be fired on the spot.” He laughs at what you say, which you clock as strange because it wasn't really that funny of a joke. This was the infamous ‘Ice Boy’? You weren’t buying it in the slightest. 

Was this his weird way of flirting? You passed it off as you being hopeful, because it seemed terribly unrealistic to think that this famous F1 driver, who could have anyone in the world, was using cheap tactics like laughing at every joke, funny or not, to get your attention. It was more likely that everyone who had deemed him nonchalant and uncaring was simply wrong. In fact, you were sure that was the case because you never fully understood the nickname in the first place. Throughout the few years you spent watching the sport, silently wishing you’d one day have an excuse to flaunt your knowledge when your old pen pal finally wrote back, you deduced that Oscar was just misunderstood. He laughed, he smiled, he got angry, he cried. He was entirely human, but the community thought otherwise. 

“I’ll put in a good word for you…” He trails off, and it takes you a shameful amount of time to pick up what he’s putting down.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeats, testing the way the name sounded off the tip of his tongue. “I’ll put in a good word for you, Y/N.” It sounded good. “Don’t worry about it.” Oscar sips from the long straw of his water bottle, moving past you to fulfill his media duties for the day. You note the soft shake in his hands and the way his eyes avoid yours as he lays out a cheesy line. He’s nervous; he’s just being careful not to show it. Unfortunately for Oscar, you have a keen eye.

Fortunately for Oscar, you think his nervousness is charming.

To say you saw Oscar frequently from then on was an understatement. You were now his primary media team member, which meant that if he needed to film a video, you were most likely to be the one behind the camera or the one helping him prepare for the shoot. It felt like the Formula One Driver Distribution System had hurtled the man at you as hard as they could, insisting that your job now revolved solely around the polite man. You weren’t going to complain, either, because Oscar was as friendly as they come. It wasn’t just a façade to win the public's favor. He was sincerely a nice guy. If anything, he seemed harsher to the public’s eye. They often portrayed him as a villain or an outcast, implying that he disliked his team and everyone in it. Truth was, Oscar was just happy to be in the most sophisticated branch of racing there was. Formula One was truly an honor.

So, most of your shoots were filled with some light banter, mostly coming from his end as you kindly fumbled a witty response and spat out nonsense instead. Today was no different.

You were clipping the microphone onto Oscar’s suit. The team had just released some special racing suits, which meant it was your responsibility to shoot a promotional video featuring Oscar to discuss the design briefly. It wasn’t anything complicated, but you needed to make him look as good as possible. Both in the appealing eye candy way, and the likable driver way. He tilted his head back, allowing your fingers to move in and hook the small microphone onto the high collar of the suit. Your fingers gently brush against his neck, feather-like touches making his hair stand on end, and causing his breath to get caught in his throat momentarily. You don’t miss the way he gasps – how could you? You feel the tips of your ears get warm. The flush creeps down, dusting your cheeks.

“You’re not gonna electrocute me, right?” Oscar’s little joke cuts through the tense air, allowing you to breathe again. Your sigh comes out quietly. You sound almost relieved. 

“If I do, I’ll make sure to record it. You know, for entertainment.” He laughs, and you feel yourself puff up with pride because it was a well-deserved laugh and not one you’d boil down to pity. But when you both fall silent, that previous, unfamiliar sensation settles over the two of you. Making it was just the dramatic ring lighting, but he looked awfully handsome in the pure white suit. It brought out the drama of his body shape. Broad shoulders, thin waist, and– You should stop thinking like that. It’s unprofessional.

If you could take a bite out of him, and I mean this respectfully, you totally would.

You awkwardly adjust the front of his suit, subconsciously looking for reasons to make contact, and clear your throat. “All good,” you say dismissively, turning away to grab your phone and the tripod so filming can officially begin. Oscar was decent with these things, which meant this wouldn’t take too long. He averaged three takes on a good day, but after that previous interaction, you felt like he might need more. He seemed distracted now.

‘Yeah,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. You bite your cheek, keeping your thoughts at bay, because he just messed up his perfectly styled hair. “All good.”

Early mornings were not your cup of tea. After circling back to the MTC for winter break, you assumed that meant less work and more time for yourself during the dry season. Instead, it meant meetings that required you to get up at 5 a.m. to discuss things that could have been addressed via email. Everyone around you seems to share your thoughts, because the entire table looks like it’s full of zombies. They’re all nodding off, or are already slumped in their chairs. 

