꯱ׁׅ֒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐚.

kim juhoon’s first meeting is at eight-thirty. board members from overseas. you’ve already sent the documents, printed three extra copies just in case, flagged the page he always forgets to reference.

his coffee will need to be on his desk at exactly eight-ten—black, no sugar, one splash of milk he will pretend he doesn’t need. you know this because on days when you forget, he drinks it slower. because on days when you add too much milk, he frowns without realizing it.

you unlock his office before he arrives. the lights flick on, illuminating clean lines and glass walls and a desk that never seems to gather dust because you never allow it to. you set the coffee machine running in the adjacent room, the quiet gurgle familiar enough that it feels like breathing.

by the time the rest of the office starts filtering in, you’ve already answered three emails, rescheduled one lunch juhoon forgot he had agreed to, and sent a reminder to legal on his behalf.

you don’t think about it. you rarely do. this is muscle memory. six years of it.

“morning, y/n.”

you look up to see martin hovering by your desk, adjusting his tie like he’s already stressed. senior management, finance. older than you by enough years that he treats you like both a colleague and a worrying younger cousin.

“morning,” you say, smiling automatically.

“is he in yet?”

“not yet,” you reply. “but he’ll be here in twelve minutes.”

martin raises his eyebrows. “of course he will.”

you don’t respond. there’s nothing to say. everyone knows this. kim juhoon doesn’t need to be punctual because you are punctual for him. he doesn’t need to remember because you remember. the company doesn’t need to worry because you are already worrying enough for everyone.

martin leans closer, lowering his voice. “you’re a lifesaver, as always.”

you nod, fingers already moving across your keyboard.

by eight-oh-eight, you hear the elevator ding again.

you don’t look up immediately. you never need to.

kim juhoon’s footsteps are precise. measured. expensive shoes on polished floors. he smells faintly of cologne—something clean and sharp—and the city air. he stops by your desk, exactly where he always does.

“good morning,” he says.

“good morning,” you reply. “your coffee will be ready in two minutes. your eight-thirty meeting room has been changed to conference b because a/v requested better acoustics. i’ve placed the revised agenda on your desk, and legal confirmed the clause revision you asked for last night.”

he hums, satisfied. “good.”

he doesn’t ask how you know what he asked for last night. he never does. he steps into his office without another word.

this is how it always goes.

by nine-thirty, the floor is fully alive. phones ringing, quiet conversations, the low thrum of productivity. you sit straight-backed at your desk, headset on, managing schedules like a conductor leading an orchestra that doesn’t realize it’s being guided.

james passes by, coffee in hand, giving you a lazy salute. “surviving?”

“thriving,” you say dryly.

he laughs. “you’re a better person than me.”

james has been with the company almost as long as you have, operations team. he knows the truth. he also knows juhoon would be lost without you. everyone does.

later, seonghyeon stops to ask about a presentation slot. yoonchae sends you a message asking if juhoon is in a good mood today. keonho, fresh-faced and still a little too earnest, asks if you think it’s okay to approach the ceo about a proposal.

you answer all of them.

what mood is he in? focused, slightly irritable, don’t push before lunch. yes, he’ll be free at three-fifteen. no, not today—try next week. you know the rhythms of him better than you know the rhythms of yourself.

around noon, you place lunch on his desk without being asked. he glances at it, then at you.

“i didn’t order this.”

“you skipped breakfast,” you say. “and you have back-to-back meetings until two.”

he frowns, then exhales. “right.”

he eats because you are watching. he always does.

you don’t eat until almost three, standing by the counter in the break room with a convenience store sandwich you barely taste. kang haerin joins you, scrolling through her phone.

“you’re staying late again, aren’t you?” she asks casually.

you shrug. “probably.”

she studies you for a moment, then smiles softly. “you know, you’re allowed to have a life.”

it’s meant to be a joke. light. harmless.

it still lands wrong.

you laugh because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “this is my life.”

haerin doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. no one ever does. they assume if there were a problem, you’d say something. they don’t realize how quietly problems can live inside you.

by the time the day winds down, juhoon is still in meetings. you reschedule dinner plans you never made. you answer emails marked urgent that no one else wants to deal with. you fix mistakes before they become visible.

when the office finally begins to empty, you remain.

the lights outside juhoon’s office are still on. you glance through the glass wall and see him standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight. focused. driven. brilliant.

you know this version of him well.

what you don’t know—what you don’t realize yet—is how little of yourself exists outside of this glass, this desk, this role.

as you pack up for the night, long after everyone else has gone, you pause with your hand on your bag. the office is quiet. too quiet. your phone lights up with a notification.

it’s a reminder.

kim juhoon — flight details to confirm.

you set your bag down and sit back at your desk.

you confirm the flight.

you don’t leave work so much as you detach from it.

it’s nearly nine by the time you step out of the building, the city already deep in its second wind. neon lights flicker on, traffic hums, laughter spills from somewhere down the street. life, happening loudly and without your permission.

you stand there for a second, phone in hand, thumb hovering over nothing in particular.

no missed calls. no messages that aren’t work-related. no plans waiting to be fulfilled.

you tell yourself that’s fine.

you walk toward the subway with your blazer draped over one arm, heels pinching slightly in a way you’ve learned to ignore. your reflection in the dark glass of a storefront looks polished, composed—someone who has it together. someone important.

someone tired.

your phone buzzes just as you step onto the platform.

james: we’re at the bar near the office. you coming or are you being held hostage again

you stare at the message longer than necessary.

you had forgotten about that.

forgotten like you forget birthdays, like you forget weekends, like you forget that people can exist without calendars and deadlines pressing in on them.

you type back.

you: idk if i can make it. juhoon might need—

you stop.

delete the message.

retype.

you: i’ll try

it feels like a lie even as you send it.

by the time you reach the bar, they’re already on their second round. the place is warm and loud and alive in a way your office never is. seonghyeon is leaning back in his chair, laughing at something keonho is saying far too animatedly. yoonchae spots you first and waves you over dramatically.

“she lives!” yoonchae announces. “we were starting to think you were a myth.”

you smile, genuine this time, sliding into the empty seat beside her. “i exist. occasionally.”

james raises his glass. “to y/n, the only person keeping this entire company from collapsing.”

“don’t say that,” you say automatically.

he grins. “it’s true though.”

haerin passes you a drink without asking what you want. she already knows. you take a sip, the alcohol burning pleasantly on the way down, loosening something in your chest.

for a moment, it’s easy.

you laugh. you listen. you complain about small things that don’t matter. keonho talks about a mistake he made earlier that day and how you saved him from getting yelled at. seonghyeon nudges you with his elbow.

“seriously,” he says. “what would we do without you?”

the question is light. rhetorical.

it still makes your stomach twist.

“you’d survive,” you say, brushing it off.

yoonchae tilts her head, studying you in a way that feels a little too perceptive. “do you ever do anything that’s not… this?” she asks, gesturing vaguely. “work. us. him.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“like,” haerin cuts in gently, “hobbies. dating. literally anything that doesn’t involve kim juhoon’s calendar.”

james snorts. “bold of you to assume juhoon would survive without her for that long.”

they all laugh. you do too, because it’s easier than answering. the truth sits heavy and unspoken between you.

you don’t have a good answer because you don’t have an answer at all.

your phone buzzes on the table.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

still, you do.

juhoon: where are you?

you swallow.

the table goes quiet, just for a beat. yoonchae notices your expression change.

“you don’t have to,” she says softly.

you hesitate. “he just—”

“always does,” james finishes, not unkindly.

you type back anyway.

you: out. is something wrong?

three dots appear almost immediately.

juhoon: i need the itinerary for next week’s trip. now.

now. not please. not when you can. now. your fingers move before your brain can protest.

you: give me five minutes

you stand up, already reaching for your bag.

“you’re leaving,” keonho says, disappointed but unsurprised.

“i’ll be right back,” you lie.

no one calls you out on it.

outside, the night air feels colder. quieter. you step away from the bar, leaning against the wall as you pull up your laptop on instinct, fingers flying through folders and documents you know by heart.

you send the file.

almost immediately, your phone buzzes again.

juhoon: good.

that’s it.

no thank you. no acknowledgment of the fact that it’s late. that you’re not at your desk. that you were doing something—anything—else.

you close your laptop slowly.

when you go back inside, the energy has shifted. the moment is gone. the laughter feels distant now, like you’re watching it through glass.

“everything okay?” haerin asks. you nod. “yeah. i should head out though.” james groans. “you always do this.”

“i know,” you say quietly.

yoonchae walks you to the door. she doesn’t say anything at first, just stands beside you as you slip your coat back on.

finally, she asks, “are you happy?”

the question catches you off guard. “of course,” you say automatically. she looks at you for a long moment, then smiles sadly. “okay.”

you walk home alone.

your apartment is clean. too clean. minimal furniture, neutral colors. a place you sleep in more than live in. you kick off your shoes, toss your bag onto the chair, and stand there in the silence.

you think about the question.

are you happy?

you think about how your phone is still in your hand.

you think about how even now, you’re waiting for it to buzz again.

you sit on the edge of your bed and scroll through your calendar. tomorrow is full. the day after that too. weeks stretch ahead of you in neat, color-coded blocks, all of them centered around one name.

kim juhoon.

you scroll back. months. years.

you can’t remember the last time you put something on the calendar just for yourself.

the realization doesn’t come with tears or drama. it settles quietly in your chest, heavy and undeniable.

you don’t have a life outside of work.

worse—you don’t know how to start one.

you set your phone down, face-down this time, and stare at the wall.

for the first time in six years, the thought forms clearly in your mind.

something has to change.

you don’t know how yet.

but you do know this:

you can’t keep living like this.

—

the call comes in the middle of the afternoon, right when everything is balanced on a knife’s edge.

you’re standing by the printer, papers warm in your hands, already mentally rearranging the rest of the day. juhoon’s meeting ran ten minutes over. legal is waiting on confirmation. james needs approval on a revised budget. it’s all manageable. it always is.

your phone vibrates in your pocket.

once.

twice.

you frown. no one calls you during work hours unless something is wrong. you step into the hallway without thinking, press the phone to your ear.

“hello?”

there’s a pause on the other end. breathing. rushed, uneven.

“y/n,” a voice says. familiar. too tight. “it’s me.”

your chest tightens immediately. “what’s wrong?”

another pause. longer this time.

“it’s your brother,” your mother says. “he—there was an accident. nothing life-threatening, but he’s at the hospital. they want family here.”

the hallway feels suddenly too narrow. the walls too close.

“what?” you whisper. “is he—”

“he’s conscious,” sne cuts in quickly. “but shaken up. hurt. he keeps asking for you.”

your hand curls into the fabric of your skirt.

“where?” you ask.

she tells you. it’s not far. an hour, maybe less if traffic cooperates. you could be there before evening. you could—

“can you come?” she asks softly.

you look back toward the office floor through the glass. see your desk. see juhoon’s office door closed, light still on.

“i—” your voice falters. you swallow. “i’ll try.”

you hang up before she can hear the hesitation.

for a moment, you just stand there.

then you straighten your shoulders and walk back to your desk.

juhoon exits his office as you’re pulling up his schedule. he looks mildly irritated, like someone whose day has been inconvenienced.

“where are the revised contracts?” he asks.

“i’ll send them in five minutes,” you say, then hesitate. “sir—”

he pauses, glancing at you. “what is it?”

your heart is beating too fast.

“i need to take immediate leave,” you say carefully.

the words feel foreign in your mouth. you don’t explain. you don’t justify. you just state it.

juhoon blinks. “now?”

“Yes.”

he exhales sharply, already shaking his head. “that’s not possible.”

you stiffen. “it’s urgent.”

“everything today is urgent,” he says, tone clipped. “you know that. we have back-to-back meetings, and i still need you here to prep for tomorrow. you can’t just leave.”

you open your mouth. close it.

“I can finish what’s necessary remotely,” you try. “i just need to step away for a few hours.”

“No,” he says immediately. “i need you here.”

the words land harder than you expect.

he doesn’t ask why.

doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

doesn’t even look concerned.

he just turns back toward his office, already moving on. “push my six o’clock and reschedule dinner. and i want the travel details finalized by end of day.”

you stand there, frozen.

“y/n?” he adds, not looking at you. “are you listening?”

“Yes,” you say automatically.

he nods once, satisfied, and disappears behind glass.

you sit down slowly.

your phone vibrates again.

you don’t pick it up.

you finish the revised contracts. you finalize the travel details. you reschedule the dinner you know he won’t remember agreeing to. you answer emails, type notes, fix mistakes before anyone notices them.

your phone vibrates again.

and again.

finally, during a brief lull, you pick it up and step into the stairwell.

you call back.

“hey,” you say quietly. “i can’t come.”

there’s silence on the other end. then—

“…what?”

“I can’t,” you repeat. “work is—today is bad. i can’t leave.”

“y/n,” she says slowly. “your brother is in the hospital.”

“I know,” you whisper. “i’m sorry.”

the silence that follows is sharp.

“do you hear yourself?” she asks. “are you serious right now?”

you close your eyes.

“you always do this,” she continues, voice rising. “it’s always work. always him. do you even realize how insane that sounds?”

“please,” you murmur. “i don’t have a choice.”

“you do,” she snaps. “you just never take it. you’re married to that job. no—married to him.”

“That’s not—”

“isn’t it?” she interrupts. “when was the last time you chose yourself? or us? do you even have a life outside of kim juhoon?”

the name hits something raw inside you.

you don’t answer.

because you can’t.

she exhales harshly. “i’ll tell him you’re busy,” she says bitterly. “like always.”

the call ends.

you stay in the stairwell long after the screen goes dark.

do you even have a life outside of him?

the question echoes, louder than yoonchae’s had been. harsher. unavoidable.

you return to your desk on autopilot. the rest of the day passes in a blur.

by the time the office empties, you’re still there. the lights hum overhead. juhoon finally exits his office, shrugging on his coat.

“good work today,” he says absently. “send me the updated schedule when you’re done.”

you look at him.

really look.

at the man whose life you have organized down to the minute. the man who didn’t hesitate to say no. the man who doesn’t know anything about your brother, or the call, or the way your hands were shaking.

“okay,” you say.

he leaves. you don’t send the schedule. instead, you open a blank document.

the cursor blinks at you, patient. you stare at it for a long time. then you start typing. the letter isn’t dramatic.

it’s polite. grateful. composed.

you thank him for the opportunity. for the trust. for the years. you state your intention clearly, calmly. you give notice. you offer to assist with the transition.

six years reduced to paragraphs.

when you’re done, you read it once. you don’t cry.

you print it, slide it into an envelope, and place it neatly on your desk. the office is silent.

for the first time in a long time, so are you.

tomorrow, everything will change.

—

you place the envelope on his desk like you always do with important documents. neat, centered, polite. you take a step back. let him see it. wait.

he glances up from the contract he’s reviewing. frowns.

“what’s this?” he asks. voice calm, clipped, but curiosity flickers across his eyes.

“my resignation,” you say evenly.

his eyebrows rise. “you’re joking.”

you don’t smile. you don’t laugh. you don’t say anything.

he sets the contract down. “you’re joking.”

“i’m not,” you reply.

he leans back in his chair, studying you like he’s trying to analyze a malfunctioning machine. “you’re serious?”

you nod. “yes. two months’ notice.”

he blinks. pauses. looks back down at the desk as if the envelope might spontaneously vanish. then, slowly, irritation creeps into his voice. “this—this can’t happen. you need approval. you can’t just—no one just—”

you fold your arms lightly. “i’ve already decided. i’ll train whoever takes my place over the next two months.”

he waves a hand, dismissive, a little sharp. “training? that’s not enough. i need to approve it. i need to—this is sudden. unprofessional. you’re—what are you doing?”

“i’m giving my notice,” you repeat calmly. “as per company policy. two months. i’ll make sure there’s a smooth transition.”

he leans forward, resting his forehead in one hand, exhaling sharply. “you can’t just walk away. six years—y/n, six years! you know how dependent everything is on you.”

“i know,” you say softly. “that’s why i’ll train my replacement. so it doesn’t collapse after i leave.”

he freezes. his hand falls away. there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, irritation blooming into disbelief again. “you—this isn’t how it works. people don’t just… resign.”

“i do,” you say.

for a long moment, neither of you speaks. the office hum continues around you, quiet observers in the fluorescent light. your heartbeat slows. for once, you feel like the one in control.

then he speaks again, lower, tighter: “you’re not negotiating?”

“i’m not.”

“no counteroffer?” his voice rises slightly, disbelief mingling with frustration. “you don’t want a raise? extra vacation? better office? i can—”

“i’m not negotiating,” you repeat. the words are calm, soft, but firm.

he leans back, jaw tightening. silence stretches. longer than usual. longer than either of you likes.

finally he mutters, almost to himself, “you can’t do this… without—without me approving it.”

you glance at the clock. twenty-seven minutes since you placed the letter on the desk.

“two months’ notice,” you say quietly. “i will train my replacement. everything else is arranged. that is all.”

his fingers drum on the desk. you can see the internal calculations, the impossibility of the situation playing in his head.

annoyance, then confusion. a small crease forms between his brows. his usual arrogance fights the unfamiliar feeling of—powerlessness.

“you’re serious,” he says at last. almost accusingly.

you nod. yes. very serious.

the balance that existed for six years—the invisible rhythm of your life orbiting around his—tilts, and you are finally standing at the center of your own.

the next morning, the office reacts. you gather your friends at work quietly. “she’s leaving in two months,” james says, mock groaning, but eyes soft.

“i’m happy for her,” haerin adds, shaking her head. “but also… sad.”

you smile faintly. “i’ll train my replacement. it’ll be okay.”

“we’ll miss you,” yoonchae says. voice small.

“we know,” you say. “but it’s time.”

meanwhile, juhoon is still reeling in his office. no one has seen him flustered like this before.