Oscar sits beside you, sliding a paper cup in your direction. You eyed it thoughtfully and then decided to accept the offer upon realizing it was a generous gift of coffee. “I don’t know how you like it, so I tried to stay as basic as possible.” He was sipping from his own cup, which was characteristically straight black coffee. That made far too much sense. You mimic him by sipping from your own cup, which was milkier in color after he added a bit of cream and sugar. Carefully concocted, and thankfully, you enjoyed the flavor.

“This could be poison, and honestly, I’d still drink it.” You hold the cup with both hands, letting the warmth spread throughout your fingers. Oscar laughs, and that alone is enough to warm you up on such a cold, dreary morning. He may not make the whole room light up, but he certainly knows how to brighten your day with his addictive laughter effortlessly.

“That tired?”

“Yes,” you state bluntly. “You’re not?”

“I’m just better at handling my tiredness.” Of course. He had years worth of experience getting up at the crack of dawn for a race after flying across the world and getting virtually no sleep. It actually seemed a little lame to complain about being tired to him in the first place. Thankfully, he wasn’t the judgmental type. 

The large windows that make up 90% of the walls allow the rays from the rising sun to seep in, spreading across the entire meeting room and serving as a wake-up call for anyone who hadn’t been previously alert. You’re focused on watching Lando, who was fully slumped over moments prior, crack his eyes open at the change in lighting, groaning in a disgruntled manner. Laughter bubbled up softly around the table, making your quiet grin spread across your features. Oscar, however, was determined to watch you glow under the warm sunlight. You were unmistakably beautiful. That was something he had already known. But now, seeing you like this, laughing with your team and basking in light, he felt like he was entirely, completely, utterly done for. He wants to soak his brain in the sight so that he never forgets. Your pretty eyes, lips, nose, hair… Everything from the top of your head to the tips of your toes was flawlessly beautiful in Oscar’s eyes; it was a realization he had made only just now.

You catch him staring. Of course, you do – he was shameless about it. “What?” You ask with a cheeky smile that makes his cheeks turn a deep shade of red, and forces him to look away with fear he might just admit you entrance him on the spot. But the head tilt? Oh, he was gone.

“Nothing,” he responds casually, turning his attention to the rising sun beyond the distant horizon. He sees both a pretty view and a potential topic change. “Nice morning.”

You hum, somewhat surprised. “I disagree,” you say, followed by a yawn to prove your point. “Would be nicer if I were still in bed.”

“You know what? Fair enough.”

“Happy birthday to you,” the entire McLaren garage sings for their driver, who is awkwardly shifting in the middle of them all. He doesn’t favor the attention being on him, mainly because he really wants to look anywhere but at you. 

Not entirely true.

Oscar would spend the whole day staring at you if he could, but that seemed a bit too on the nose considering his feelings for you. They were undeniable at this point – He was practically obsessed. He loved it when you brushed against him, or when you made a failed attempt at a sarcastic joke, and he still laughed at it because everything you said made him feel giddy. He didn’t like it at first. He felt uncomfortable with how fuzzy he felt when he stared at his ceiling, picturing your pretty smile or the way you sound when you say his name. But eventually he learned that he loved to love you, because finding beauty in everything you did was just so fun.

At the end of the song, you held out a cupcake with a singular candle lit on top. He closed his eyes, conjuring up a wish from the depths of his mind before he made a grand spectacle of blowing the flame out. The team cheered, and Oscar took the small cupcake from your grasp. With your hands free, you could now hand forth the stack of cards that came from the team. In fact, your very own was buried within the pile, waiting patiently to be read. But you didn’t stick around, because frankly… You were frightened by the idea of how he’d react.

When he had some time to himself, he began to go through the cards. To be honest, he didn’t care what everyone had to say. He just wanted to see what you wrote, so when he got to the very last card in the pile, which was tucked in a baby blue envelope with his name neatly written on the front, Oscar was practically shaking with excitement. Something familiar washed over him, like he could remember being in this exact place at this precise time before. He pushed those thoughts aside and tore open the envelope to retrieve your letter, which was written on notebook paper with star decals printed on.

Dear 81,

It has been a pleasure working with and getting to know you over the past few months. I appreciate your kindness in welcoming me into the team and allowing me to make this my second home. You’re now the brightest part of my days (which is totally unrelated to the fact that I see you more than I see my own family), and I look forward to working with you more in the future!

And yes, I figured it out. Perhaps you're still unaware, but when I realized it, I felt foolish. You always talked about how F1 was your dream when we were younger. That mixed with your number, 81? It should have clicked sooner. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, so if it still doesn’t click after this letter, feel free to pretend like it never happened.

Fare thee well. - 18 (Your favorite, Y/N)

He was an idiot. 

Oscar said nothing over the next few days. You assumed that he just hadn’t gotten around to reading them yet, or that maybe he never would. Or, and this was the worst-case scenario in your head, you had been wrong about him this entire time. Perhaps he wasn’t your 81 – your pal who stopped writing to you years ago – but a girl could definitely dream. So things carried on like usual. That is, until he worked up the courage to give you the response you deserved.

You were sitting in the garage late at night, the place empty except for yourself, when Oscar walked in. You were uploading a video to the McLaren channel, completely tuned out of your surroundings. 

BAM.

You looked up instantly, leaning away from the frightening noise. Oscar stood in front of you, hand out after dropping the stack of papers that was now scattered across the desk. You sat up straight, leaning over to see exactly what he had dropped. However, before he could do that, he picked up one of the sheets and began to read aloud, “Dear eighty-one,” he began. “I hope this letter finds you in good health. You don’t reply anymore, and I don’t know if you ever will, but I just wanted to say thank you for changing my life. That was the last letter you ever wrote.”

“You kept these–”

“Dear eighty-one,” he said again after tossing that letter aside and reaching for a new one. “I started to watch Formula One. I have so many questions. For example, wouldn’t the guy in the fastest car always win, or is there some sort of skill to it? I remember this one, because when I responded, I told you that racing always involved skill, and then you told me…” he reached for a different letter again, “I still don’t get it, but thanks anyway.”

“What are you–” 

Cut off again. “Fare thee well, dash eighteen.” He cycled through a small stack he had gathered. “Fare thee well, dash eighteen. Fare thee well, dash eighteen.” He sighed. “You always wished me the best, but I didn’t have the decency to respond? What did you think, that I was dead? That I had gotten into an accident?”

“Oscar!” You stand up, and he looks you directly in the eyes. “What is going on– Why is this stressing you out so much?”

“Because I didn’t respond,” he says again. “I should have just sent something back– anything.”

Your eyes drift down to the letters. He stands on the opposite side of the desk from you, a gentle frown etched into his features. You had never seen him this passionate about something, and you couldn’t say you didn’t understand why. “I can’t believe you kept them.”

“I kept all of you,” he replies softly, moving some of the letters around. Mixed in were Polaroids of random sights you had mailed to him. Little trinkets, wax seals, and even the crappy friendship bracelets you made when you were twelve and desperately wanted to form a physical connection with someone you didn’t even know the name of. “I just didn’t know it was you. And then you showed up again, and I…” He heaves a deep sigh, shrugging his shoulders.

“You..? You what?”

“I fell in love again.” 

Neither of you says anything. He reaches out, hesitantly. When he gets about halfway, you grab his wrist and move his hand closer, letting him cup your cheek tenderly. “Again?”

“Again,” Oscar confirms. “That’s why I stopped writing. Because I fell for someone I didn’t even know the name of. I knew nothing about you– Just that I liked talking to you so much I had to force myself to stop.”

“Osc…”

“I should have written back.”

You pause, mouth open, but words caught in your throat. Then, finally, “I think it’s better that you didn’t. Because maybe I wouldn’t have met you like this.”

He likes that answer.

It’s easy for everyone around you to see how madly in love Oscar is. No matter where he is, he always seems to be searching for you. And if you’re not there, he’s looking for an escape so he can call you to hear your voice again. But the public isn’t aware of these levels of adoration until he wins the next race, wearing a dopey grin when he spots you making your way to him.

The rest of the world is drowned out as he happily takes you into his arms, pressing his lips to yours in the most gentle, breathtaking kiss he could possibly give. “Fare thee well,” you whisper almost teasingly, lips curling up when he presses his forehead to yours.

“You as well.”

If the paparazzi caught you, they caught you. If the fans saw you, they saw you. But when Sky Sports asked George about his "love life" on the grid, he would just give that trademark, polite media-trained smile and talk about tire degradation instead.

The internet, naturally, became a team of detectives.

Exhibit A: A paparazzi photo from Mayfair. It was grainy, taken from across the street. It showed George holding an umbrella over a woman in a beige trench coat. His hand wasn't just holding the umbrella; his other hand was resting protectively on the small of her back as they waited for a cab. The internet identified your coat (Burberry) within four minutes. Exhibit B: The Monaco Coffee Run. A fan video on TikTok showed George in his Mercedes team kit and you in yoga pants and a hoodie, walking down the harbor. You were laughing, holding a coffee, and George was looking down at you, listening so intently he almost walked into a bollard. Exhibit C: The Background Details. George posted a photo of his sim rig. In the corner, draped over a chair, was a sparkly, Team [Country] figure skating jacket.

It wasn't a secret. It was just yours.

London was rarely sunny, but when it was, you took advantage of it.