—

the morning is quieter than usual, and you let it be. no early arrival. no preemptive emails. the lobby is empty when you step in at eight-fifteen, exactly fifteen minutes before the first meeting. the coffee machine hums. your heels click softly on the marble. nothing extraordinary. nothing heroic. nothing juhoon can weaponize against you.

he notices immediately. eyes narrowing slightly as he walks past you. “you’re late,” he says, tone clipped.

“on time,” you reply evenly.

he stops, frowning. “you usually—”

“i’m on time,” you repeat. no inflection, no apology.

the first ripple of panic forms in his chest. he doesn’t like deviation. not from you.

by mid-morning, he’s cornered you in his office. papers stacked in neat piles, contract revisions in hand. his eyebrows are tight, voice sharper than usual.

“you can’t do this,” he says. “i’ll give you whatever you want. raise, benefits, promotion. just don’t leave.”

you fold your hands calmly. “thank you. but i’m not negotiating.”

he blinks, then leans back, irritation mounting. “what about authority? control over your schedule? flexible hours?”

“not interested,” you say.

he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “what—what is it then? do you hate the company? me?”

you shake your head. “i don’t hate anything. i just… don’t know who i am outside of this.”

his expression freezes. confusion, disbelief, irritation, all at once. his carefully curated ego isn’t built for this kind of honesty. it’s not about fixing things with money or perks. it’s about something he doesn’t know how to navigate: you existing for yourself.

he’s silent for a long moment. then he mutters, almost to himself, “i don’t understand…”

you nod once. no more explanation needed. you return to your desk. no extra work. no running ahead of schedule. no answering emails at midnight. nothing that isn’t your responsibility. you’re calm. professional. distant. human.

your coworkers notice immediately. james leans over mid-morning. “you’re actually… on time?”

“for once,” you say, sipping your coffee.

haerin frowns but smiles. “you’re actually… leaving work when it’s done?”

“i promised myself i would,” you reply. soft but firm.

—

by the second week of your new rhythm, the cracks start to show. the office isn’t silent anymore—it’s tense, chaotic, uneven.

meetings overlap. legal receives documents late or with missing signatures. board presentations are scheduled in the wrong rooms. keonho double-books a call.

seonghyeon misplaces reports. james sighs heavily, scanning spreadsheets that don’t balance. the rhythm you once maintained effortlessly no longer exists.

juhoon grows irritable. pacing, muttering to himself, snapping at minor mistakes. the coffee isn’t the right temperature. the printers jam. the office plants die.

little things, but cumulatively they scream that the system has depended on you far more than anyone admitted.

he glances at you—still composed, still polite, still on schedule—and something in him twists. he notices things he used to ignore: how you reordered a pile of files he never noticed missing, how your notes preempted errors before they happened, how every employee subtly relied on your presence to survive.

flashbacks flicker in his mind: the time he left early and you stayed late to finish the report. the meeting you saved by correcting a mistake he hadn’t noticed.

the call you took for him at midnight. the small, invisible labor that never registered as labor at all.

guilt forms, slow, unfamiliar, uncomfortable.

“you’re… irreplaceable,” he mutters under his breath one afternoon, staring at a misprinted schedule he can’t fix.

not because of skill alone—but because of care, meticulous, constant care he never acknowledged.

you notice none of it. you continue your routine: work assigned to you, work done, clock out on time. professionalism, boundaries, calm. your smile is softer. your energy quieter. you are present, and yet absent.

around the office, your coworkers whisper, shake their heads, glance at each other. “i can’t believe she’s actually leaving,” haerin murmurs.

“we’ll survive,” james says, though his tone is only half-joking.

you smile faintly, acknowledging the truth. yes, things are unraveling, yes, the office will feel the impact—but not catastrophically. not irreparably.

juhoon doesn’t speak to you about it directly. he doesn’t admit his panic. he doesn’t ask for explanations. but you see it in the tension around him. the minor irritations.

the subtle shifting of schedules. the way he checks the clock at six, again at six-thirty, then finally leaves the office reluctantly, watching you leave at exactly six.

for the first time in six years, you’re no longer an extension of him.

and for the first time, he realizes he doesn’t know what that means.

—

it’s mid-afternoon. sunlight spills lazily across your living room, warm and quiet. you’re in comfort: oversized hoodie, soft sweatpants, hair tied in a messy bun, face mask slapped on with the precision of someone who doesn’t care. a mug of tea steams on the table beside you.

you’re exactly where you want to be. not at the office. not fixing schedules. not putting out fires that shouldn’t exist. not worrying about him.

the doorbell rings. twice.

frowning, you shuffle to the door, peeking through the peephole. your heart stutters. he’s standing there. juhoon, in a sharply pressed suit, hair perfect, eyes wide with disbelief—or is it panic?—and somehow, even now, vaguely intimidating.

you open the door.

“y/n.”

“hi?” your voice is slow, cautious. you’re acutely aware of the face mask, the hoodie, the sweatpants. you make no effort to explain. he steps forward, ignoring your threshold.

“what—what are you doing here?” you ask.

he stares at you, unblinking. “why aren’t you at work?”

“i’m at home,” you say simply.

“at home?!” he snaps. “the office is—chaotic. everything is falling apart. reports missing, meetings overlapping, keonho double-booked, seonghyeon—”

you raise a hand. “i know. you’re handling it.”

“handling it?!” he yells, voice rising, eyes wide. “it’s a mess. a mess! we need you. please, just come back. today. right now.”

you tilt your head, calm. “no.”

he freezes for half a beat, then goes red, then flustered, pacing the narrow walkway to your door. “what do you mean no? why not? why won’t you come back? please, i’m asking you—this isn’t a negotiation, this is an emergency. y/n—”

you raise an eyebrow, sipping your tea. “i’m not coming back. not today.”

“not coming back?!” his hands ball into fists. “do you understand what’s happening without you? the office is a disaster. i can’t—we can’t function without you! please! why are you like this?”

you set the mug down slowly. “because for six years, everything has been you. your schedule, your convenience, your needs. i’ve organized your life, anticipated your every move, canceled my own, ignored my own life. and now i’m finally doing something for me.”

he blinks, mouth slightly open. then, panic rising again, he steps closer, lowering his voice, pleading. “i don’t care about that! we need you! you’re irreplaceable! please, just for a day—just come back today. i’ll—i’ll make it work. whatever you want, i’ll fix it. just… just come back.”

you shake your head gently. “it’s not about one day. it’s about everything. i need boundaries. i need a life outside of work. outside of you. i need to exist for myself. that’s why i handed in my resignation. that’s why i’m doing this.”

his chest rises and falls, frustration and panic and disbelief warring on his face. “but we can’t! you can’t just leave us like this. please, y/n. just… come back. i’ll… i’ll—”

“i’m not coming back today,” you interrupt softly, firmly. “but i will be there tomorrow. for my transition. for the office. for them. not for you.”

he staggers back slightly, processing. his jaw tightens. lips pressed into a thin line. he wants to argue, to beg, to manipulate—but you’re calm, unshakable. the balance of power has shifted.

“tomorrow,” you repeat. “and i’ll do my part to train my replacement. everything else is mine to decide. i’m not stepping into your chaos today. not for you. not for anyone.”

he glares, but says nothing. the words he wants to scream can’t pierce the wall of your composure.

finally, with one sharp inhale, he mutters, voice low but tense, “fine… tomorrow.”

you nod, closing the door gently behind him, leaving him on your doorstep, slightly out of control, while you go back to your tea.

the quiet settles around you again. you feel it: your life, small but yours.

—

you arrive at the office, on time as always, calm, collected. nothing extraordinary, no early mornings, no last-minute heroics. the hum of fluorescent lights and quiet chatter is familiar, grounding.

he’s already there, leaning against his desk, arms crossed, sharp gaze fixed somewhere in the distance—or so you think.

you glance up from your planner, and for the first time in six years, he looks directly at you. really looks.

“y/n,” he says, voice low, a little uncertain. “can i… ask you something?”

you pause. the question is innocent enough, but there’s an unfamiliar weight behind it.

“sure,” you say cautiously.

he hesitates, as if weighing every word. “what… what do you… like to do… outside of work?”

the question stuns you—not because it’s impossible to answer, but because it’s coming from him. him. the man whose life you’ve organized, whose needs you’ve anticipated, whose expectations you’ve met without fail. suddenly, he’s curious about you.

“i—” you start, then pause. you straighten in your chair. “this isn’t part of my job anymore,” you say calmly. “so i don’t answer questions like that.”

he blinks, jaw tightening slightly. the usual arrogance, the polished confidence, doesn’t fit here. he fumbles slightly with his words, awkward, stiff, sincere in a way that’s unfamiliar. “i… i’m not asking as your boss. i just—”

“i know,” you say, softer now. “but boundaries still exist. this is my life.”

he exhales, clearly frustrated, but it’s tempered by something else—a quiet, careful attention. he notices the little things you do differently now.

the way you organize your notes neatly without obsessing over perfection. how you glance up at him once, calmly, and then go back to your work without waiting for his approval. the subtle shift in your posture, relaxed but confident. the faint smile you allow yourself when james cracks a joke across the room.

he leans back slightly, watching you as if you were a complicated equation he’s been trying to solve for years and is only now beginning to understand the variables.

“y/n,” he tries again later, carefully, almost awkwardly, “did you—have dinner last night… alone?”

you blink. “i did.”

he frowns slightly. “was it… good?”

you glance at him, surprised by his interest. genuinely surprised. “it was fine,” you reply. “i don’t need to discuss it with you.”

he looks down, rubbing the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “i don’t… i didn’t realize…”

you notice the tension in his jaw, the way his hands twitch slightly as he folds papers he doesn’t need to fold. the careful, careful attention he’s giving you now is almost… dangerous.

dangerous because it’s new. dangerous because he’s noticing you, not the work you do, not the office chaos you prevent.

“y/n,” he says quietly, almost as an afterthought, “do you… want help with anything? personally?”

you stare at him, then shake your head. “no,” you say, firm but not cold. “i don’t need you to fix me. this… is no longer your responsibility.”

he freezes again, the words hitting him harder than he expects. he’s used to control, used to solutions, used to power. now he’s confronted with someone he’s never really had to care about like this.

you return to your work, and he watches. quietly. carefully.

and in the way he studies you, you realize something subtle but undeniable: he’s learning how to see you.

you, not your work.

the room feels smaller suddenly. closer. warmer. and for the first time in years, the boundaries between professional and personal feel like fragile glass.

something blooms in that silence.

you don’t reach for it. he doesn’t force it. but both of you know it’s there, waiting.

—

the office feels… different. not quieter. not calmer. just… ordered in a way that doesn’t require your constant intervention.

you notice it first in the mornings. the elevator doors open, and you step onto the floor at exactly eight-fifteen. no one stares at you. no one hovers.

meetings are scheduled efficiently, room assignments accurate. reports arrive on time, signed, double-checked. the chaos that once clung to every corner of the office has softened.

you glance across at him—juhoon—leaning back in his chair, arms folded, observing rather than directing. he catches your eye. there’s no question, no demand. just a subtle acknowledgment, almost apologetic.

the first small proof comes when he asks for your schedule—not to control it, not to demand your presence—but simply to coordinate.

“you have the afternoon free?” he asks quietly.

you nod. “yes. i’ll be off-site after lunch.”

“good,” he says. no pushback, no insistence, just… respect.

you blink. it’s a small thing. almost imperceptible. but after years of intrusion, it feels monumental.

by the second week, he’s adjusting meetings without consulting you unnecessarily. he keeps your workload reasonable.

he stops expecting last-minute approvals. he respects your time—not because he’s told to, not because it benefits him, but because he’s learning, slowly, that your life exists outside of him.

you begin to live again.

hobbies return. the yoga mat you forgot you owned gets dusted off. painting supplies emerge from the back of the closet. you take walks at sunset, just because.

your evenings are your own. your weekends are your own. the boundaries you set are respected, and for the first time in years, it feels like you’re breathing outside of the office walls.

distance exists between you and him now. not coldness, not hostility, just… room. space. choice.

and yet the tension lingers. subtle. electric. unspoken.

he watches more closely now, notices small details you never realized he’d see.

the way you smile when keonho cracks a joke at your expense. how your hair falls differently after an evening walk. the faint scent of tea or perfume that lingers after your brief moments away.

he doesn’t comment. he doesn’t intrude. he simply notices. and in noticing, you realize trust is slowly rebuilding—not in words, not in promises, but in action.

you carry on with your life. and he… adjusts. imperfectly, fumblingly, but consistently.

for the first time in years, the office is no longer your cage, and juhoon is learning how to respect the boundaries that make you whole.

—

it’s subtle at first. the kind of change that almost slips by if you’re not paying attention.

you’re at your desk, quietly reviewing documents, when he stops by—not for a signature, not to demand a revision, not to tell you how something should be done. just… stops.

“y/n,” he says softly. “did keonho manage to finish his report on time?”

you blink. pause. “yes… he did. surprisingly.”

he frowns, small but genuine, as if he’s upset he didn’t notice. “i should’ve checked in. i… didn’t realize.”

the moment passes quickly, and he moves on, but something in it lingers. he’s asking about people. not just about deadlines or workflow. not just about results. about them, the people who work under you—or rather, around him.

you catch him later in the day, talking quietly to haerin. not commanding, not correcting, just listening. really listening. she’s gesturing animatedly about some minor problem she had, and for once, he doesn’t cut in.

he doesn’t dismiss her concern. he nods, occasionally asking questions. you notice the corners of his mouth twitch, almost… amused. a hint of warmth.

at first, you hesitate to believe it. six years of habits aren’t undone in a week. his old tendencies—the control, the obsession with perfection, the subtle narcissism—are still there.

you catch the faint smirk when a minor mistake is made, the tiny eyebrow raise when he realizes he can fix it better himself, the sharp tone when someone genuinely drops the ball. it’s him. unmistakably.

but layered underneath, there’s something new. patience. curiosity. care.

later, he stops by your desk again. you’re sipping tea, a small ritual you’ve reclaimed for yourself.

“y/n,” he begins, almost hesitantly. “how… are you? today?”

you blink. your hands still. your mind ticks. he’s never asked about you—not like this. not since you can remember.

“i’m… fine,” you say cautiously, still wary of old patterns.

“really?” he presses, leaning slightly forward. there’s no command here, no assumption that he knows. just… inquiry. genuine, awkward, stiff, sincere.

“really,” you repeat. you notice the effort it takes him. the small vulnerability hidden under his habitual control.

it’s almost funny—juhoon, the man who has orchestrated every aspect of everyone’s life for six years, trying to ask someone how they feel without sounding like a CEO running a crisis.

you sip your tea, letting the moment linger. you realize, slowly, almost uncomfortably, that you’ve never seen him like this before.

throughout the week, you notice more patterns.

he asks keonho how his weekend went and actually listens. he leaves a note on yoonchae’s desk praising a well-done presentation.

he comments quietly when seonghyeon brings in homemade snacks, genuinely complimenting the effort. he doesn’t hover, doesn’t micromanage, doesn’t assume he knows best.

and all of it—the subtle attention, the small care—catches you off guard.

sometimes you catch him glancing at you, timing a question perfectly, tilting his head slightly, as if he’s waiting for a reaction. it’s almost… playful. a little dangerous.

you catch yourself smiling faintly, shaking your head. six years of thinking of him as untouchable, cold, narcissistic—and now he’s… human.

or at least, a version of him that’s human enough to notice you and the people around you in ways he never did.

the tension is quiet. almost imperceptible. not romance yet. just… observation. recognition. attention. a subtle shift that feels like the first crack in the carefully controlled wall he’s built around himself.

and for the first time in a long time, you start thinking: maybe there’s more to him than the man who demanded your life. maybe he’s… capable of more.

and the smallest flicker of curiosity blooms in your chest.

you don’t act on it. not yet. you don’t have to. it’s enough to notice.

and that, you realize, is the beginning.

—

the park is buzzing with energy. a soft summer sun hangs overhead, the smell of grilled meat mingling with grass and laughter. music hums from a speaker someone dragged along. chairs are scattered in clumps; blankets lay on the grass.

you’re leaning against a tree, holding a plate, sipping a drink, scanning the scene. it’s relaxed, chaotic, exactly what everyone needs after months of deadlines and back-to-back meetings.

and then you see him.

juhoon. in a polo shirt, sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets. watching quietly from the edge of the group.

you blink. he’s never been here. not once. he usually sends a polite “have fun” email or skips entirely, citing urgent matters. yet here he is. actually here.

“he’s… actually here,” keonho mutters beside you, wide-eyed.

“i know,” you whisper, equally surprised. a strange flutter forms in your chest.

he doesn’t just stand there. after a moment, he’s drawn into a game of frisbee with seonghyeon, laughing—really laughing, a sharp contrast to his usual controlled self. people cheer as he makes a surprisingly good throw.

later, at the barbecue, he steps forward to flip a burger. the action is casual, efficient, competent—but not controlling. he doesn’t bark orders. he doesn’t micromanage. he just… participates.

you catch him from across the table. he’s watching you laugh at something james said, eyes tracking lightly, almost shyly. for a fraction of a second, he smiles at you. small. subtle. almost imperceptible.

your chest tightens. you blink. what… did that mean?

he joins a water balloon toss. someone misses and the balloon bursts on his shirt. he steps back, startled, then laughs—bright, unguarded. the office collectively stares. “he’s… human,” haerin mutters under her breath.

he reaches for a plate of food at the same time as you. your hands brush. light. fleeting. you freeze for a heartbeat. so does he.

“oh—” he murmurs, stepping back. faint blush in his cheeks.