You were walking through Hyde Park, coffees in hand. You wore sunglasses and a beanie; George wore a cap pulled low. To the casual observer, you were just a tall British guy and his athletic girlfriend.

"I'm just saying," you argued playfully, swinging your free hand which was firmly clasped in his. "If you put skates on, you’d be terrible. Your center of gravity is too high. You’re like a baby giraffe."

"I am an elite athlete," George scoffed, though he squeezed your hand. "I have impeccable balance. I could do a... what is it? A Salchow?"

"You'd break a hip, old man."

George stopped in the middle of the path. He turned to you, feigning offense, but his eyes were bright with mirth. He leaned down, effectively blocking the path of a very annoyed pigeon.

"I'll have you know," he murmured, close enough that you could smell his coffee, "that I am very agile."

"Prove it," you grinned.

He didn't do a spin. Instead, he leaned down and kissed you, right there in the middle of Hyde Park, with tourists walking by and cyclists ringing their bells. It was quick, sweet, and completely unbothered by the world around you.

A shutter clicked somewhere in the distance. George didn't even flinch. He just pulled back, winked, and kept walking.

"Agile," he repeated smugly.

The real test came during the summer break. You were in Monaco, dining at Cipriani with the usual suspects: Alex Albon and his girlfriend, Lily.

The rule was still in effect: act normal.

But "normal" for George when he was around you was apparently "hopelessly devoted."

The table was set with white linens and expensive wine. Alex was telling a chaotic story about his cats, and everyone was laughing.

George, however, was multitasking.

While nodding at Alex’s story, his hand was resting on the back of your chair, his fingers idly playing with the fabric of your dress near your shoulder.

"The water," George murmured, noticing your glass was half empty before the waiter did. He reached across, pouring sparkling water for you with the precision of a pit stop, ensuring the ice-to-water ratio was exactly how you liked it.

"Thanks," you smiled at him.

George didn't just smile back. He looked at you. It was The Look. It was a look that said he forgot anyone else was at the table. He watched you take a sip, his expression softening into something so tender it was almost embarrassing to witness.

Across the table, Alex kicked Lily under the table.

"Look at him," Alex whispered to Lily, pretending to look at the menu. "He's doing the eyes."

"He's down bad," Lily whispered back, hiding a giggle behind her napkin.

"George," Alex said loudly, breaking the spell. "Mate. You're staring."

George snapped out of it, blinking. "I was listening to the story. The cats. They... climbed the curtains."

"That was five minutes ago," Alex deadpanned. "We're talking about golf now."

"Right," George cleared his throat, his ears turning pink. He didn't move his hand from your chair, though. In fact, he shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours under the table.

"Ignore them," you whispered to George, reaching under the table to squeeze his knee.

"Hard to when they're right," George muttered into your ear, his voice low and warm. "I'd rather just look at you anyway."

You blushed, taking a bite of your pasta to hide your smile.

The next morning, a photo of the dinner surfaced on a gossip blog. The headline read: Russell and Ice Queen in Monaco.

The caption didn't talk about the food. It just zoomed in on George’s hand on your chair and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the room.

Top comment: He looks at her the way he looks at P1. It's over for him. He's gone.

The Mercedes garage is a hive of controlled chaos. Mechanics swarm around the W16, engineers stare at walls of data, and Toto Wolff is pacing.

Usually, George is in his zone—noise-canceling headphones on, eyes forward, locked in.

But today, he was different.

"No, move that one," George instructed, pointing to a high-back chair in the back of the driver's room, tucked away from the main glass window but with a perfect view of the telemetry screens. "She needs to see the sector times, or she'll get annoyed."

His physio, Aleix, just laughed. "It's a chair, George. She'll sit in it."

"It's her chair," George corrected, adjusting the angle by two inches.

When FP2 started, you were in that chair.

You weren't there as a WAG sipping champagne and taking selfies. You were there as an athlete. You had the heavy Mercedes team headset clamped over your ears, listening to the radio feed.

Your eyes darted across the monitors. You didn't understand the engine modes or the tire temperatures fully yet, but you understood lines. You understood momentum.

"He's wide," you murmured to yourself, watching George's onboard camera as he took Turn 4.

"Copy that," George’s voice crackled over the radio seconds later. "Understeer in Turn 4. Missed the apex."

You smiled. Physics was physics, whether on ice or asphalt.

Whenever the camera cut to the garage, the broadcast caught you. You were leaning forward, chin resting on your hand, eyes narrowed in concentration. You looked less like a supportive girlfriend and more like a junior engineer.

The fans loved it.

@.georgefan11 "Why is Y/N analyzing the telemetry harder than the strategists? Let her cook."