“it’s fine,” you say, heart beating slightly faster than usual. you pick up the plate and move slightly aside.

he nods, almost imperceptibly, and doesn’t comment further—but the corner of his mouth twitches, that faint trace of amusement that feels directed only at you.

later, when everyone is gathered around a bonfire, laughing and drinking, he passes behind you. your fingers brush as he reaches for a napkin. again, small, casual, and yet your chest flutters.

you glance at him. he meets your eyes briefly. not saying anything, just… looking. paying attention. not like the boss you once knew.

you shake your head slightly, trying to dismiss the feeling. it’s nothing, you tell yourself.

but later, as the night winds down, and you watch him laughing with the group, relaxed and human, you catch yourself wondering: when did he… become like this?

it’s tiny. imperceptible. a flicker of curiosity and something else you’re not ready to name.

and it’s enough.

enough to make you pause, notice him in a way you haven’t before, and quietly, uncomfortably, question what it means.

the outing ends. people drift back to cars, the park emptying under the fading stars.

juhoon lingers for a moment near your side—not forcing conversation, just standing there, present.

you glance up at him, and in the quiet aftermath, the smallest question forms in your mind:

is this… different?

and for the first time, you don’t have an answer.

—

the office feels lighter the day after the outing. a faint warmth lingers—not from the sun, but from the small, unspoken moments everyone noticed yesterday. laughter, teasing, shared jokes. even juhoon seems… different.

you’re at your desk, quietly reviewing notes, when he stops by—not for signatures, not for instructions, just… stopping.

“y/n,” he says, voice softer than usual. “did you… sleep okay last night?”

you blink. pause. six years, and he’s never asked how you slept. “yes,” you reply, cautious. “why?”

“just… checking,” he says, shrugging, almost embarrassed. a flicker of something—concern? curiosity?—flashes in his eyes.

you raise an eyebrow, amused. “you’re really asking personal questions now, aren’t you?”

“maybe,” he admits, faintly, almost reluctantly. “it’s… new.”

you tilt your head, watching him. something about the way he hesitates, the slight tension in his shoulders, the careful tone—it’s disarming. you realize: he’s trying. really trying.

later, by the coffee machine, you catch him observing the team. his eyes soften when he notices haerin struggling with a heavy tray. he steps in without comment, lifting it for her. no performance. no ego. just action.

you watch him, silent. it surprises you how… human he seems. approachable. gentle in ways he’s never been before.

you feel it. a small flutter in your chest. confusion, curiosity, something tender you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in years.

he catches your glance once, and the corners of his lips twitch—half-smile, half-amusement, fully directed at you. it lingers. too long to be accidental.

you shift your focus back to your work, but your mind lingers on the moment. why does that feel… different?

lunchtime arrives, and he approaches again, holding two cups of tea. one for himself, one for you.

“i thought… you might like this,” he says. no condescension, no obligation—just… thoughtfulness.

“thanks,” you say, voice soft. you accept it, noticing the warmth in your hand as your fingers brush briefly.

he looks at you, awkward, unsure. “if… if you want to talk, about… anything… i’m here.”

the words feel clumsy, unfamiliar. vulnerable. human.

you sip your tea, quiet, and notice your own heartbeat. the office hums around you, but this small bubble—this fleeting connection—is all that exists in this moment.

you realize something: the boundaries you set are still intact, your life still your own, yet… there’s a tiny shift. tension that feels almost dangerous.

not romance yet. not even close.

sparks—tiny, careful sparks—are starting to kindle.

and you can’t quite ignore them.

—

you’re walking through the quiet streets on a Sunday afternoon, sunlight spilling lazily between the buildings. the city hums softly around you, distant car engines and the occasional chatter of pedestrians. you’ve left the weekend for yourself, no work, no schedules, no obligations. your hoodie is loose, sneakers comfortable, hair tied back in a messy bun. the kind of casual freedom that feels almost foreign after years of living for the office.

you’re halfway through a small park tucked between two blocks, enjoying the rare stillness, when you hear a familiar voice.

“y/n?”

you freeze mid-step, scanning the area. a shadow falls across the sunlit path, and there he is—juhoon. not in a suit, not in command mode, just him. Polo shirt, jeans, casual sneakers.

his hair slightly mussed, the edges of his collar lifting in the breeze. He’s holding a coffee cup loosely in one hand, hands tucked into pockets, expression unreadable but unmistakably… him.

“juhoon,” you manage, eyebrows raising in surprise.

he blinks, caught off guard by your equally casual appearance, the hoodie, the messy bun. “i… didn’t expect to see you here,” he admits, voice slightly hesitant, low.

you shrug lightly. “weekend. off the grid. you know how it is.”

he nods slowly, then gestures toward a bench nearby. “mind if i—sit?”

you hesitate. curiosity prickles, mingled with caution. but there’s something in his tone, softer, human, and you find yourself moving to make space.

he sits, letting the coffee cup rest between his knees, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. The park feels suspended in time, distant from work, from deadlines, from schedules.

finally, he says, almost tentatively, “i didn’t… realize how rare this is. quiet. not… constant noise.”

you glance at him. “six years of offices and meetings teaches you that,” you reply lightly. “sometimes, the quiet is the only thing that feels real.”

he nods, watching a squirrel dart across the grass. “i… didn’t notice… you.”

you frown slightly, turning toward him. “what do you mean?”

he exhales, hands tightening briefly around the coffee cup. “i mean… how you are. when you’re not in the office. when you’re… yourself. i’ve only ever… seen you work. planned, prepared, perfect. but… not this.”

the words hang between you. his gaze is careful, almost vulnerable, and it’s disarming. the careful control he’s always had—slightly narcissistic, slightly untouchable—is gone, replaced with something quieter, softer, and for the first time, attentive.

you shift on the bench, suddenly aware of the flutter in your chest. “i… i’m still me,” you murmur. “just… not for work anymore.”

he nods slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “i can see that,” he says, voice low. “and i… like it. seeing it.”

you blink. his words are simple, unadorned, but something in them catches your heart off guard. you clear your throat, focusing on a leaf drifting lazily on the wind. “it’s… just a walk in the park,” you say, trying to keep things light.

“maybe,” he agrees. “but… i’m glad i saw it. glad i saw you.”

there’s a pause, a stillness, and you notice his eyes—soft, careful, attentive—tracking your face, your hands, the subtle ways you move. the smallest brush of attention that’s not about work, not about control, just… noticing.

and in that quiet, ordinary moment, the space between you feels charged. not overwhelming, not confessional, just… electric in the way ordinary things become extraordinary when someone finally sees you.

you sip your coffee, heart thudding faintly, aware of the flutter. he’s close enough to be noticed, distant enough to remain enigmatic.

“we… shouldn’t linger too long,” you murmur eventually.

“probably not,” he says, but doesn’t move. “but… i hope we do again. just… like this.”

you glance at him, surprised by the admission. your chest tightens—not panic, not alarm, but that peculiar mixture of curiosity and awareness you’ve been quietly avoiding.

“we’ll see,” you say softly, letting the words float.

he smiles faintly, just the corner of his lips, mischievous but careful. the kind of small, private smile that makes you wonder if he’s always been capable of it, or if this is something new.

and as you stand to leave, brushing past him, his hand briefly touches yours—not lingering, not grabbing, just a light, accidental brush that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine.

you step away, heart racing faintly, mind suddenly aware of him in a way it hasn’t been before.

and you realize, quietly, that this—this simple, accidental meeting—has shifted something. small, almost imperceptible, but undeniable.

something is beginning.

and it isn’t work.

—

the days following the park encounter are strange. the office hums around you, but your mind drifts, unexpectedly, to juhoon.

it isn’t the old juhoon you remember—the rigid, controlled, untouchable CEO who demanded your life for six years. this version is different. lighter. sharper, yes, but softer in ways that catch you off guard. attentive without hovering. confident without commanding. and now… playful.

he begins small.

a comment as he passes your desk: “i hope your tea is better than mine. i might need tips from the master.” it’s effortless, teasing, but not cheesy. you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

later, when you’re reviewing reports together, he leans over, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “you always catch the mistakes no one else sees,” he murmurs, voice low. “you must have eyes everywhere.” you glance at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “i have a job to do,” you say, but your heart betrays you with a faint flutter.

he smirks subtly, a little confident, a little playful. “i know. but it’s… impressive.”

it’s small. barely noticeable to anyone else, but to you it lingers. your chest tightens slightly, your stomach flips—a flutter you haven’t felt in a long time.

outside the office, it’s more pronounced. a quiet coffee shop one evening, him joining you unexpectedly. he sits across, hands wrapped around his cup, eyes observing—not scrutinizing, but curious.

“you always order the same thing,” he says casually, a playful inflection in his voice. “is that habit, preference… or are you avoiding experimentation?”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “habit,” you admit. “comfort.”

“i see,” he says, leaning back slightly, expression thoughtful, almost smug—but not arrogant. just… aware. “but maybe you should try something new sometime. life’s too short for only one flavor.”

your heart skips. something about the way he says it, effortless, teasing, charming, makes you notice the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles, the subtle warmth in his tone.

it hits you quietly, terrifyingly: you’re noticing him differently.

he notices the small things too—the way your hair falls over your shoulder when you tilt your head, the faint crease at your brow when you’re concentrating, the way your laughter sounds when it’s unguarded.

and he doesn’t point them out. he doesn’t make it awkward. he just… notices.

it’s dangerous.

a week later, back in the office, he stops by your desk with a book he thinks you’d like. “i saw this and thought of you,” he says, hand extending it across the table. the gesture is casual, but the way he watches your reaction—his eyes soft, attentive—makes your heart skip again.

“thanks,” you murmur, taking it. your fingers brush briefly. the touch lingers, just a fraction longer than necessary.

he catches it, smiles faintly, and glances away, pretending it was nothing.

and as you settle back into work, book in hand, you feel it—your thoughts straying, your chest tightening, your mind realizing that the careful boundaries you’ve held are starting to shift.

you are… attracted to him.

not the boss who demanded everything from you. not the man who controlled your life for six years. but the man who is present, attentive, charming, effortless in ways you never expected.

and it terrifies you.

because you can see now that he’s changed. really changed. and somewhere deep down, you’re wondering if your feelings might change too.

the spark isn’t a fire yet. not even a flame. but it’s alive. and it’s dangerous.

—

the restaurant is warm, smoky with the scent of grilling meat, crowded with laughter and chatter. everyone is relaxed, letting loose after a long week. bowls clink, plates pile high, and the office team settles into their usual rhythm—except tonight, something feels different.

you slide into your seat and notice immediately that juhoon is beside you. not across the table like usual, beside. it’s subtle, but it makes your chest flutter.

he doesn’t acknowledge it at first, his usual composed expression intact, but you catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes when your elbow brushes his as you reach for a plate.

the evening starts normally enough, with small talk, everyone teasing each other, jokes flying across the table. but soon, the tension builds—the kind that’s quiet, almost electric.

you feel it, the way he watches your reactions, the way he leans just slightly toward you when the conversation is loud, the way he smirks faintly when you make a dry comment about keonho’s terrible aim at tossing a meatball into someone’s mouth.

and then it begins: subtle gestures.

he picks up a slice of grilled meat with his tongs and places it gently on your plate.

“you need this,” he murmurs, eyes catching yours.

you blink. your fingers brush it as you pick it up, flustered. “i—thanks,” you mumble, face heating.

later, he cuts a piece of meat for you, carefully, the precision almost exaggerated, but somehow intimate. You feel the warmth of his attention settle on you like a physical weight.

he offers you sauces, pours you drinks, checks if your chopsticks are steady when you’re juggling food and laughter. every motion is effortless, almost casual—but the undercurrent is unmistakable. every action directed at you, gently protective, quietly attentive.

by the middle of the evening, the wine is flowing, the laughter loud, and you’ve had more than a few glasses. your cheeks are warm, your speech a little slower, and your gaze wanders… often to him.

he notices immediately, eyes tracking you, concern flickering beneath the teasing smile.

when your head tilts back laughing at something james said, you nearly tip your chair. he’s there instantly, steadying it, murmuring something like, “careful, you’ve had enough.”

you try to wave him off, swaying slightly, but he doesn’t relent. instead, he drapes his jacket lightly over your shoulders when you shiver from the cold draft near the door, and you melt.

by the end of the night, you’re leaning against him slightly, laughing at a story seonghyeon is telling. he leans back, hand brushing yours occasionally, eyes soft, attentive, careful.

“ready to go?” he asks quietly when it’s time to leave.

you nod, slightly flustered, still giggling, and he guides you out, hand brushing your elbow, silent in his care.

the ride home is quiet but intimate. he doesn’t fill the space with words, just lets you lean against the window, watching the city lights flicker past.

when he stops in front of your building, he waits until you gather your things, then opens the door for you. “make sure you get inside safely,” he murmurs.

you’re fumbling slightly with your keys, the city lights outside a blur through your vision.

your hoodie is slipping off your shoulder, and your cheeks are flushed—not just from the wine, but from the warmth of the evening, the closeness, the attention.

“wait,” you slur slightly, spinning on your heel. “do… do you want to come in?”

juhoon freezes, eyebrows rising. “you… you mean—inside?”

“yeah!” you wave your hand, clearly too drunk to articulate fully. “come on, don’t just… stand there.”

he hesitates, silent for a beat, then gives a small nod. “alright,” he says quietly, following you in.

the door shuts behind you, and you stumble slightly, giggling. he catches you instantly, hands steady and strong. “easy,” he murmurs, guiding you toward the small living space.

he takes your bag from your hand, neatly hanging it on a hook, sliding your coat onto a hanger. every motion is precise, calm, domestic—and you can’t help but stare, drunk and delighted.

“sit,” he orders gently, and you flop onto the couch, waving your hands wildly. “help… help me with… everything.”

he kneels beside you, taking your hands to gently remove the rings and bracelets you’ve been wearing. then, carefully, he helps you with your makeup.

his hands are skilled, careful, patient. when he notices you fumbling with your hair or trying to tug at your hoodie, he steps closer and adjusts it for you, fingers brushing your skin lightly.

when it’s time for you to change out of your clothes, he looks away immediately, eyes politely averted. “i’ll… wait here,” he murmurs. “take your time.”

you stumble toward the bedroom, giggling at the absurdity of your drunken state. he stays true to his word, sitting patiently by the edge of the bed, keeping a careful watch without being intrusive.

finally, you collapse back onto the bed, fully clothed in fresh, comfortable pajamas. you’re drunk enough that your coordination is questionable, but sober enough to notice the care in every action he’s taken.

“water,” he says softly, placing a glass by your hand. “drink. slowly.”

you manage a small sip, flopping back against the pillows. “juhoon…” you murmur, voice slurred but tender. “you… you’re so… good.”

he smiles faintly, settling in a chair beside the bed. “someone’s had too much to drink,” he teases lightly, though the warmth in his eyes is genuine.

“i… can’t sleep,” you mutter, drunk honesty spilling freely. “don’t… don’t leave.”

he tilts his head, considering you for a moment, then gently reaches for your hand. your fingers entwine with his, clumsy and warm, and you relax against the pillow, the glass of water forgotten for a moment.

“i’m here,” he murmurs. “just… here.”

you squeeze his hand, eyes half-closed, letting the alcohol and warmth lull you toward sleep. “don’t… leave…” you mumble again, more to yourself than to him.

he sits quietly, hand holding yours, eyes soft but alert, watching over you. not in bed, not crossing any line—but close enough that the space between you feels intimate, tender, and impossibly charged.

and as you drift into a hazy, comfortable sleep, still gripping his hand, he doesn’t let go.

because tonight… he wants to be the one you can rely on. and maybe, slowly, that means more than just being a boss, more than just being a friend.

for now, it’s enough to simply be here, beside you, quietly watching over you.

—

light spills through the blinds, warm and lazy. you stir under the blankets, head heavy, the remnants of last night’s wine and laughter lingering in your mind. movement is sluggish, and a faint groan escapes you as you try to lift your head.

“y/n,” a calm voice murmurs.

your eyes blink open to find him standing at the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, a small tray in his hands. toast, eggs, a cup of tea—neatly arranged. the faint smell of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the aroma of food.

“you’re awake,” he says softly, voice lower than usual, careful.

you blink, heart thudding faintly. “juhoon…” you manage, still groggy, watching him set the tray carefully on the side table. “you… made breakfast?”

he nods, expression calm, almost serious. “figured you’d need it. water last night wasn’t enough. you need… something real now.”

you tilt your head, startled by the effort, the care, the attention. there’s no hint of ego, no casual arrogance—just him, focusing on your wellbeing. it feels… warm. familiar, but in a different way than before.

he waits until you sit up slightly, helping you with a pillow behind your back. “slowly,” he advises. “no sudden moves.”

you smile faintly, brushing your hair out of your face. “you’re… really taking care of me.”

“i am,” he says quietly. “because i… like looking after you. because i like knowing you’re okay.”

your stomach flips. his words are gentle, not a confession, not a dramatic proclamation—just honesty laced with warmth.

you glance at him, half-drunken laughter from last night still tickling the memory. “and… you like doing this?”

“yes,” he admits simply, eyes meeting yours. “it’s… satisfying. seeing you… comfortable.”

you notice the way he moves, careful with every gesture, patient, attentive, as he adjusts the tray, pours a bit of tea, offers you a bite of toast. the old juhoon, the commanding, narcissistic CEO, would never have done this.

and yet… you like it. more than you expected.

“thanks,” you murmur, soft, letting the words linger. your fingers brush his as you reach for the cup, and he doesn’t pull away.

he smirks faintly, subtle, teasing, but not arrogant. “don’t mention it,” he says, though the corner of his mouth quirk hints that he’s pleased by your attention.

you find yourself relaxing more than you have in months, maybe years. letting him in, letting him see you unguarded. letting yourself notice him—the subtle curl of his lips when he smiles, the soft intensity in his gaze, the way he moves like he’s thinking about nothing but this small, shared moment.

“you’ve changed,” you murmur, quietly, almost to yourself. “since… the office. since… everything.”

he pauses, then tilts his head, eyes soft but direct. “i had to. for you. for… us, i guess.”

your heart skips. “us?” you whisper, barely audible.

“just… enjoying this,” he says quickly, almost embarrassed, “being here. with you. nothing else.”

you realize you’re smiling, responding without thinking. “i… like this,” you admit, voice low. “like… you.”

his gaze flickers, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t say more, just continues serving breakfast, quietly careful, letting the intimacy linger.

you sip your tea, heart warm, mind drifting, noticing the little things: how natural he seems here, how safe, how… comforting.

and somewhere in the quiet of your small apartment, with sunlight spilling across the bed, you realize: you’re starting to show him attention back.

not just gratitude, not just friendship—but interest.

and it feels… surprisingly easy.

because he’s different. and you like it.

—

you’re standing in front of the restaurant, dressed carefully—not too formal, not too casual, but enough that you feel… noticeable. your hair falls naturally around your shoulders, your makeup light. you’re nervous, not about the evening itself, but because you know juhoon is waiting.

he arrives in a sleek, black car, perfectly timed, exuding that calm, controlled presence you’ve grown used to—but tonight there’s something different. softer. attentive. more… aware.

“ready?” he asks quietly, hand holding the door open for you.

“ready,” you murmur, sliding in beside him.

the evening is effortless, surprisingly relaxed. laughter comes easy, jokes are shared, and for the first time outside the office, he doesn’t command the conversation—he participates. genuinely. attentively.

you notice him noticing you, too: the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love, the faint blush on your cheeks when he teases you gently, the subtle curl of his lips when he laughs at something you say.

the night stretches pleasantly. dessert, then a walk along quiet streets, just the two of you. His hand brushes against yours occasionally, never forcing, never lingering too long—just enough to make your chest race.

finally, he says softly, “shall we head back?” and you realize—he’s not talking about a taxi, or the car, but… his apartment.

your stomach flips. “okay,” you murmur, heart thudding.

the moment you step inside, the world seems to shift. the playful, teasing energy of the evening hangs heavy in the air. he closes the door, lights low, and for a long beat, neither of you moves.

“you’re… beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark with something dangerous and magnetic.

your chest tightens. “juhoon…” you whisper, voice breathless.

he takes a slow step closer, eyes never leaving yours. “i’ve wanted this,” he admits quietly, a confession hidden in the tone, not in words, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

you stumble back slightly, but he doesn’t let the distance linger. he’s there, close, fingers brushing yours, lips nearly grazing as he leans in. the tension snaps into electricity.

one kiss. tentative, testing, then another.

hands find each other, exploring, grasping, holding. the world shrinks to the heat between you.

he presses you against the wall, lips devouring, hands roaming, and you feel the thrill—the dangerous, intoxicating pull of him finally claiming the space between you.

he guides you toward the couch, but neither of you care where. every touch, every kiss, every whisper is electric. the playful teasing, the attention, the subtle care—all of it explodes into desire.

he kisses you deeply, hungrily, hand tracing your curves, hips pressing close, and you melt against him, letting go of all restraint. your hands clutch him, desperate, alive with longing you’ve ignored for too long.

he whispers your name between kisses, low and hoarse, and you shiver. the world outside—the office, the past six years, everything—fades. It’s just him. Just you. Just this.

and when he presses you fully against him, the tension, the teasing, the careful flirtation, the subtle care—all of it culminates.

your lips, your bodies, the way he touches, the way you respond—it’s no longer just attraction. it’s fire. it’s undeniable.

and in the heat of the moment, with the city lights flickering outside the window, you realize: there’s no turning back.

because what’s begun tonight… is all-consuming.

—

the weeks after that night are different. everything is slower, warmer, lighter. the office still exists, deadlines still come and go, but your world has expanded beyond it.

juhoon is no longer the untouchable, demanding CEO; he’s present, caring, teasing, attentive—the kind of guy who notices the small details and makes you feel like the center of his universe.

dates become routine—but in the best possible way. brunches at quiet cafés, walks through the park where you first ran into each other, evenings painting together in your tiny studio corner, wine glasses clinking, laughter spilling through the apartment.

He never overshadows your space; instead, he encourages it.

“try this color,” he says one afternoon, holding up a brush for you. “i think it would suit your style.”

you smirk, splattering a bit of paint deliberately. “i think i like making a mess more.”

he laughs, shaking his head, and brushes a speck of blue off your cheek with a finger. “adorable,” he mutters, and your heart skips.

you start looking into art galleries, taking small steps toward a life beyond your office persona.

juhoon notices everything. he reads articles with you, helps you research exhibitions, occasionally sneaks in a quiet pep talk about following what you love.

“y/n,” he says one evening while you’re both sprawled on the couch with notebooks and sketches, “you don’t need me at work to succeed. i… i want to see you do this, even if it means i don’t get my daily dose of your brilliance in the office.”

your chest warms at his words. it’s not just support—it’s belief. And for the first time in years, you feel fully free to pursue your own passions, your own life, without guilt.

family dinners become a thing. juhoon joins you at your parents’ home, subtly charming, calm, and attentive in ways that surprise everyone.

He listens, laughs at your brother’s antics, helps carry dishes, and makes your mother nod approvingly.

“he’s… different,” your mother murmurs later to you. “he… actually cares about you.”

your friends notice too. haerin and yoonchae poke you gently about the newfound glow in your cheeks, the ease in your laughter, the way you talk about juhoon without restraint or caution.

he’s patient, gentle, still teasing just enough to keep the spark alive. every date, every casual moment, every brush of his hand is a reminder that he’s attentive, loving, and fully present.

finally, one quiet evening at your apartment, after an afternoon wandering an art exhibit together, he turns to you, serious but soft.

“y/n,” he says, voice low, eyes bright with honesty, “i… i want this. i want us. officially. do you… want to be my girlfriend?”

you blink, heart racing. the answer is obvious—yes—but not just because of desire. because he’s supportive, caring, has made space for you, made you feel seen, made you feel safe.

“yes,” you whisper, voice trembling slightly, “i want that.”

he smiles, small, satisfied, and kisses your forehead, a soft, grounding touch that makes you melt.

life continues. weekends are spent painting, exploring galleries, meeting friends for coffee, and spending time with your family.

juhoon supports everything, even if it means you’re not at the office, no longer his secretary. He celebrates your wins, encourages your growth, and loves you fiercely in quiet, everyday ways.

and the more you live, the more you see the change—not just in yourself, but in him. The man who once demanded everything now offers everything, not for control, not for duty, but because he wants to.

you notice it in the small things: the way he always remembers your favorite tea, the way he brushes paint off your hands during your sessions, the way he slips an arm around your shoulder when you stand close.

you notice it in yourself too: the way you laugh freely, the way you let yourself relax, the way you reach for his hand without hesitation, the way you start imagining a life together outside the confines of work.

and when the two of you sit together, sipping tea on a lazy Sunday, his head resting lightly against yours, you realize: this isn’t just romance. it’s partnership, support, growth, love in its quietest, most perfect form.

the world feels wide open, and for the first time, it feels like yours.

—

the apartment smells faintly of coffee and something sweet—baked bread, maybe cinnamon rolls—from juhoon’s insistence on trying a new recipe. sunlight spills through the windows, painting everything in warm gold. you’re perched on the edge of the couch, sketchbook in hand, hair falling loose around your face, paint smudges faint on your fingers.

he’s across from you, feet kicked up, reading a book, occasionally glancing up with a soft smile. sometimes he just watches you. quietly, attentively, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“hey,” you murmur, putting your pencil down. “you’ve been staring for five minutes.”

he tilts his head, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “i’m just… appreciating my girlfriend,” he says smoothly, almost casually, but you feel it—the warmth, the pride, the love behind it.

you blink, flustered, cheeks warming. “stop being… so… domestic and cute at the same time,” you tease, smirking.

he smirks back, leaning forward, eyes glinting. “i call it evolution. you should try it sometime.”

you laugh, tossing a stray paintbrush at him, which he catches with ease. the apartment fills with your laughter, the kind of laughter that isn’t forced or calculated, the one that feels free, alive.

later, you wander into the kitchen, and he’s already plating breakfast. eggs, toast, fresh fruit, coffee steaming in mugs. “i'm getting spoiled,” you say lightly, leaning against the counter.

“good,” he murmurs, handing you a plate. “you deserve it.”

you sit together at the small table, side by side, elbows brushing lightly, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist. there are no deadlines, no emails, no office tensions—just the quiet comfort of shared space, shared life, shared moments.

after breakfast, you both curl up on the couch, him draping an arm around your shoulders while you lean against him, sketchbook forgotten.

fingers brush occasionally, a hand lingers, a small squeeze here and there. playful teasing, whispered jokes, soft touches—they are your language now.

you watch him carefully, noticing the small changes from the man he used to be: softer, warmer, still sharp and teasing but now fully aware of your needs, your dreams, your space.

he notices you too, not just the work-perfect version but the full, living, breathing you, painting, laughing, planning, living.

sometimes, the two of you slip into playful arguments—about paint colors, what to watch, who forgot the groceries—but they end in laughter, in kisses, in holding each other close.

he’s met your family, knows your friends, celebrates your achievements, teases you lovingly, holds your hand in public without hesitation.

every interaction reinforces that he’s no longer just your boss or a fleeting presence in your life—he’s your partner, your home, your heart.

and you—you’ve found yourself again. living fully, laughing freely, following your passions, and loving someone who sees you, truly sees you.

evenings are quiet now, sometimes spent painting together, sometimes cooking, sometimes just sitting in silence, bodies entwined, hearts in sync. The small, ordinary moments—the ones you used to sacrifice for work—are now your world, rich, full, and vibrant.

and when you lie down at night, head on his chest, fingers intertwined, the last thing you hear is his soft murmur, almost a promise:

“i’ve got you. always.”

and for the first time in years, you believe it.

because this—this life, this love—is steady, warm, messy, perfect. it’s the life you’ve built together. the life you’ve earned.

and it’s everything.

—

eight months had passed like a gentle tide, reshaping both your worlds. mornings now smelled of fresh paint, coffee, and sunlight spilling into your apartment. evenings were for laughter, sketches sprawled across the table, and the quiet warmth of a shared life.

you were officially the director of a small but prestigious art gallery, your name now on a plaque at the entrance. juhoon had been there from the first day of your promotion, quietly supportive, celebrating each milestone without overshadowing it. he had shown up to every exhibition, every meeting, every small victory—sometimes teasing you, sometimes holding your hand, always proud.

today, though, he had something different in mind. he arrived at the gallery unexpectedly, a small bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand and a nervous energy you rarely saw in him.

“what’s all this?” you asked, slightly breathless, suspicion tugging at your heart.

“follow me,” he said softly, eyes glinting.

he led you to the rooftop terrace, where fairy lights twinkled, overlooking the city skyline. the soft hum of evening traffic and distant laughter made the space feel intimate, magical.

and then he was on one knee.

“y/n,” he said, voice low but steady, heart in his eyes. “these past months… years… with you have changed me. you’ve changed my life, my heart, my world. i love you. i want to spend every day proving that to you. will you… marry me?”

your breath catches. heart thunders. “juhoon…” you whisper, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes.

“say yes,” he murmurs, almost impatient, but tender, eyes never leaving yours.

“yes,” you breathe, the word spilling out with laughter, sobs, joy, and disbelief all at once.

he rises, slipping the ring onto your finger, and pulls you into a long, desperate, ecstatic kiss. the city lights blur around you as he holds you close, hands roaming your back, fingers threading through your hair, lips claiming yours again and again.

when you finally break apart, gasping for air, his forehead rests against yours. “my fiancée,” he murmurs, voice husky.

“my fiancé,” you echo, laughing, trembling, heart utterly full.

but the night isn’t over.

once home, the apartment door shuts behind you, and the world outside ceases to exist.

you sigh into his chest, arms wrapped tightly, feeling the weight and warmth of him, the solidity of your future together, the undeniable truth that this—this life, this love—is yours, fully and completely.

“i love you,” he whispers again, voice low and intimate.

“i love you too,” you reply, smiling, trembling, and already craving the next moment, the next kiss, the next heartbeat shared.

and in that quiet, messy, passionate aftermath, you know one thing: you’ve found home. not just in a place, not just in a life, but in each other.

the city outside glimmers, but you only see him, the two of you entwined, alive, in love, unstoppable, together.

“That’s a cute outfit.” You playfully did a princess bow, the outfit that you pulled the night before consisted of a white collared button-up shirt under your fitted, long-sleeve blue sweater, covering perfectly your exposed abdomen that your denim mini skirt showed. It was cinched in with a chunky black belt and some white socks with black shoes with a little bit of heel. 

“Thank you, Yujin. You don’t look bad, either.” He spun dramatically in place, making his backpack bounce.

“Please. My mom picked this outfit. I had to wear it, otherwise she wouldn’t let me go to our karaoke tradition.” He opened his backpack, pulling out strawberry milk.

“You’re the absolute best,” you said, stabbing the straw through the foil and taking a sip without hesitation.

“So, how was your vacation?” 

“It was good. I went to the beach for a week before going to visit colleges with my mom.” he gave a dramatic sigh.

“She is more obsessed with your future than you.” You raised your shoulders, way too used to his words. 

“Well, sadly, I have to go along with—”

“Yah, Han Yujin!” The wall made that scream bounce, creating an echo where the two of you froze. As a matter of fact, everybody there did; you saw the unforgettable figure of your friend Leeseo running to you two, and you looked to your right to see the face of pure fear on Yujin’s face. 

“What have you done?” you whispered, before he could speak. Leeseo was already trying to hit him. His hands went to your shoulder, and he started using you as a shield.

“Leeseo, stop!” you gasped, trying to wriggle out of Yujin’s grip.

“Oh, hi there, Y/N. Can you please move? I want to kick his ass.” It was comical how everything was going down, cameras shutting off as they captured the first banter of the duo. You decided to enter the class, and a spot near the desk and next to the window was your favorite.

“Leeseo—ouch! Wait!” Both of them entered as she finally left him alone after she gave a pretty hard smack on his back. Leeseo sat next to you, and Yujin took the spot behind you two.

“You idiot, why didn't you tell me that Martin is back?!” Her whisper made your ear raise at the name.

“I didn’t spend time here; I went to the countryside to visit my grandma. How do you know?”

“Because he was getting scolded by the teacher at the entrance.”

“Nothing new, then,” you spoke before you could think. You placed your pencil case and notebook on your desk. Leeseo’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide as if what you just said was the dumbest thing ever.

“Nothing new? Y/N, he was supposed to go to Canada for his senior year; he even spoke about it.”

“Now that you said that,” Yujin put his strawberry milk on his table, leaning between you two. “Yesterday, when I was leaving out to do the groceries for mom, Martin and his dad were discussing it; it looked pretty heated.” 

“Oh great, the menace is back.” You keep your eyes focused on what you were writing in your notebook, which consisted mostly of a to-do list of the day.

“Why do you act like this news is a normal Tuesday’s cafeteria menu?”

“Because that’s exactly what it is. Martin gets in trouble like he has been doing for the past couple of years, the teacher yells, and the earth spins. What else is new?”

Yujin chuckled, “Careful tho. Keep talking like that, and he might think you missed him.”

You whipped around, smacking the back of his head with enough power to bother him. “Don’t even joke.”

People kept entering the classroom, some were going straight to their friend group, others to get ready, and a few simply lay on the desk to sleep for a few minutes before the usual first day announcement. 

You grabbed your small makeup pouch so you could go to the restroom, standing in the middle sink and smiling at your polished reflection. Pulling the gloss, you painted your lips with a thin layer of gloss, the mascara was next to give volume to your eyelashes, and finally, some blush on your cheeks. 

When you were satisfied, you left the bathroom, fixing your pouch, crashing with someone, and dropping everything inside them, you could bet your blush was broken into pieces. 

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," you said, bowing as you rushed to at least some of the remains. 

"I can't believe the school role model is wearing makeup, breaking the rules already?" you sighed, still picking up your stuff, your mood completely dropping. 

"I take that back, I'm not sorry." You finally got up and looked at what was supposed to be Martin's height last year, your neck hurting slightly as you looked a little more up. Leeseo was right, he got unbelievably tall.

He was wearing a band tee with ripped jeans that looked twice his size, hanging on his hips like they were holding on for dear life. Scuffed Vans dragged slightly as he shifted his weight, the hoodie unzipped and frayed at the sleeves. His hair looked like he’d rolled out of bed on purpose, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips only made it worse.

The outfit made you know that he would be the reason for your headaches for another year.

“Martin Edwards,” you said flatly, clutching your pouch like it was armor.

“Still bowing to people in hallways. How cute,” he drawled back, his smirk spreading slowly with his hand shoved into his hoodie pocket.

“Still getting yelled at by teachers on the first day. How predictable.” You stepped sideways, but he shifted too, blocking your path with a lazy lean against the wall, watching you close your eyes, irritated.

“You know that I can’t help it if they’ve missed me.” He tilted his head. “Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

Your laugh came out louder than intended, calming down quickly. “Please. The place was finally quiet without you.”

“Quiet’s overrated.” You could see how his eyes flicked down, lingering on the glossy shine of your lips, making you look down briefly. “Besides, you look better with noise around.”

He leaned in slightly so you were the only one hearing. “Come on, Prez. Admit it. You missed me.”

“I miss the news of you moving to Canada.” You scoffed, you looked at his eyes, and you could see how that challenging look disappeared for a second.

“Damn.” He pressed a hand over his chest like you’d shot him. “Still ruthless with the comebacks. What happened to the sweet, polite, and lovely person?”

“She’s still here, she just doesn’t like you,” you shot back, already making your way out. He appeared next to you, the height difference even more noticeable. You stopped on your tracks, him copying you after. 

It was your turn to step forward, your chin high, although it didn’t make you look intimidating. “You’re going to make this year miserable, aren’t you?”

“Depends on how much attention you give me, pretty,” he said easily, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it was nothing, turning the tip of your ears slightly warm.