Throughout the weekend, the team noticed a new habit.

Every time George walked into the garage—helmet in hand, balaclava soaked with sweat—he didn't look for Toto. He didn't look for his performance coach.

His eyes scanned the back of the room immediately.

He wouldn't relax until he found you. Once he saw you—usually offering him a thumbs up or a sympathetic grimace depending on the session—his shoulders would drop. He’d give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. You're there. Okay. I'm good.

The moment that broke the internet happened on Saturday evening.

Qualifying had been stressful. A red flag, a chaotic restart, and a P3 finish that felt like a P1 battle.

You were standing outside the hospitality unit, waiting for George to finish his media pen duties. You were talking to one of the press officers, laughing at something she said, facing away from the walkway.

You didn't see him coming.

George walked up the paddock, still in his race suit but with the top half tied around his waist, revealing his white fireproof undershirt. He looked exhausted.

He didn't announce his arrival. He just walked right up behind you and collapsed into you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his tall frame curving down to rest his chin on your shoulder. He closed his eyes, ignoring the hundred cameras clicking nearby, and just breathed you in.

You didn't jump. You just reached back, your hands finding his forearms, holding him there.

The photo that went viral wasn't posed. It was raw.

It showed the famous George Russell, looking like a tired boy seeking his safe harbor, and you, the Ice Queen, being the only thing holding him up.

Caption on F1's Instagram: Sometimes P3 feels like a win. ❤️

Top Comment from Kimi: Get a room, you two.

The World Championships in Stockholm were the pinnacle of the season. The arena was packed to the rafters, a sea of flags and flashing cameras.

But in Section 104, Row B, there was a disturbance.

It wasn't a fight. It was a murmur that started in the row behind and rippled outward.

"Is that...?" "Oh my god, it is." "Why is he holding a forest?"

George was sitting there, wearing a thick navy wool coat and a scarf you had knitted for him (badly, but he swore it was his favorite). On his lap, resting precariously, was a bouquet of red roses so large it was practically its own ecosystem.

He looked completely unbothered by the whispers. He wasn't George Russell, Mercedes driver today. He was Y/N’s boyfriend, and he took that job very seriously.

Down on the ice, you were taking your starting position. The announcer’s voice boomed your name. You felt the familiar wave of nausea and adrenaline. You shook out your hands, taking a deep breath of the cold, dry air.

You did what you always did. You looked for your anchor.

You scanned the blur of faces in the VIP section until you locked onto the navy coat and the massive red blob of flowers.

George was watching you. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't talking to the person next to him. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, his gaze intense and unwavering.

When your eyes met, he simply raised his hand and gave a small, steady wave. Not a frantic cheer, just a calm acknowledgment.

I see you. You’ve got this.

You exhaled. The noise faded. You nodded back, just once, and took your opening pose.

The routine was the skate of your life. Every jump landed with a satisfying rip of the ice. Every spin was centered. When you finished, the crowd didn't just clap; they roared.

You sat in the "Kiss and Cry" area, clutching a plush toy a fan had thrown, waiting for the scores. Your coach was squeezing your shoulder.

158.42.

A new world record. Gold medal.

You buried your face in your hands, sobbing with relief.

Up in Section 104, the cameras swiveled away from you and pointed directly at George.

The man who usually faced 5G braking forces without blinking was a wreck.

He had jumped to his feet the second the score appeared, the giant bouquet nearly tumbling to the floor. He was clapping, his hands high above his head, but his face told the real story.

His eyes were shining, glossy with unshed tears. He bit his lip, trying to maintain some semblance of British composure, but it was a losing battle. He looked overwhelmed with pride, shaking his head slightly in disbelief at your brilliance.

He shouted something that the microphones couldn't pick up, but lip-readers on Twitter later deciphered it as: "That's my girl! Yes!"

He wiped his eye with the back of his hand, laughing wetly as the fan next to him patted him on the back.

Later, a photo would circulate of that moment.

It showed George, eyes red-rimmed and beaming, looking down at the ice like he was witnessing a miracle.

Twitter Trend #1: #GeorgeCrying

Tweet from @.mercedesamgf1 We've never seen him this emotional, even after a win. @.yourhandle, you broke him (in a good way). 🥇

It was 2:00 AM in Monaco. The city lights below were glittering like jewels, but inside the apartment, the only light came from the open laptop on the kitchen island.

You were standing there, frowning at a color-coded spreadsheet.

"Red is F1," you muttered to yourself, tracing a finger down the screen. "Blue is skating. Yellow is... strictly impossible."