Before you could say something, the bell overhead rang, echoing through the hallway. The students started invading the hallways, brushing past the two of you with curious eyes.

You exhaled, finally brushing past him to go to your class to hide the pouch, coming back to see him waiting outside the class. “I’m making one thing clear. Give me some free time for our teachers scolding me because of you, I don’t want that on my record.”

You marched your way with your class, heels softly clicking. 

“Can’t promise that, Prez!” His voice followed you down the hall.

It was official, this was going to be a long senior year.

Four months passed like a blur, and just like you predicted, everything stacked up to you. Not even a week in, and the classes and teachers nominated you to be the president of the school council. You were about to give up that opportunity for the sake of a slightly peaceful year, but when your mom heard about it, she forced you to keep it, not turning back even when your dad tried to talk her through it. 

The school was quick to give you a list of activities you and the committee had to plan, and because of your last events as class president, students were quick to say the same sentence.

“We are having a prom AND a school trip? Y/N, you’re the best!”

Normally, the country itself wasn’t exactly used to having a prom the way other countries did, renting movies to watch on a Friday night was enough to plant the idea in every senior’s head, even yours, not believing that you were the one supposed to make it happen. Thankfully, the first big event on the calendar wasn’t prom—but the spring school trip.

With the help of Yujin’s mom, we secured a short trip of two nights in Gyeongju for the last week of October. 

It was 7 pm, and you were walking back home with the rented DVD of 10 Things I Hate About You, ready to drown in ramen and your blankets. The reason? You were tired of council meetings, study schedules, and Martin already racking up three warnings from teachers.

“Why are you in pajamas?” Leeseo surprised you by being in front of your house. 

“Because I’m staying at home…?” Your sentence sounded more like a question than you wanted it to, especially because Leeseo was standing at your gate with her backpack.

“Wrong answer,” she said, shoving past you. “Your mom thinks you’re staying at my house for a study-slash-sleepover. I’m telling you, she almost hugged me when I told her we are even reviewing college math problems.”

“What? Leeseo, I’m in pajamas. I bought snacks! I’m committed to my bed tonight.”

“You can change, and the snacks can wait.” She plopped the backpack on your bedroom floor before going straight to your closet, pulling out outfits that seemed fitting to fool your mom even more. “I’m not letting you waste your Friday night watching Heath Ledger for the 100th time.”

“Shut up.”

She threw your pink cardigan in your face. “Come on, your mom needs to see you leave like we are going to church."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Call me if anything happens, okay?” You nodded at your mom before she lightly hugged you. “Thank you for doing this, darling. I know you will match my baby’s commitment to college.”

Leeseo bowed down while you tried to hide your face, your head by lowering it. “Anything to get that 100, I will bring her tomorrow!”

You two started walking out, feeling the gaze of your mom behind you. “When we turn around here, Yujin and his brother are waiting for us.”

And just like she said, Hanbin and Yujin were there, opening the car right when they saw you two. “Were you two creating a summer season collection?”

“Quiet, Yujin. Hi Hanbin,” you said. Hanbin simply smiled at you.

“Where now, to our house?” Hanbin spoke, this time looking at Leeseo.

“Yes, we need to change her clothes,” you said, looking at her, confused.

“But why? I think it’s cute.” You looked down, a pink polo shirt layered under a pastel cable-knit sweater, khaki skirt, and pearl studs.

“Don’t get me wrong, it is cute, but it looks like you will hold a mass on the dance floor.” Now you laughed, already feeling at ease when the wind touched your face. “And then to Martin’s”

Once again, the mood turned down. “Wait—Martin? As in Martin Edwards?”

“Yes. Keonho texted me, and he said his mom’s gone, and his band has their amps set up in the garage. Apparently, half of the school’s going.” Yujin said, and that’s when you looked at Leeseo, who was actively trying to avoid your face.

“Oh my god! I love this song, turn it up, Hanbin!” she screamed.

The car ride to Hanbin’s house wasn’t long. Yujin’s house was empty when you arrived. Leeseo didn’t waste a second—the soft outfit was already in her backpack, so you can wear the black cropped baby tee with a rhinestone butterfly, a pleated low-rise denim skirt, and a chunky studded belt. Your makeup is slightly altered with the use of eyeliner, but since it was a style you have secretly wanted to try for a while, you enjoyed it. 

Leeseo opened the door of Yujin’s room. The second you stepped out, both brothers gasped. You rolled your eyes with your face burning at the attention. 

“Now that outfit is the one that will take your mom to a coma,” Yujin said. Hanbin punched him softly, and you simply laughed.  

It took a few steps to arrive there since they were neighbors, and the bass from the garage was already rattling the pavement. Cars were parked crooked along the curb, kids were sitting on the front lawn with red cups, and some of them, who you recognized as graduates, were drunk.

“This looks safe,” you muttered. Leeseo slipped her arm through yours.

“Relax, it’s just a party. Besides, Martin’s band is playing. It will be good.”

You rolled your eyes. “Martin’s band will probably sound like three lawnmowers in a blender.”

“That’s kind of the point.” 

The smell of cheap soju mixed with hairspray lingered in the air; there were some Christmas lights strung along the ceiling, casting the whole space in a warm glow. You moved between people to grab something to drink from the table. 

“Noona?” 

You turned around, half-expecting another stranger with either a can of soda or a red cup. Instead, it was Keonho—well, another version that was surely not the one you used to watch on council meetings.

It was almost comical the way your eyes widened at the same time, like you were looking at two entirely different people from the ones you’d last seen in pressed uniforms.

“...Keonho?” you blinked, scanning him from head to toe. “What are you wearing?”

Baggy jeans sagging low on his hips, showing a part of his boxers, a chain clinking against his belt loop, oversized sneaker, and a graphic tee layered under a half-zipped hoodie. His gel-free hair was messy, kinda like he came out of an MTV music video. He looked good, you had to admit.

Keonho gawked back at you with the same disbelief. “Me? Noona, look at your outfit.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, suddenly becoming hyperaware of your fit.

You crossed your arms defensively. “At least I don’t look like I lost a fight with my closet… but you look good, I guess.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair. But still… wow. Didn’t think you could look like that. It suits you.”

Before you could thank him, the garage speakers squealed as the music turned down. Keonho’s grin widened instantly. “Anyways, you have to come listen. Cortis is next.”

You arched a brow. “Cortis?”

“The band I joined!” he said, a happy smile showing his pride. “James is on drums, Juhoon’s rhythm, Seonghyeon on keys, I’m bass.”

“Oh, all of you sing?” you asked, following his steps to the garage.

“Sometimes, but the main singer—”

“What’s up, School of Performing Arts of Seoul!” Martin's voice resonated all over the place, the crowd screaming in response. 

“Keonho.”

“I know you don’t like him at all, but listen to us for a moment, we practiced a lot.” he did a small pout, you had to nod to see him smiling, and run to his bass. 

You scanned the group, eyes stopping on Martin, his guitar strap slung low and standing front and center.

“Thanks for being here. We’re Cortis, and we will do something old since classics never die.”

They surprised you by opening with a familiar riff of one of your favorite bands, blink-182. “All the small things” made the whole garage shake with the force of it, and you had to admit it—it didn’t sound half bad. They were all completely lost in their performance and interacting with people in the crowd who were busy nodding their heads and screaming their names.

The song ended, and the five boys were sweat-slicked and breathless, quickly grabbing a can of soda to quench their thirst. Martin left for a moment, arriving soon after to connect an acoustic guitar to the amps.

You audibly gasped when the familiar melody hit your eardrums. “Wonderwall”. 

You moved through the crowd to get a clearer view, spotting Leeseo and Yujin by the first rows, both singing along dramatically the wrong lyrics—you didn’t mean to reveal your love for rock music there, but after securing your spot next to your friends, your body moved first, soon the lyrics easily feel off your lips like you’d been waiting for that exact song all night, far away from your mother.

For the first time, you let yourself loose. They weren’t perfect; the performance itself was pretty raw to the point that the energy could be felt all over the place. Martin looked up mid-chorus, eyes landing on you. You could see how his eyes opened at the view of you enjoying the chaos he was creating. It felt like the noise dimmed, even just for a second, before he went back to singing his heart out.

The night stretched on with more covers, every single one better than the one before. Eventually, the closeness got too much, making you slip through the crowd and push the back door open, stepping outside after grabbing a can of soda. The cool night air hit your face like a relief, although the sound of crickets filling the silence that the muffled music left behind wasn’t exactly your cup of tea.

You exhaled, leaning against the side of the house, closing your eyes for a moment, finally feeling a little sense of peace after what was probably the longest year so far.

“You hiding, Prez?”

You startled, spinning around to see Martin also leaning against the railing, hair damp with sweat, a crooked smile painted across his face. Even outside, he carried the same reckless kind of confidence that made people look twice. 

“Not hiding,” you said flatly. “Just avoiding the noise pollution.”

“Funny that you say that, knowing how much you enjoyed back there.” His smile grew at the sight of you trying to play it cool.

You scoffed lightly, crossing your arms. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just… surprised you didn’t completely butcher the songs.”

“Ouch.” He chuckled, pushing off the railing to stand a little closer. “You’re tough to impress.”

“That’s not new information.” 

For a brief moment, he didn’t say anything — just looked at you. “Didn’t think I’d see you at one of my shows,” he said, quieter this time.

“Me neither. I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you said, the words coming out before you could even stop yourself. “Wasn’t Canada calling your name?”

You stood there waiting for a silly comment like he always does, just to see your irritating face. But there was nothing but silence, and you were smart enough to know you messed up.

He let out a soft laugh, a bitter one. “Yeah, it was.”

Your silence was a cue for him to continue, which even made you question why you suddenly wanted to hear the rest.

“My dad wanted me there, to finish high school there, the same high school he graduated from,” he said. “Said it’s ‘set me for the future.’, but while he was setting me up, he was setting someone else up too. In another country.”

You froze, for the first time, not having an answer to talk back.

“My mom knew,” he added. “She knew the whole time and just… kept living like nothing happened. So I decided to stay with the person I’m less angry at—while making him angry enough that I like music.”

"He wanted you to be something else when you graduated?"

"Electric engineer. Just like him, so I can help with his company." 

You suddenly remember the article that the principal showed one time — Edward Industries’ CEO invests in youth innovation — and the photo of Martin’s father shaking hands with people, smiling like his world was perfect.

“That’s… a lot to live up to and process,” you said quietly.

“Well, you know I’m not great at following instructions.” His lips twitched, but his usual smirk didn’t quite form this time.

You took a sip of the last part of the soda, swallowing it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know you hate me enough to not care.”

Your breath caught at the way he said it, like it wasn't a joke, but that stung a part of you. You look at him and, for the first time in your eyes, he doesn’t look untouchable or smug. He looked tired.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” you said softly.

“Don’t be. I’d rather be here playing and producing music with the boys and annoying you.”

You let out a small laugh. “You’re doing a great job at both.”

“Y/N! Are you here?!” 

You both turned toward the sound of Yujin’s scream echoing faintly from the other side of the yard. Flashlights from someone’s phone swung through the dark as your friends searched for you.

“Your friends are calling you,” Martin said, stating the obvious. You ran a hand through your hair and twisted it into a messy low bun. He watched the motion quietly, cheeks warming before he could stop himself.

You met his gaze again. “Good night, Martin.”

“Night, Prez.” He added, finally smiling a little bit. 

You started to walk away, then paused mid-step to look back over your shoulder.

“I don’t hate you,” you said. “I just hate that the only thing that damages my school profile is your warnings.”

He let out a chuckle, for real this time, his mouth now doing his familiar grin. “Then I guess I’m doing you a favor. Give your résumé some personality.” 

You blinked, completely caught off guard, before a laugh escaped you, making his grin widen.

“Hey! Don’t laugh!” he said, though the lack of bite in the tone betrayed him, too focused on the happiness that you radiated outside the school.

From a distance, Yujin called your name again, his voice half-drowned by the music. You turned to glance at the noise, still smiling as you stepped back.

Martin stayed where he was, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you go, putting his hand on his chest to calm it down a bit at the sudden racing of it.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Sitting again at your desk felt like hell. The summer break had been a blur, and what you wished to do the most—relaxing, catching up on your TV shows, and simply not thinking too much about high school—was replaced by college prep books and an endless to-do list dictated by your mother. You manage to sneak out with Leeseo and Yujin only once.

Long story short, you were practically glued to your desk. So the return to school felt more like a choker pressing even tighter around your neck.

“You guys won’t believe what I just saw!” Yujin entered the room, slamming the door closed before running to your spot.

“Yujin, tone it down! Drink some.” You gave him your water, practically chugging it down to ease his thirst.

“Thank you, I came here running as fast as I could.” 

“Couldn’t tell." The sarcasm in Leeseo’s voice made him narrow his eyes at her. “Say what you saw.” 

Before he could, the door slid open again, and a collective gasp rippled through the classroom.

Martin.

But it was Martin wearing the school uniform properly. Key word: properly. White shirt tucked in, tie actually knotted, blazer neat. The only nods to his usual style were a thick, silver ring on his index finger and the slight, purposeful messiness of his hair that framed his face.

He dropped his backpack onto his usual seat in the back, then strolled casually toward the front to grab a new syllabus. On the way back, he caught Yujin’s eye.

“Morning, Han, Leeseo, Prez.” he nodded coolly, taking a seat on the empty spot.

“That’s what I saw,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

Far from being discreet, Leeseo was already studying Martin, who was playing dumb and doing random poses. “I hate this. Bring back your ‘I hate the system’ attitude right now. That’s my only entertainment in this school.”

Martin looked up, grinning. “Can’t. I’m going for the rebrand. Gotta keep the audience guessing.”

You kept your eyes fixed on your notebook, pretending to write down something important, and you were hyper-aware of the space he occupied beside you.

Then came the knock on the wood right next to your pencil case. “Do I look good, Prez?”

When you finally risked a glance at him, it was enough to have the class eyes on both of you, especially his bold yet teasing stare. 

“You look like a normal student. Congratulations.”

The bell rang, and everyone began shuffling to their seats. Martin kneeled in front of you and leaned near enough to whisper, “Thank you, princess.” 

Yujin choked with the water again, and Leeseo was just there, wide-eyed and jaw on the floor. You froze, brain stuttering to find something coherent to say after that. It was well known that you hated nicknames like that, but why are you feeling your cheeks warming up so fast? The class started whispering. 

Days passed, but something about him had shifted.

He still sat in the back (mostly because of his height), still wore that lazy smirk when teachers called his name, but between the sarcasm and the half-lidded stares out the window, you caught him writing. Even more, he divided the notebook into two, where he had both school material and lyrics alongside some guitar chords. Once, you even saw the corner of a paper titled “CORTIS - Set Ideas!!” when you were delivering lesson papers.

He wasn’t slacking off anymore. He was trying.

And since he was trying, the warnings of your bad leadership were almost nonexistent. And it was weird, mostly because you didn’t know how to feel about it.

By the second week, the girls' bathroom was starting to fill with rumors.

“Cortis is joining the Battle of the Bands next month! I’m going to support Juhoon.” “Keonho and Seonghyeon are the youngest people to be there.” “If they go and win, they will break Hamlin's streak of three years.”

You overheard it all, pretending not to listen, but it was inevitable, the emotions for everyone there, since it’s their big “gig”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

At home, though, things stop being simple. Your mother had entered one of her “planning phases,” consisting of color-coded schedules of times to study for the college entrance exam, college catalogs spread across your desk.

“Mother, I’m home,” you screamed. You heard the footsteps of your mother coming from the kitchen. She even has more college catalogs in her hands.

“Y/N, I made a decision. You're going to apply for early admission.” You stopped, looking at her in confusion.

“I thought we agreed that I would not do that.”

“You need to focus. You have the grades; now you need the commitment. No distractions,” she reminded you for the fourth time that week. 

"Mother, I have all my study schedules already, and I'm on track for the mock exams. I'm literally planning the school's social calendar while keeping my GPA up. What more commitment do you need that you found the need to make that decision without consulting me?” you said, trying to keep your tone even.

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” she snapped, the papers in her hands hitting the table with a dull thud. “I know what’s best for your future. You don’t. You think organizing dances and trips for your classmates is going to help you get into Seoul National?”

You clenched your fists. “It’s not about that! It’s about the fact that you don’t trust me to handle my own life!”

“You’re seventeen, Y/N. You don’t even know what you’ll want in five years!”

“Because you’ve never given me the chance to figure it out!” you shot back before you could stop yourself, your voice breaking slightly. 

“I’m going to college and not mess it up like you!” Your mother’s palm slapped sharply on your cheek. 

“What’s going on here?!” Your father’s voice came from the hallway. You hadn’t even realized he’d arrived. But you didn’t care.

You pushed past him, tears already blurring your vision as you ran out the door. You could hear him calling your name, but his voice faded behind you, swallowed by the night air.

You didn’t care about your mom.

You didn’t care about the neighbors staring as you rushed down the street, barefoot in house slippers.

You didn’t care about the way your chest tightened with every breath you took.

You just ran.

And when your legs finally gave out, you found yourself in a quiet park. The street lights flickered faintly, the world spinning around you.

Your knees hit the ground first. Then came the sobs. You pressed your palms to the dirt as your body trembled, the sound of your breathing broken and uneven. For once, you couldn’t hold it in.

The pressure, the expectations, the endless need to be perfect, it all cracked open at once. You barely noticed the screams of a familiar tune until a shadow moved a few meters away.

“Y/N! Are you here?!” Martin’s voice didn’t even make you look up at him. The footsteps grew closer until you felt his presence. “God, what’s wrong—”

Your arms wrapped around him, crying even harder. The bag he’d been holding slipped from his hand, hitting the grass with a muffled thud. A few things rolled out, forgotten. 

He froze for half a second before his arms carefully wrapped around you as well.

“Hey… hey,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re okay.”

You shook your head against his chest, your sobs muffled by his hoodie. “No. I’m not. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just held you there as you cried, his hand moving slowly up and down your back. The only sounds were your uneven breaths and the faint rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

When you finally started to calm, he shifted slightly. Your eyes analyzed his face, the worry etched across his face—the kind you didn’t expect from him.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed hard, voice breaking slightly, “My mother.”

His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly to the faint redness on your cheek. You saw the flash of anger there. “There’s a bench there, go sit there.”

You did what he said, and when he came to sit next to you after picking up the stuff. He pulled a strawberry milk and gave it to you, thanking him.

“I saw you running,” he said. “I was leaving the supermarket, and I just followed. It looked like you were about to disappear.”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t.” His voice softened immediately. “You don’t have to apologize for crashing out.”

You drank up the milk, sighing after.

“I’m just so tired, Martin.”

“I know.” He glanced up at the night sky for a moment. “You don’t have to keep proving you can handle everything. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

You gave a small laugh. “That’s not really on my schedule.”

“Then it’s time to break it,” he said simply, his tone somewhere between teasing and kind. 

That actually pulled a real laugh from you and a faint smile from Martin. His hand brushed the dirt off his uniform pants before doing the same with your knees. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit here.”

You nodded, eyes still wet but calmer. “Thanks for following me, I guess.”

“Anytime,” he said. “Though next time, please don’t make me drop all my groceries.”

You two stayed there for a while; neither of you said anything. You just sat there sharing peace, a feeling none of you felt in a long time, and for different situations.

The night air had cooled a little by the time you both stood up from the bench.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the road. “I’ll walk you home before your dad sends a search party.”

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. The street was almost empty as you walked side by side, your steps slow and the sound of cicadas blending with the quiet, distant buzz of traffic.

“Again, I’m really sorry,” you said after a couple of steps. “I must have been a burden to you today.”

Martin glanced at you, his expression unreadable in the streetlight glow. “You needed someone to find you. That’s all.”

After a few more quiet steps, you sighed, kicking at a pebble on the pavement. “It’s just not my mother. Everything’s been… too much. The prom planning, the trip, the mock exams—it’s like I can’t breathe without having something due.”

Martin chuckled softly. “Leave it to you to get stressed about fun things.”

“They’re only fun when people actually help,” you said, exasperated. “Even if the committee is completely involved in those two things, the principal is bothering me. I’ve been running back and forth with the school board about budget approvals, and I swear, if one more teacher calls me responsible like it’s a compliment, I’m going to scream.”

“Then scream. I’ll join you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You? You’d probably turn it into a song.”

“Maybe I already did.”

You looked up at him, but he just shrugged. “We’re working on something for the Battle of the Bands,” he said. “Prize money isn't bad. Thinking of donating it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Donating? Since when are you that noble?”

“Since I found out how expensive renting a DJ, using massive decorations, and the food is,” he said, giving you a sideways glance. “Keonho is stressed with that too, and we figured if we win, we’ll put some of the money toward your prom fund.”

You blinked, taken aback. “You’d do that?”

“For the school,” he confirmed, but the grin that followed made it impossible to believe him. “Well… mostly for you.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head in disbelief. “And what exactly do you get out of that deal?”

He took a moment before answering, kicking at the pavement as if he were debating whether to say it. “A date.”

You stopped walking. “A what?”

“A date,” he repeated, meeting your eyes. “With you. Just one.”

You stared at him, heart skipping in that annoying wait it always did around him lately. “You’re joking.”

“Not this time.” His voice had softened, “I’ve kinda liked you for a while, Y/N. Like, since sophomore year, a while”

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The words and the mere sight of how he rubbed the back of his neck with the faintest flush creeping into his cheeks were enough to really blow you away.

“You probably thought I was just being annoying all the time… That was me trying to get your attention without, you know, getting expelled for it.”

You blinked at him. “Two years?”

He nodded, starting to walk again. “Two very long and humbling years.”

You looked away at the back of his figure, hiding the small smile that tugged at your lips. Once you reached him, you focused on looking straight.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied. “Just… let me win first. Then decide.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m a ridiculous guy with a plan,” he said, lightly swinging his hips to move your body. 

You reached your gate a few minutes later. The house lights were still on, the silhouette of your dad faintly visible through the curtains.

When you stopped, so he did, taking a look at your place for the first time. “You gonna be okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

He smiled. “Good. Don’t disappear like that again, okay? I can’t keep rescuing the class president from emotional breakdowns.”

You smirked faintly. “And here I thought you liked being the hero.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Maybe I just like you.”

You froze at the words. You saw how he shoved his hands into his pockets. 

“See you tomorrow, Prez.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

He started walking away. You stood there for a moment, heart beating way too fast for someone who’d just survived a meltdown. Your feet started walking fast to where he was.

“Martin!” He stopped instantly, turning on his heel. The look on his face was equal parts concern and confusion, the grocery bag still dangling from one hand. 

You walked up to him, stopping close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Your hand reached for his tie, pulling him down gently. 

On your tiptoes, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m really thankful,” you murmured.

Neither of you moved. His eyes widened slightly before that boyish grin spread across his face, causing you to smile back. You stepped back quickly, cheeks burning, and darted toward the gate before he could say anything else.

Once inside, you shut it softly behind you, leaning against the cool metal to steady your racing heartbeat and touching your lips. Curiosity got the better of you, and you peeked through the small hole in the wall that your dad refused to fix.

Martin was still there, frozen in place, and soon enough, he pulled his fist to the sky while walking away, or more like dancing away, down the sidewalk. “Let’s go!” you heard the scream, and you bit your lip, stifling a laugh of your own.

October came fast, mostly because your parents decided on an uncontested divorce and your dad got the apartment downtown. Yujin jumped when he found out it’s five minutes away from his house. The place felt quieter; your mother had thrown herself into work, and you into whatever kept you from thinking too much: school, council duties, and, against all odds, CORTIS.

Somehow, Martin had managed to stop getting detention every other week. He still mouthed off at the teachers sometimes, wore his ring and the smirk, but he wasn’t the same boy who used to skip class just to nap on the rooftop.

It was truly impressive, you saw how he actually took notes during math, how he waited for everyone after band practice instead of just storming off, how he asked the teacher questions about topics, and even delivered small notes on your desk, ones that make you happy, as if it was a normal thing to do.

Leeseo had caught all that and more, dedicating his free time to watching you watching him, whispering, “You’re so done for,” grinning and doing a couple of mimics with Yujin.

But of course, you denied it every time. 

Because no one needs to know that you were actually falling for him.

Still, when the last high school exam ended, everyone started spilling out of the classrooms, screaming “freedom!” the second the bell rang for the end of the day. Everyone stood up joyfully, and from the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Martin coming your way, a bag lazily hanging on his shoulder.

“Everybody listen up!” Yujin shouted, standing on top of a chair and waving his arms dramatically. “Today, it’s the Band of Battles. Let’s all go and support our beautiful high school and CORTIS as a last act of love to this place!” 

The whole class erupted in cheers, the rest of the students clapping at his words like he said something revolutionary.

Yujin’s friend, Gunwook, jumped onto a chair too, holding up his hand to point at Martin. “Martin, as the leader, pick a color so we can dress up.” 

Martin posed theatrically, pretending to think it through before his eyes looked at you. His grin softened as soon as his fingers brushed the small red bow pinned in your hair.

“I like red today.” The whole class went wild, but his eyes simply scanned the redness that the tip of your ears caught. You tried to act unfazed, but the way he smirked at you made your stomach twist. 

His mouth went near your ear, “You can wear whatever you like, you look good in anything.”

By the time the noise died down, so did your heartbeat when he left the classroom, mouthing, “I’ll see you there”. Everyone had plans and was starting to spread the word before heading home to change and go to the event.

You, on the other hand, had to stay behind, for quite a while, actually. 

While your classmates flooded out of the building, already buzzing about the performance, you found yourself sitting across from the principal for more than an hour, finalizing the last details for the senior trip next week. Each little break, you looked up at the clock hanging on top of the wall, sighing in relief when he thanked you for your dedication, which was a nice way to say “you work too much” and finally let you go. You were already late, and you at least wanted to arrive one act before the boys.

The hallways were nearly empty now, sunlight slanting through the windows in soft orange streaks. You smiled faintly when you passed a whiteboard where someone had scrawled “CORTIS = Victory!” alongside other words of encouragement.

Your chest felt a little lighter reading it, even making you pull out your camera to snap a picture so you can show it to the band through Keonho later.

You were halfway down the front steps when you saw a woman standing outside the school gates, elegantly dressed in a cream coat and hair pinned neatly back. Without losing the beat of your quick steps, you continued until you felt a presence near you and soon, a hand on your shoulder that made you jump.

“Excuse me,” she called gently, laughing awkwardly at your reaction. “Are you Y/N?”

You hesitated before nodding, “Yes… Do I know you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Martin’s mom.”

You blinked before bowing down; you didn’t expect his mother to look that elegant yet have such an expression that felt oddly familiar.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I’m the one I should say that, darling. I’ve heard about you,” she said. “Martin speaks of you more than he probably realizes.”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your face. “Thank you so much.”

“He’s changed lately,” she said. “He comes home earlier, studies, and seems steadier. And I know you might have something to do with that positive change.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. “Well, he’s been working hard in high school and for the band. You probably already know how much it means to him.”

Her smile faltered, just a tiny bit, before speaking again. “Yes, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About the band?” you frowned, already thinking of what she was about to say.

“Music has always been a phase for him. His father has great plans, engineering, university abroad, to be specific. I was hoping you could talk to him, convince him to take his future seriously again.”

That’s the moment you went speechless. Your mind works ten times faster to choose your words carefully. “With all respect, Mrs. Park. I don't think it's a phase, and I won’t do that. At all.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, confusion flickering on her face.

“I’ve seen him when he’s performing,” you said. “When he’s practicing with the band, when he’s writing lyrics on the back of his notebook, he’s not pretending; he looks alive doing that. It's not just a distraction for him; it’s who he actually is.”

You could see how the first crack in her composure showed, lips parted. “You sound just like him.”

“Maybe that’s because you both underestimate how much he cares about what he does,” you vented. “I get that engineering might have been his father’s and your dream. But music as a whole makes him happy. Whether it’s producing or singing, that’s how he wants to live his life.”

There was a silence for a moment, so you took that moment to inhale briefly and continue.

"Martin listens to music when he’s feeling stressed. He’s not into literature, but he writes such good lyrics that you might even think he’s becoming some kind of poet. And the way he looks when he’s playing? That’s him in his element.”

The woman lowered her head, sighing. “I just don’t want him to throw his future away. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“Maybe this is his future, it just doesn’t look like the one you two pictured.”

 “You’re a very smart girl, Y/N,” she finally said.

“I’m just honest,” you replied, offering a small smile.

“That’s even rarer,” she murmured. “I can see why he—” she stopped herself, simply smiling again, “Thank you for being good to him.”

An idea came to you, the backpack that was on your shoulder ended in the middle of you two, taking away the pamphlet Seonghyeon and James had given to promote, and extended to her. “He’s a good person, Mrs. Park. And just like how you believe in him to achieve the engineering future, believe and trust him with his.”

You bowed slightly when she took the paper, walking away to catch the bus that would take you home. Thankfully, you arrived safely.

You kicked off your shoes at the entrance, calling out, “Dad, I’m home!” before leaning down to kiss his forehead as he read through a newspaper on the couch with his work clothes still on.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said with a smile. “You look busy.”

“Always!” you shouted, darting into your room.

They were still scattered with open notebooks and the faint scent of highlighter ink, stuff you’d temporarily promised yourself to forget tonight.

After the divorce, your dad had insisted on helping you “reclaim the place.” He’d driven you to buy new clothes, helped you hang posters, and even tolerated the sparkly beaded curtain you’d begged to put on your door. For the first time in months, the room looked like yours, not your mother’s version of perfection. 

You took the quickest shower and got dressed in record time, the white camisole layered under a cropped denim jacket, a mini skirt with a rhinestone belt, and your sports shoes. A knock on your door made you look away from the mirror.

“Come in!” you called, picking some blush on your brush to put it onto your cheeks.

Your dad peeked in, smiling softly as he stepped inside. “Are you still getting ready?”

“Almost done, thanks for driving me there,” you replied, setting down the brush.

He chuckled and sat on the edge of your bed, looking around and whistling. “Wow, you’re really made this place your own.”

You smiled at his reflection in the mirror proudly. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“You also seem different lately. Happier.”

“Maybe because exams are over, both of us are in a good place, and I’m finally hanging out with my friends. Which, by the way, I’m grateful for.”

“Well, you deserve them since you’ve always worked hard,” he smiled. You felt that shift when he was done, suddenly suffocating.

He watched you for a moment, a teasing glint in his eyes. “So… what do you want to ask?” you said, already suspicious.

“Now, why do you think that?” he asked, laughing when you raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him leaning forward with a grin on his face. “What’s his name?”

The mascara wand ended halfway to your lashes. “What's whose name?”

“The boy,” he said simply. “And don’t tell me there isn’t one. I’m not blind. You’ve been smiling more, playing music in your room, and I’m pretty sure he’s the same boy who brought you home that night.”

You covered your face, groaning, feeling your cheeks getting warmer with each second. “Dad, please.”

“So I’m right,” he said, amused that his dad instincts didn’t betray him. “What’s his name?”

The small silence was broken when you sighed softly. “Martin.”

Your dad nodded slowly. “Is that the boy who’s in that band you mentioned, right?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying your best to sound casual. “He’s their leader, and he has been studying with me since middle school. Kind of stubborn. Really annoying sometimes.”

“Huh—” you could tell by how he was clearly unconvinced. “And what makes him so annoying?”

You opened your mouth—ready to list something—but nothing came. Instead, what slipped out was, “He doesn’t quit. Even when everyone expects him to.”

Your dad hummed softly. 

“And when he talks about music,” you went on, your mind planting words in a second, “he gets this look… like the rest of the world just disappears, he’s in his own happy place.”

You paused, but somehow the words kept coming. “He’s also funny,” you admitted, taking your hairclips to fix your hair with a smile tugging at your lips. “Not the kind that tries hard, it’s like, half of the time he says something and you can’t even tell if it’s a joke or he’s being serious. It makes you laugh anyway.”

You stood up to pick some rings to match the outfit, continuing to speak. “He’s kind, pretends he doesn’t care, but he remembers things. He smiles with his whole face, and when there’s something  he likes, he won’t stop until he gets it.”

“I thought you were saying something about him being annoying, right?”

Heat crept up your neck immediately. “I—That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Darling. It’s okay, I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Oh my God, please stop talking.” You took your essentials quickly and ran to the front door, waiting in the car immediately. 

The drive was calm, the windows cracked open, making the October air carry faint echoes of music from blocks away. The sunset was painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold.

He glanced at you as they stopped at a red light. “Sounds like you really care about him. And so does he.”

“I guess I do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

“I would love to meet him properly sometime,” you were about to protest, but he shushed you quickly. “No ‘buts’”

“Fine.” You both arrived at the youth center quite fast. The road was already lined with parked cars, students who didn’t receive a ticket and decided to enjoy from outside, a handful of paparazzi, and a lot of security.

You heard your dad’s whistle under his breath. “Looks like the whole district showed up.”

“It really does.” You clutched your bag a little tighter.

He slowed the car near the entrance, smiling as he glanced at you. “Are you nervous?”

You shook your head quickly. “Maybe a little.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“I’m not performing,” you laughed a little, confused.

He grinned, a hand on top of your shoulder. “Didn’t say you were. But I have a feeling something might happen.”

You rolled your eyes, unbuckled your seatbelt, and checked one last time that you didn’t forget the vip ticket Martin left on your locker.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, kissing his cheek.

“Anytime, sweetheart. Tell me if you’re going somewhere else, and tell Martin I said good luck!”

“Dad!” You heard his laugh as you walked away, turning around to wave him off before stepping into the noise of the crowd after safely passing security, although you almost fell after a few of them tried to fight security.

The venue wasn’t really one, more like a repurposed parking lot with a stage at one end and strings of lights hanging overhead. Students from different schools packed the space, every single one was excited, waving balloons from side to side or a flashlight.

“Y/N!” Leeseo appeared right in front of you, hugging you, and Yujin arrived a little later. “You just missed like two acts, Hanlim was even better than last year!”

“How did your meeting go?” Yujin asked, and a smile was more than enough for them.

“The trip is completely done, there are no problems.”

“Finally!” Yujin grinned. “We deserve that trip; this year has been trash.”

“Not for Y/N, she finally has a crush,” she sang, Yujin and Leeseo start poking your sides. “You know Martin’s going to show off.”

You rolled your eyes. “He always does.”

But your pulse quickened anyway when the stage lights flickered to red and you saw the MC going to the center of the stage, gaining a scream from the crowd.

“What a performance from Hanlim!” she said. A roar of cheers from a group of students startled you. “Let’s keep this energy up for the next group, from SOPA… give it up for CORTIS!”

The boys walked to the stage, the excitement and screams from the place feeding them. James settled behind the drums, spinning a stick in one hand. Juhoon adjusted his guitar strap, Seonghyeon’s fingers danced over the keys to test it, and Keonho flashed his familiar grin from behind his bass.

Then Martin walked out.

Graphic tee with layered chains, jeans slouching low, sneakers unlaced. Stage lights caught on his chain as he leaned into the mic. “What’s up, Seoul!” 

Cheers erupted again, a few girls screaming his name and the other guys. “Tonight, it’s a special night because we’re performing our self-produced song for the world to hear!”

Leeseo elbowed when you immediately started clapping and cheering.

“Enjoy yourself, love. You deserve this!” Martin started playing some guitar chords.

“Crash, smash, rock, mash up Ooh, take what you want 돈, 멋, 명예, love, and what? Ooh, take what you want.”

You remember hearing them practice bits of it during free periods when you walked by to give them some snacks and reminding Keonho about little details to fix for the trip.