You let out a soft sigh, rubbing your temples. The next six months looked like a logistical nightmare. You had a training camp in Japan; George had a triple-header in the Americas. There was a solid three-month block where your paths only crossed for twelve hours in an airport lounge in Dubai.

"You’re thinking too loud," a voice murmured.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist from behind. George rested his chin on top of your head, his chest pressing against your back. He was warm, smelling of sleep and comfort.

"I’m looking at the dates, George," you whispered, leaning back into him. "It’s... a lot of red and blue. Not a lot of purple."

George hummed, looking over your shoulder at the screen. "August looks good. Two whole weeks."

"In August," you pointed out dryly. "It’s currently March."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you, and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. The kitchen was quiet, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. He looked down at you, his eyes soft and heavy with sleep, his hair a mess.

You looked up at him, and the question that had been gnawing at you finally slipped out.

"Do you think it will work?" you asked quietly, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "With our very different lives? The travel, the pressure, the time zones... do you really think we can do this?"

It wasn't a doubt about love. It was a doubt about logistics. You were both at the peak of your careers, and the world demanded so much of you both.

George didn't answer immediately. He didn't brush it off with a joke. He looked at you, his expression turning serious but incredibly gentle. He reached down, taking your hands in his, intertwining his long fingers with yours. He squeezed them, a grounding pressure.

"I think about that sometimes," he admitted, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "The logic says it shouldn't work. The logic says we should be exhausted."

He stepped closer, eliminating the space between you.

"But then I look at you," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And I realize that when I'm with you, I'm not tired. Even when we're on a plane, or FaceTiming at 4 AM... it’s the only time I feel rested."

He raised your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"I think so," he said firmly, answering your question. "I think it will work. Because everything is easy with you."

You felt the tension in your chest unspool. He was right. The schedule was hard. The flights were hard. The media was hard. But loving him? That was the easiest thing you’d ever done.

"It is easy, isn't it?" you smiled, a small, relieved thing.

"Effortless," George confirmed.

He leaned down then, and you met him halfway. The kiss was slow and sleepy, tasting of trust. It wasn't a spark; it was a hearth fire—steady, warm, and built to last.

"We'll figure out the calendar," he murmured against your lips. "I'll fly to Japan. You'll fly to Austin. We'll make it work."

"Even if you're jet-lagged?"

"Especially if I'm jet-lagged. I'm very clingy when I'm tired."

You laughed, burying your face in his shirt. "Okay. Okay, Russell. We'll make it work."

Years Later

It was the kind of silence that money couldn't buy.

High in the Swiss Alps, overlooking a lake that had frozen into a sheet of polished glass, the world was white and still. There were no grandstands, no engines, no flashing scoreboards.

There were just forty wooden chairs set up on the terrace of a private chalet, draped in faux fur blankets to keep the guests warm against the crisp December air.

George stood at the end of the aisle, which was actually just a path cleared through the fresh snow, lined with lanterns.

He was wearing a dark velvet tuxedo—classic, sharp, and warm. He clasped his hands in front of him, rocking slightly on his heels.

"Breathe, mate," Alex Albon whispered from beside him, adjusting his own boutonnière. "You look like you're about to start Q3 on slicks in the rain."

"I'm fine," George said, his voice tight. "I'm just... is it time?"

"It's time."

The acoustic guitarist in the corner began to play a soft, slowed-down version of a song you both loved. The heavy oak doors of the chalet opened.

You stepped out into the cold air.

You weren't wearing the crystals or sequins of your competition days. You wore a dress of heavy, ivory silk that pooled around your feet like water. It had long sleeves and a high neck, simple and starkly elegant against the white landscape. You held a small bouquet of winter berries and white roses.

The cold bit at your cheeks, flushing them pink, but you didn't feel it. You only saw him.

George looked up.

For a second, he held it together. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding.

And then, he crumbled.

It wasn't a single cinematic tear. It was a full emotional surrender. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as if the sight of you was physically overwhelming. When he opened them again, they were swimming.

He laughed through the tears, shaking his head, stepping forward because he couldn't wait for you to get to the altar. He met you halfway down the aisle—protocol be damned.

"You look..." his voice cracked, and he gave up on speaking, just reaching for your hands.

"Don't cry, or I'll cry," you whispered, your own vision blurring as you squeezed his freezing fingers. "And I didn't wear waterproof mascara."

"Too late," George choked out, wiping his eyes with his thumb. "Way too late."

The ceremony was short. It was too cold for long speeches.

But in the quiet of the mountains, George’s voice was steady when it mattered.

"My life is fast," he said, holding both your hands, looking directly into your soul. "It is loud, and it is chaotic. But you... you are my stillness. You are the only place where I can stop. I promise to support you, to cheer for you, and to be your anchor, on the ice and off it. Forever."

When you kissed, the small crowd cheered, the sound muffled by the snow, making it feel like the moment belonged only to the two of you.

They never sold the photos to a magazine. They kept them in a leather-bound album on the coffee table.

But there was one photo that George framed for his office.

It was black and white. It was candid.

It showed the two of you walking back up the aisle, snowflakes caught in your hair and on his velvet shoulders. George had his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you into his side to keep you warm. You were throwing your head back, laughing at something he had just whispered, and he was looking down at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated peace.

It was the look of a man who had finally crossed the most important finish line of his life.

You had vanished for a few months.

Fans speculated, of course. They noticed you weren't at the last three Grand Prix races. They noticed your Instagram stories were mostly old throwbacks or close-ups of your dog. Some whispered about an injury; others suspected you were just tired.

They were wrong.

You were nesting.

You and George had spent the last nine months in a bubble of private anticipation. He had flown home after every race, painting the nursery a soft sage green, assembling cribs with the same intensity he applied to engineering debriefs, and reading books on sleep training.

It was December 25th. The fireplace was crackling in your living room in London. The remains of wrapping paper were scattered on the floor.

"She’s finally asleep," George whispered, walking back into the living room from the kitchen.

He was wearing grey sweatpants and a thick woolen jumper. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes that no concealer could hide—but he also looked softer than you had ever seen him.

He sat down on the sofa, leaning back into the cushions.

"Give her here," he murmured, extending his arms.

You carefully transferred the bundle in your arms to him.

Leo. Your daughter. She was tiny, wrapped in a white knit blanket, with a tuft of dark hair that defied gravity—just like her father’s.

George settled her onto his chest. She let out a tiny sigh, her small fist curling into the fabric of his jumper. George’s hand, so large in comparison, came up to cup the back of her head, his long fingers spanning nearly her entire back.

He closed his eyes, his chin resting gently on top of her head. The rise and fall of his chest slowed to match hers.

It was the most peaceful thing you had ever seen.

You picked up your phone. You didn't frame it perfectly. You didn't use a filter. You just snapped the photo.

Three hours later, George posted on Instagram.

It wasn't a press release. It was just a "Merry Christmas" carousel.

Slide 1: A photo of your dog wearing reindeer antlers. Slide 2: A blurry selfie of you and George laughing while burning a batch of cookies. Slide 3: The Photo.

There was no face reveal, just the image of George on the sofa, eyes closed, with a tiny, sleeping infant sprawled across his chest, his hand protecting her.

Caption: Merry Christmas from the three of us. Our little miracle. ❤️

The world stopped.

Within ten minutes, the post had a million likes. The comments section was a mix of chaos, screaming, and heart emojis.

@.lewishamilton Uncle Lewis is ready. Beautiful, brother. @.alexalbon Finally!! I can stop keeping secrets! She’s perfect. @.f1 A new lap record for cuteness. Congratulations George & Y/N! @.fan45 WAIT WHAT? THEY HAD A BABY? WHEN? HOW? SHE IS TINY. GEORGE IS A DAD. I AM CRYING. @.skatingworld A future gold medalist or a future world champion? Congratulations!

Back in the living room, George watched the notifications roll in on his phone for about thirty seconds, then tossed it onto the coffee table, face down.

He looked down at Leo, who was starting to stir, her tiny face scrunching up.

"They're going crazy," you whispered, sitting down next to him and resting your head on his shoulder.

"Let them," George murmured, not looking away from his daughter. He traced the shell of her tiny ear with his thumb. "They can have the photos. I get the real thing."

Leo opened her eyes—blurry, unfocused, but undeniably blue.

"Hi," George whispered to her, his voice cracking with pure emotion. "I'm your dad. I drive fast cars, but I promise... I'll always drive slow with you."

You kissed his cheek. "She's perfect, George."

"She is," he agreed, looking at you with that same look of awe he had given you at the World Championships all those years ago. "She's exactly like you."

"She has your eyes."

"Then she's in trouble," George grinned softly. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."

The private rink was quiet, save for the echo of childish giggles and the scrape of blades on fresh ice.

"Okay, are we ready for the formation lap?" George asked, his voice echoing slightly in the cold hall.

He was standing on the ice—well, "standing" was a generous term. He was balancing, his ankles bending slightly inward in his hockey skates, looking like a baby deer trying to find its footing. But he didn't care about his dignity. He only cared about the tiny bundle he was holding up.

Leo, now four years old, was decked out in a puffy pink snowsuit that made her look like a marshmallow. Her tiny white figure skates—custom-fitted, obviously—were laced tight. She was clinging to George’s leg, but her eyes were wide with excitement, not fear.