Hearing it live was very different from it; all of the instruments crashed together in perfect sync, and you finally listened to all five singing together, which was uncommon for bands. Everyone was shouting along, even if they didn’t know the words. In a moment, Martin’s eyes found you. For that split second, you could feel your heart trying to escape from your ribs. 

“Some people want this, some people want that Same here, all seventeen years of my life.”

Martin started walking around to interact with people, standing in front of you three.

“Chased after love, chased after fame. So now I want the whole world to know my name.”

He winked at you, feeling it like a spark as heat rushed to your cheeks. Yujin started laughing at your face, and Keonho smiled teasingly at you.

A couple of minutes later, the song ended with a burst of applause, Martin running a hand through his hair before grabbing the mic again.

“Alright,” he said, breathless but grinning. “We’ve got one more for you.” 

He paused the moment his gaze found you immediately. 

You smiled faintly, catching the flicker of nerves in his eyes, and mouthed, “Breathe.”

He huffed out a laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting before turning his head to the band. Juhoon leaned into his mic.

“Go for it, dude.” The five boys laughed, Martin turning back to his mic.

“This,” he started, “is one of the many songs I wrote for this girl.” His eyes never left yours. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I’d have written any of them. 

You looked at Leeseo and Yujin on your side; they were smiling already. They knew this would happen.

He stepped back slightly, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder, and nodded toward the rest of the band. “It’s called ‘Iris.’”

"And I'd give up forever to touch you 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow You're the closest to Heaven that I'll ever be And I don't wanna go home right now."

The lyrics drifted through the air, and though he was looking out toward the audience, every few lines his gaze found its way back to you, long enough that it was impossible to look away.

He wasn’t performing anymore. He was confessing to you for a second time.

You felt your throat tighten, fingers twisting around the hem of your jacket, your heart beating full speed, and making you clear of one thing. You were completely in love with that person whom you thought you hated.

"And I don't want the world to see me 'Cause I don't think that they'd understand When everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am."

The crowd swayed with the melody, arms raised, voices echoing when they learn a little piece of the song. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he smiled at you mid-line. The final chorus exploded, lights flashing, the crowd roaring. Martin’s voice cracked slightly on the last note—and somehow, it made it perfect. You screamed at the very end, chanting with your friends, “CORTIS!”.

The five joined Martin, bowing down in gratitude with big smiles on their faces. Juhoon was teary-eyed, and you could tell that it moved the rest of the members as they walked out. The MC came back, impressed.

“Wow! Cortis really wants the money. We will have a five-minute break so the judges can decide.”  

Leeseo grabbed your arm, eyes wide. “Y/N… I think you just got serenaded.”

“Go see him.” Yujin pointed at the small hallway you could go to. You looked at him, panicking.

“Like now?”

“Yes!” Both of them pushed you there, moving for a couple of minutes before you reach it. You waited for the security to get distracted to enter there, closing it as fast as you opened it.

At a distance, you saw Martin laughing while watching James and Keonho jumping in happiness, James even half-yelling something about “not missing the last chord for once.”

You slipped past the curtain, unsure whether to find him or run before someone teased you for looking like you belonged there.

“Noona!”

Too late. You turned just in time to see Seonghyeon spot you instantly. 

His shout was loud enough to catch the attention of all five.

“Prez!” Keonho was the first to move, practically launching himself into your arms before you could even react. “What do you think, Prez?”

You laughed, stumbling back half a step under his weight. “I think you’re all still dangerously hyper.”

“We totally killed it, what do you mean?” Juhoon cut in proudly, slinging an arm over Keonho’s shoulders. James raised his drumsticks triumphantly in agreement, and Seonghyeon grinned from behind the keyboard setup, already pretending to wipe sweat off his brow dramatically.

You shook your head fondly, brushing hair from your face. “You guys were amazing. Really.”

“Both,” you added when another voice came from behind the group. “Though you did almost drop the mic stand again.”

He was standing a few feet away, hair damp with sweat, guitar strap still hanging loose at his side. The grin he wore was boyish, tired, and radiant all at once.

“Occupational hazard,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “So? How’d we do?”

“You’re asking the school council president for a review?” you teased.

“I trust your judgment,” he said simply. 

“More like his crush judgment,” Seonghyeon spoke, hissing later after Juhoon pinched him.

“Can you leave us alone for a sec?” Martin looked at James.

“You all heard him! Step back, ladies,” you laughed at the funny view of them trying to listen.

The grin softened before becoming quiet again. “So?”

You exhaled, letting yourself smile despite yourself. “You were amazing, Martin. Really.”

He froze for a heartbeat, eyes lighting up. “You mean that?”

You nodded. “Every word.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pretending to play it cool, but the faint flush at the tips of his ears betrayed him. “Guess that means I can cash in on my deal.”

You frowned. “Deal?”

“The one where if we win, you owe me a date.”

You scoffed, trying not to grin. “You haven’t even won yet.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “We both know we’re not walking out of here without that trophy and cash.”

You were about to fire back something smart when the loudspeaker crackled to life outside.

“All bands, please gather near the stage! Results will be announced!”

He looked at you and smirked. “Come on, front row like before, Prez.”

The crowd was electric again when you came back, students pressing closer to the makeshift stage, voices rising in chaotic chants. Hanlim High’s band stood on one side, exhausted but smiling; CORTIS stood on the other. You could sense the adrenaline pulsing through their little group.

You stood with Leeseo and Yujin near the barricade, your heart weirdly hammering even though you weren’t the one competing. You three held hands.

“And the winners of this year’s Battle of the Bands…” the announcer said, drawing it out. The entire lot went silent for a breath.

“…CORTIS!”

The explosion of sound was immediate.

Students screamed, threw confetti, jumped, and cheered so loud you could barely hear the band’s name being repeated over the speakers. Keonho dropped to his knees, James banged a drum in celebration, and Juhoon lifted his guitar triumphantly in the air.

Martin just stood there for a second, blinking in disbelief as he grabbed the big cardboard check before looking toward you through the chaos.

You clapped your hands over your mouth, laughing, and he broke into the brightest smile you’d ever seen. Then, like it was instinct, he pointed right at you before turning to grab the mic.

“This one’s for SOPA High, and for the people who never stopped believing in us!” he shouted. “Especially one of them.”

Leeseo smirked beside you. “If you don’t date him soon, I will.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply because Martin had already jumped off the stage into the crowd, swallowed by a sea of cheering hands and students trying to high-five him. You decided not to bother the moment by moving near a corner to breathe properly with Leeseo next to you, who was almost suffocating.

Later, when the crowd started thinning, people made plans to celebrate at a nearby karaoke place. Banners were torn down, the lights dimmed, and laughter filled the streets as everyone drifted away in groups.

You were helping Yujin pick up some discarded signs when you noticed Martin slipping away from the commotion, walking towards you with a smile. Before he could reach you, he paused, looking right behind you.

Following his gaze, you saw her.

His mom.

Standing near both of you, clutching her bag, and if your vision wasn’t playing, you could see her eyes wet from what she’d just watched.

Martin froze when he saw her. For a second, he looked like a little boy again, before taking a slow step forward to be next to you.

“Mom,” he said quietly.

She smiled faintly, her voice soft. “You were incredible.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You… came?”

“I had some help,” she said, glancing to your side, and your heart skipped when you realized she meant you.

Martin turned slightly. You gave a small bow before stepping back.

“I will give you two some space,” you bowed again before walking to where Leeseo and Juhoon were standing. 

When he looked back at his mom, her eyes were already glistening.

“I see what she meant,” she said.

He frowned slightly. “What did who mean?”

“Y/N,” she said. “She told me that music isn’t your rebellion, it’s more like your peace.” Her voice trembled slightly, but her smile didn’t waver. “She was right. You looked… happy. Really happy.”

Martin swallowed hard. “Mom…”

“I’ve been thinking about something for months,” she continued, clutching her purse tighter. “And after tonight, I think I've finally made up my mind.” She paused, steadying her breath. “I’m going to file for divorce.”

His eyes widened in surprise, a sudden feeling of relief occupying his whole body. “You’re serious?”

She nodded. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine. And I think you, your father, and I both deserve honesty, even if it hurts.”

Martin’s throat tightened. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”

Her smile wavered, tears finally spilling over. “No, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t hesitate, just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. This was the first time in a while he gave and felt a hug that was that tight and overdue. 

After a while, she pulled back and brushed his hair from his forehead, her voice quiet. “You’ve grown up so much. And that girl… she’s good for you.”

Martin blinked, glancing instinctively toward where you stood, half-hidden behind the fence. You were talking to Leeseo, occasionally looking at him with your smile.

“She’s a great girl,” his mom added softly. “Don’t let her slip away.”

He smiled, that same shy, crooked smile that only ever showed up when it came to you. “I won’t.”

“Cortis and friends!” she screamed, not even willing to bat their eyelids. “Grab your stuff and get in the car, food is on me.”

As his mom turned to leave for the car, he looked back toward you again. You were laughing now as you watched James running at the word food, the streetlights glinting off your red bow as you tucked your hair behind your ear.

And for the first time in a long while, Martin didn’t feel like the boy running away from everything. He felt like someone finally heading toward something worth staying for.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The school courtyard was anything but calm. Countless rolling suitcases, half-zipped duffel bags, and sleepy students chugging canned coffee like their lives depended on it to keep awake for at least of the way there.

After a weekend of endless messages about CORTIS’ victory on Cyworld and your classmates posting grainy flip-phone photos of Martin grinning with the trophy, it felt surreal that it was finally trip day. The band made sure they cashed the prize and gave you a big amount for the prom if they got to perform again, which you obviously agreed to.

You adjusted your backpack and sighed as Leeseo ran up to you, waving a folded permission slip.

“Can you believe they’re trusting us with three whole nights away from supervision?” she grinned.

“Please,” you said, smiling faintly. “You know half the teachers are going to patrol the halls like spies.”

Yujin jogged up behind her, yawning. “I’m only here for the free breakfast buffet.”

“You’re here because you begged to be in my room,” Leeseo shot back.

“Prez!”

You turned instinctively, only for Keonho to appear out of nowhere, blocking your view with a grin too wide to be innocent. Last time he gave you that type of smile, you were in the director's office.

“Morning!” he said brightly, holding a carton of banana milk. “You want one?”

You frowned, eyeing him. “You hate banana milk.”

“Do I?” He glanced down, pretending to think. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

Before you could answer, Juhoon popped up behind him. “Y/N! Quick question: if a band wins something again, should the prize money go into savings or celebration snacks?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Snacks,” James said immediately, dragging his suitcase past.

“Definitely savings,” Seonghyeon countered.

“Hold on, I didn’t even—”

“Exactly!” Keonho interrupted, looping an arm through yours. “We are the only ones who can settle it. Come on, let’s walk and talk, far away from the buses.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you guys up to?”

“Nothing,” they chorused, which was, of course, the most suspicious answer possible.

By the time you reached the front of the boarding area, the CORTIS boys had somehow managed to keep you talking about everything from “the ethics of snack budgeting” to “who snores the loudest during overnight trips” (it was apparently James).

Every time you tried to glance toward the loading buses, one of them moved strategically into your line of sight.

“Okay,” you said finally, crossing your arms. “What’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ again.”

Before you could press further, the teachers started calling everyone to board.

“Saved by the bell,” Seonghyeon muttered, pushing his suitcase forward.

You squinted suspiciously at all four of them. “You’re all terrible liars.”

Keonho only winked. “We learned from the best.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling as you followed them onto the bus.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The trip flew by in a blur of beach air, sightseeing, and several promposals that only happened when a hundred high school seniors were given freedom for three days straight and allowed their use of free will. You even helped out with Yujin’s promposal to Leeseo, to which she accepted happily.

You found yourself laughing more than you had in months, mostly because the CORTIS boys had taken it upon themselves to make every activity as dramatic as possible.

At lunch, James accidentally tripped and dropped an entire tray of kimbap, dramatically claiming it was “artistic sacrifice.” Juhoon tried to serenade a teacher with a guitar for bonus points on attendance. And the best for last was probably Keonho and Seonghyeon attempting to sneak extra dessert for everyone, only to get caught by the cafeteria lady, who then gave them more because she found them “charming.”

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somehow, their energy became the highlight of the trip.

Every so often, though, you caught Martin watching you from across the group, who you were impressed by how distracted he looked all this trip, exchanging some words with you now and then.

On the last night, during the “recreation period,” the teachers announced everyone could stay in the courtyard area to watch the sunset and enjoy the small outdoor stage. 

You and Leeseo were sitting near the front, sharing a pack of chips on a break after a small duet given by Wonbin and Liz.

“Yujin, what are you moving your head like a meerkat? You’re stressing me out.” Leeseo’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Okay, don’t freak out, but I think something is happening.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, already getting stressed out. You might have changed a little bit, but you were still a little perfectionist.

Music started playing from the speakers, and your mind instantly recognized the familiar brass riff it had.

“You’re just too good to be true…”

Your jaw dropped at the voice of Martin. “Leeseo, is this real?.”

“Oh, yes,” Leeseo whispered, eyes sparkling. You didn’t notice how she was holding a recording camera, pointing it at you.

Martin opened the curtain that worked as a background on the stage, his gaze fully on you. Martin jumped off the stage, mic in hand, grinning as he began to sing the classic with over-the-top theatrics.

“Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

He pointed at you on the last word, and everyone screamed.

You covered your face, but it was useless. Martin was committed. He climbed onto one of the benches, sang to the teachers (who pretended not to laugh), and even slid down on one knee in front of a startled Yujin, who dramatically clutched his heart.

The entire class was upside down as the music built. He ran up the small aisle and stopped right in front of you.

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Martin—”

He was interrupted by singing directly to you, his grin wider than ever.

“I love you, baby, and if it’s quite alright…”

You buried your face in your hands, but he gently pulled them away, still singing. The crowd clapped along to the beat, the boys behind him quickly moving. Martin spun around, giving a cue to Juhoon to give him a flower bouquet to go again in front of you, kneeling on one knee.

When the song finally ended, Martin was breathless, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, but his eyes never left yours.

Behind him, James and Seonghyeon were holding a banner, the phrase: “I may not be Shakespeare, but I promise prom with me will be a sonnet.”

The entire courtyard went silent. 

He held the mic higher, the faint tremor in his hand betraying the adrenaline rushing through him. Despite the wide grin on his face, you could see his chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“So…” he said, catching his breath. “I think it’s pretty obvious what my feelings about you are.” 

“You drive me insane, make me want to be better, even when I swear I don’t care about anything.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “But I do. I care too much, especially when it comes to you.”

A few students in the front row let out small gasps, someone whispering, “Oh my god, he’s serious.”

Martin looked down for a second, the mic brushing against his lip as if he needed that pause to steady himself. When he lifted his head again, there was no smirk this time.e

“Maybe you don’t see it yet despite me saying I had this crush on you that night,” he said, voice softer now, “but when I look at you, it’s like the noise stops. And that’s saying something, coming from me.” The crowd laughed gently, and even you couldn’t help the small smile that broke through your shock.

Then he tilted his head, eyes glinting. “So yeah,” he said, tone dipping back into that familiar warmth, “I had to do this your way because words weren’t cutting it anymore.”

The crowd burst into cheers again, clapping and whistling, chanting your name and his. You were still processing the words, your heart thudding painfully fast, when he looked straight at you again, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“So, Y/N,” he said, almost shyly this time, pointing at the banner behind him that was shaken by the boys, “will you go to prom with me?”

The crowd collectively held its breath.

You blinked, stunned, then let out a shaky laugh. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

He grinned, his breath still uneven, voice hoarse from the singing and the nerves.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You looked at him, the boy who’d spent half a year driving you crazy and the other half trying to make you smile. Your hand brushed against his as you took the bouquet. “Martin,” you said softly, eyes meeting his, “yes. Of course I’ll go with you.”

The courtyard erupted—cheers, applause, a few whistles from the back. Juhoon and James started playing the outro riff again, and Keonho let out a triumphant, “She said yes!” into the backup mic.

Martin blinked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Wait—really?”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest. “Really.”

For a moment, he just stared, then he exhaled, his smile breaking into something so bright it made your stomach twist. “I’m—uh—wow. Okay.”

The boys were already pushing him forward, shouting for him to say something cool, but he just chuckled helplessly, scratching the back of his head. 

“Hug each other, idiots!” Yujin screamed, and before you could react, Martin’s arms wrapped around you, lifting you clean off the ground.

Your surprised laugh got lost in the roar of the crowd. He spun you once, just enough for your shoes to leave the pavement, and when he set you down, your heart was racing far faster than it should’ve

As the music picked up again, his hand reached out instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. He looked like he wanted to say more—so much more—but instead, he whispered, “See you at night, Y/N.”

Your frowned. “Wait, what?”

Before you could demand an explanation, Leeseo grabbed your wrist. “No time for questions—let’s go.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, stumbling after her.

She only grinned. “Operation ‘Date Night,’ obviously.”

“Excuse me, what?”

Yujin was waiting near the dorms, arms crossed like an overexcited manager. “Martin’s orders. You’re not allowed to show up in a school jacket in a romantic setting. Leeseo, you know what to do.”

“On it,” she said, pulling you inside.

Ten minutes later, your room looked like a battlefield of denim, perfume, and lip gloss.

Leeseo had raided your bag, holding up two outfits with the seriousness of a stylist dressing an idol.

“Okay, option one: the floral skirt and cardigan combo. It’s cute, safe, and very student council president. Option two…” She tossed a bundle at you. “Something that’ll make him forget his own lyrics.”

You gave her a look. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re welcome.”

Leeseo was taking her sweet time; everything she was doing was slow and steady, keeping you busy with prom details and suggesting matching colors and opinions for her and Yujin for the event. Which also made you think if Martin is into matching colors.