"Mama, look! I'm tall!" she squealed, wobbling as she tried to stand on her own.

"You are so tall, sweetheart," you beamed, gliding over to them effortlessly. You moved on the ice like it was air, circling your two favorite people with a backward crossover.

"Alright, Daddy is the safety car," you instructed, stopping in front of them. "He goes slow. You hold his hands."

George bent down, his tall frame folding in half so he could grasp Leo’s mitten-clad hands. "I am the best safety car," he muttered playfully. "Very reliable."

"Knees bent," you told Leo gently, tapping her little legs. "Like you're sitting in a tiny chair. And we march. March like a soldier. One, two. One, two."

Leo lifted one foot, then the other. It was clumsy, and she slipped almost immediately.

"Whoa!" George gasped, his reflexes kicking in instantly. He didn't slip. He planted his feet, his arms firm, catching her before she dipped more than an inch. He was her solid wall, her unshakeable support.

Leo didn't cry. She looked up at her dad and burst into giggles.

"Again!" she shouted.

For the next hour, that was the rhythm. You skating backwards, encouraging her with open arms. Leo shuffling forward, tongue poking out in concentration. And George, shuffling behind her or beside her, hunched over, his back probably aching, but his face split into a grin so wide it hurt.

At one point, George tried to show off a "turn" and nearly wiped out, his arms windmilling wildly.

You laughed so hard you had to double over, clutching your stomach. The sound of your laughter rang through the rink, bright and pure.

"It was a calculated slide!" George argued, laughing with you, his cheeks flushed bright red from the cold. "I was drifting!"

"You were falling, Russell!" you teased, skating over to him.

Eventually, Leo got tired. Her little legs gave out, and she demanded to be carried.

George scooped her up easily, settling her onto his hip. She immediately rested her head on his shoulder, her thumb finding her mouth, exhausted by the adventure.

The rink lights hummed. It was just the three of you in the center of the ice.

George looked at you. He was wearing a beanie, his nose was pink, and he was holding your daughter like she was the most precious trophy he had ever won. He looked tired, happy, and utterly complete.

"She did good," he whispered, swaying slightly on his skates to keep Leo soothed.

"She had a good teammate," you smiled, stepping into his personal space. You reached up, fixing the collar of his coat, your hands lingering on his chest.

"I love this," George murmured, looking around the empty rink, then back at you. "I love our life."

"Even the frozen toes?"

"Especially the frozen toes."

He leaned down. You rose up on your toe picks to meet him.

The kiss was soft, cold on the outside but warm on the inside. It tasted of hot chocolate and winter air. It wasn't a spark; it was a promise kept. It was the feeling of crossing the finish line and realizing you were exactly where you were meant to be.

"Race you to the exit?" you whispered against his lips, eyes sparkling.

George laughed, a low rumble in his chest that didn't wake the sleeping baby. "Not a chance, Ice Queen. I know when I'm outmatched."

He kissed your forehead one last time.

"Let's just go home."

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Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.

It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?

Still, you decided to try again.

During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.

You went for humor instead. A joke. 

Terrible idea, in hindsight.

“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”

Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”

And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”

“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.

He didn’t even look away from the road.

“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.

That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.

You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.

Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.

Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.

Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.

Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.

And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.

After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.

Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it. 

It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.

Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.

But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.

It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.

You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.

Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.

Yeah. This was a good morning.

You should have known it wouldn’t last.

It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.

But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.

“Y/N?”

Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.

And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.

You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.

“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”

Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.

You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”

Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.

But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.

Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”

He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.

“Small world,” he added to your silence.

You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”

Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You stared at him.

Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.

Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”

That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”

How surprising.

“So─”

You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.

You lied.

“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.

Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”

He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression. 

That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.

Not today, Satan.

The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.

You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.

“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”

And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.

“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”

Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”

Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”

You finally turned to face him fully.

His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.

“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”

That’s when something clicked.

You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.

But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.

Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.

“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”

You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?

“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.

Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.

“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!

Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”

Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”

“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.

Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”

“So small,” you nodded stiffly.

The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”

Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”

Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”

“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”

“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.

You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.

You paused. “Huh?”

“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”

“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”

“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”

You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”

You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”

“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”

The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.

Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.

That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.

“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.

“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.

Lando studied you. Waiting.

“Do I have to guess, or…?”

The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”

You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”

“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.” 

You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.

Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.

Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it. 

One you didn’t have an answer to.

The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.

You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.

But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.

Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.

“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.

He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.

“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”

“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”

He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?

It took a while for reality to set in. 

You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”

Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”

You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”

Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”

“No way.”

“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”

You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”

“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”

“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.

“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”

“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”

“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”

You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”