When you finally looked in the mirror, the second Leeseo screamed in joy, you barely recognized yourself. The simple denim skirt paired with a white tank layered under a cropped cardigan, your hair loose and soft around your shoulders. A thin silver necklace rested at your collarbone.

“Thank you, Leeseo.” You hugged her tightly.

“Anything to see you leaving this school with your first boyfriend and have your first kiss.” You laughed at her tease, face turning red. You left the dorm to start walking to the place, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, and you were sure that it was leaving behind streaks of rose and violet across the water.

When you reached the beach, fairy lights were strung between two wooden poles, flickering softly. A small speaker played a slow guitar riff, so it was clear he was there.

And there, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket with a basket on his side, was Martin.

He wasn’t dressed like the usual; he decided to wear a plain white tee layered under an open gray button-up, dark jeans cuffed at the ankles, and a simple silver chain that glinted every time he moved. His sneakers were scuffed, but clean, and his hair still messy from earlier, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it because he knew you’d recognize him anyway.

He looked up as soon as he heard your footsteps, that same lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” you said, trying not to sound as breathless as you suddenly felt. “So this was your mysterious ‘see you tonight’ plan?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Yeah. The guys helped. Keonho almost set the lights on fire, but we made it work.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you sat beside him. “This is… nice.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying not to look too eager.

“Yeah,” you said softly, your gaze drifting toward the waves. “Really nice.”

He exhaled, shoulders dropping. “Good. I was worried it’d feel too much.”

“Not at all, Tin,” he laughed at the nickname.

For a while, you talked about everything and nothing while eating. The songs they were writing, the stress of exams finally being over, minus the one for college, and how Leeseo had forced you to change outfits under threat of “fashion failure.”

Martin was quieter than usual. His usual sarcasm softened into warmth, his eyes flickering between you and the sea from time to time.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” you said at one point, voice gentle.

He shook his head. “I wanted to. I just… wanted you to have a night that wasn’t about expectations or responsibilities. Just… you.”

That made you look up, startled, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

The wind tugged at your hair, and he reached forward instinctively like before, brushing it back behind your ear. His hand lingered, thumb grazing your jaw as his breath caught.

“Martin…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t move away either. His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if he were fighting himself.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, half to himself. “Not unless you—”

Your heart stuttered. “Unless I what?”

He smiled faintly. “Unless you’d actually let me.”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, a loud crash echoed from behind the dunes.

“REALLY YUJIN?!”  Keonho’s voice.

You both jumped apart, laughing in disbelief.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, covering your face. “They were spying?”

Martin ran a hand through his hair, chuckling. “I told them to stay in their rooms.”

Another yell followed. “Did they kiss yet?”

You looked at each other, bursting out laughing, really laughing, until your stomach hurt and the tension melted. Martin leaned back on his hands, still smiling. “Guess they saved us from doing something we’d probably overthink later.”

You nudged his shoulder. “Probably.”

He turned to you again, that same soft look from the concert flickering across his face. “Still,” he said quietly, “you make overthinking kind of worth it.”

Your breath caught, but you just smiled. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teased.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes. “Here I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Martin and you got closer than ever, and even though it wasn’t official yet, not even your father could deny the chemistry between you two. You spent afternoons studying together, stealing glances over textbooks, and laughing about how far you’d come. The bond grew quietly, in the little things: late-night calls, going out with all of them, and the way he always walked you home after those little evenings, even when it meant taking the long route.

By the time November came around, the entrance exam was long over. The pressure had finally lifted, replaced by a sense of pride and relief. To your fortune, you’d gotten the scholarship for the career you’d always dreamed of, and everyone couldn’t be prouder. 

Graduation day was full of bittersweet smiles. You got your physical pictures, one of you and Martin, standing close with your caps tilted while he carried you, another with your best friends, not leaving behind Keonho and Seonghyeon, who came to see you all six of you graduate. All of you are holding onto that perfect moment before life pulls you in different directions. 

“Can you please stop looking at the picture with your boyfriend and help me with my hair like you promised?” You turned your head to see Leeseo struggling to remove the hair rollers. 

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yet,” she moved her eyebrows up and down, happily seeing the look on your face.

Leeseo had barged into your room hours earlier, armed with curling irons, body glitter, and enough lip gloss to coat a car. Your bedroom floor was a battlefield of shoe boxes, safety pins, and half-zipped purses.

“Thank you, now turn so I can help you,” she ordered, tugging at the straps of your satin dress. It was simple but elegant. Soft champagne color, an a-line skirt, and a ribbon that tied at the back. Your silver necklace gleamed faintly at your collarbone, the same one you’d worn at the beach.

“Leeseo, I think my ribs can’t breathe,” you muttered.

“That’s how you know it fits,” she said, completely unfazed. “Now smile. You’re about to make a boy combust.”

“Stop,” you groaned, cheeks already heating.

By the time you finished curling your hair, the doorbell rang, making you both freeze in place.

“They’re here,” she whispered dramatically.

Leeseo grabbed her clutch, smoothing her pastel blue dress. “You ready?”

You exhaled slowly, heart fluttering. “As I’ll ever be.”

When you opened your bedroom door, your father was already downstairs, peeking through the hallway mirror before unlocking it.

The door swung open to reveal Yujin and Martin. Yujin wore a pale gray suit that was clearly too tight around his shoulders, and Martin… Martin was in a black suit jacket over a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, and his signature silver chain glinting faintly at his collarbone. His hair was swept back loosely, enough to look polished without losing that “Martin” edge.

You heard your dad talking. “Ah, so these are the young men I’ve been hearing about.”

“Sir,” Yujin said quickly, bowing with his usual charm. “We promise to bring your daughter back before midnight.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. “You'd better. I know where the school is.”

Martin laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I will tell my mom that, sir.”

Then you appeared at the top of the stairs, and for a second—just a second—Martin forgot how to breathe.

He’d seen you in a thousand different ways: annoyed, serious, focused, laughing. But this was new, and it surely made his pulse stutter.

You hesitated halfway down the stairs. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said quietly, eyes following you until you reached the last step.

Leeseo descended right behind you, looking stunning in her powder-blue dress, immediately elbowing you when she caught Martin staring.

“Alright, everyone,” your dad said, breaking the silence with a teasing smile, “before you leave, I need a photo. This is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, you don’t see this in Seoul.”

“Dad—” you began, but he was already grabbing the camera from the counter.

“Line up,” he ordered.

Yujin and Leeseo posed first, grinning widely. Then he waved at you and Martin. “Your turn.”

You exchanged a helpless look with Martin before stepping closer. His hand brushed yours until your dad adjusted the frame.

“Closer,” he said. “You two look like you’re taking an ID photo.”

Martin chuckled softly, sliding an arm around your waist. His hand rested lightly against your back, and you swore your heartbeat could be heard across the room.

Your dad smiled behind the camera. “There we go. Perfect.” Click.

The flash went off, and you both blinked, still standing close, when he lowered the camera.

“Beautiful,” your father said warmly. “Now go, before you make me cry.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “We’ll see you later, Dad.”

“Have fun, sweetheart,” he said, then glanced at Martin with mock seriousness. “Be safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said, smiling.

“You clean up well,” you said, forcing a casual smile.

“You too. Didn’t know the Prez had a gown in her closet.”

“Didn’t know you owned a shirt with buttons.”

“Touché.”

Yujin cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, that’s enough flirting for the driveway. Mrs. Park’s waiting!”

You turned to see Martin’s mom, sitting in the front seat of her car, waving with a proud smile. “Come on, kids!”

She looked radiant, freer than she had the last time you’d seen her. When you climbed in beside Leeseo, she glanced back at you through the mirror. “You both look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you said, touched.

The car rolled up to the school gym, saying goodbye to his mom before going inside with your arm wrapped around Martin’s. The windows were glowing gold from the string lights inside that were giving out the theme “Golden Memories.” You could already hear the song mix the DJ was creating on the spot.

“I can believe the committee pulled this off,” You smiled proudly, thankful for the art club's offering to help out with the decorations art club did. 

“Not bad for a bunch of overworked seniors.”

“You guys are late!”

James started to have his arms, Keonho, Seonghyeon, and Juhoon at his sides, waving calmly near the entrance. You find it funny how James’s tie was crooked, Juhoon was trying to help him fix it, and the other two were holding a notebook that you recognized as Martin’s. 

“Nice of you to dress up, boys,” Martin called, grinning.

“Dress up?” Seonghyeon huffed, “It’s not even my graduation, and I look better than the three of you.”

“You girls look great.” Keonho smiled, walking up to hug you first before going to Martin’s.

“Our leader is all grown up. Wearing a tie, bringing a date… next thing you know, he’ll start paying taxes.”

“Don’t curse me like that,” Martin laughed it off.

You looked at Yujin and Leeseo. Despite laughing it off and teasing like usual, it was no news that it was their last big night as CORTIS before graduation. And although they were really committed to the band and set a goal to go a long way, it was their last performance in high school before life pulled them in different directions.

Seonghyeon must’ve felt it too, because when he clapped Martin’s shoulder, his voice wavered slightly. “Let’s have fun today.”

“Oh, we will have fun.” A song started playing, and Leeseo dropped Yujin’s arm.

“Come on, we’re not wasting a good song!” She immediately dragged you to the dance floor, feeling Martin’s gaze behind you.

Leeseo’s infectious energy made you join after a moment of hesitation; even the boys joined in after a few songs. Everyone lost count of how many songs they danced and went inside the circle, and by the time the slow songs rolled in, everyone started to pull their partners.

You were about to sit down, but you caught Martin’s eye once. He smiled at you while excusing himself to cross the floor toward you. The lights dimmed, and your teacher took the stage with a mic in hand.

“Okay, everyone. We are going to do this quickly. Let’s announce your prom king and queen. I need the president of the student council to come to hand the crowns.”

You left Martin to pick up the cushion that had both crowns and stay at the end of the stage.

“To remind all of you, the voting was done by taking paper and writing the name of the person you thought was suitable for the title. Let’s start by naming the king.” 

He flipped the card, sighing at the result. He paused for effect. “Martin Edwards.”

Your jaw dropped, watching your friends go wild, shoving him forward as he was in disbelief. He walked to the stage, standing in front of you. You took the crown to neatly put it on top of his head.

“Congratulations, Tin,” he smiled, walking away to stand behind the teacher.

“Now, to our prom queen…” he repeated the pause from before. “It’s my honor to say this. Y/N!”

You blinked, the spotlight turning toward you and your shocked face. Martin went to you quickly, taking your crown and putting it on top of your head. He threw the cushion away to take your hand, interwining your fingers.

“Was this planned?” you said, laughing, slightly red from embarrassment.

“I don’t know. But I guess that makes you my queen tonight, huh?” he teased.

“Don’t push your luck,” you smiled.

“Now, the king and the queen will slow dance. Students, the floor is yours.” The crowd began to sway, and Martin offered his hand, his usual cockiness melting.

“May I have this dance, Your Majesty?”

You tried not to laugh as you placed your hand in his. “Fine. But don’t step on my dress.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said, grinning.

As you both stood in the middle, his hands sat at your waist politely. Thanks to the heels, you could reach enough to wrap your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the back of his hair.

“Can’t believe I came with the queen of prom.”

“Say the king himself, I think we are both lucky,” he smiled. Neither of you spoke for a moment; the song made you replay some memories you had with your friends, and soon enough, with Martin.

“You know,” he murmured finally. “I never really liked dances, even more the ones where my mom used to force me to go for her work.”

You looked up, amused. “Why’s that?”

“Because I never had anyone worth dancing with.” Since you didn’t know what to say, you let yourself sway with him. Your head rested lightly against his chest.

You didn’t even realize that your friends and more couples joined in. You noticed when the music started to fade away. Martin cursed under his breath, looking at you.

“Is it time for your performance?”  

“Yeah, I’ll be back. I promise,” he took your hands from his neck, kissing the top of them before going to the stage. You looked to your left, seeing Yujin and Leeseo smiling at you.

“What are you thinking?” you sighed, lovestruck.

“On how I will confess to him after this.” Both of them stopped their moves, the tap of the mic being tested rebounding on the gymnasium. 

“We still have a little more than half an hour to end this night. And before we wrap up, let’s welcome CORTIS to the stage.”

The applause was quick to come, them moving on the stage, exchanging nods between them. Martin stepped forward while everyone got their instruments ready.

“Hey, everyone,” he said. “We didn’t plan to play tonight, but this is our last time together before we graduate. So… this is for all of you. For the friend who stuck around, the teacher who, although I knew I wasn’t particularly his favorite student,” the place laughed softly. “They still listened and advised us with warm hearts.”

He paused for a minute, looking at the boys whose eyes were probably as glossy as his. “This is not the end, but a little break before we go all in. Keonho. Seonghyeon, hope we can play at your graduation, and thank you for trusting the band.”

They started with two of their own songs, dancing along with everyone and screaming the songs at the top of their lungs. Energy was never missed when it came to them, even more since they played like it was the last thing they’d ever do, and maybe in a way, it was.

When the applause finally died down, Martin took a sip of water with his members, stepping back to the mic afterward.

“Thank—”

“Wait!” James stopped Martin, who was as confused as the rest of the place, minus the four boys. “There’s one more song.”

Martin walked to him with the rest behind them, covering his mic with his palm. Quickly returning after some clarification.

“This is a surprise,” he stated. “I wasn’t supposed to release this song this soon. I want to thank you guys for creating the instrumental and letting me perform this, and I want to thank my muse for inspiring me to write this song. This is called ‘Everlong’”

The keyboards started, his voice filled the room, and after a couple of verses, Seonghyeon joined.

"And I wonder When I sing along with you If everything could ever be this real forever If anything could ever be this good again The only thing I'll ever ask of you You've got to promise not to stop when I say when She sang."

You simply stood there, digesting the lyrics while people danced to the beat. You didn’t cry until the last note faded, applauding with a smile on your face. Yujin and Leeseo stood to your sides and then watched the boys on stage, officially tearing up.

You feel bad to realize how loved you were by your friends, and how much you had taken Martin’s silent warmth for granted.  He was loud and proud about his feelings for you, even if the tactic at first wasn’t that clear; he later never let you forget you mattered. In moments like this, you finally saw the depth beneath his jokes. 

You went to the refreshment table after the set, drinking some soda to calm yourself down.

“There you are,” you heard his voice. He was still a little breathless, and his jacket was on his arms, his shirt sleeves rolled higher. 

You smiled, suddenly a wave of nerves rushing through your body at his presence. It was now or never, “I want you to come with me.”

“Where—”

“I have to tell you something.” You grabbed his hand, he instinctively looked at it, and softly bit the smile that was threatening to show.

“Show me the way.” You led him to your table, grabbing your clutch and leaving your crown. You passed the chatter through the back doors that opened onto the empty football field. The night air was crisp, and the stars were faint, but somehow still visible and giving a nice glow to the night.

You stopped standing on one of the bleachers in the field so you could be slightly higher, letting go of his hand to turn toward him.

He smiled, a little confused. “Y/N, if this is about the song—”

“It’s not,” you said, heart hammering. “Okay, maybe it is.”

“Oh my God, do you feel embarrassed? I didn’t mean to—”

“I know what you meant,” you interrupted softly. “And you’re right.”

He frowned slightly. “Right about what?”

You exhale. “That everything feels real when it’s with you.”

You decided to step down the bleachers on time. “I didn’t even realize it at first because I truly believed you were just annoying me, to throw me off and my record. But then you started showing up—not just for me—to everyone. And every time you did, I found myself noticing more.”

“Like…?”

“The way you smile when something finally works for you, how you live your life with no regrets, and how your heart is so pure that you don’t even care if the other person hates you. You are there.”

You took a shaky breath, your hand clutching your purse more. “And somewhere between wanting to hate you and trying not to fall for you. I did.”

Martin’s lips parted slightly, “You mean—”

“Yes,” a small laugh broke through at his pure face of disbelief. “I fell for you, Martin Edwards.”

You could see his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his voice a little rough when he finally spoke. 

“Say it again,” he said softly.

“What?”

“My name. Like that.” His lips curved upward, shy and boyish at the same time. “It sounds so pretty when you say it.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled, getting closer to the bleachers, looking up at you. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that—well, not that exactly, but close.”

“I can imagine it after you told me that night.”

“Which, by the way, were those two years of you calling me a nuisance, giving me detention, pretending you didn't look for me at every assembly?”

You laughed, “I had to check if I was going to get called out because of you.”

“I noticed at a distance since you were the only person who actually saw me, even when you swore you couldn’t stand me.”

The wind picked up, making the bleachers creak and your hair sweep across your face. Your hands went to your arms, blaming yourself for being so forgetful and not picking up your sweater from the table. He stood on the deck of the bleacher, and his jacket was quickly placed over your shoulders.

And just what you thought, he reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear again, with he difference that his hand stayed on your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin.

“I didn’t mean to fall for you either,” he admitted, looking down.  “But I did. And I don’t regret a second of it.”

You smiled before reaching into your clutch, hand trembling, and pulled out an envelope.

“I was supposed to wait until tomorrow when we go to Yujin’s house,” you said, “but I can’t.”

He took it, puzzled, and watched what it contained. His eyes widened the second he saw the tickets, audibly gasping.

“There’s no way—”

“Two tickets to see Linkin Park in Seoul,” you smiled nervously. “Consider it a date. Come with me on Friday, and don’t say ‘maybe’.”

He reached for your hands. “You really are something else.”

“Something good?” you teased.

He looked at the sky. “You are something out of this world. God, you’re—”

Before he could finish, you leaned up on your tiptoes, your hand finding his tie to pull him down just like before, but this time, you didn’t hesitate.

Your lips brushed his, his breath caught, and then he kissed you back, gentle at first, as if afraid to break the moment. You froze for half a second, feeling your heart pounding so hard you could almost hear it over the faint music coming from the gym. 

Your nose bumped his, your fingers trembled against his chest, but Martin didn’t care. He smiled into the kiss, pulling back only enough to whisper. “Wow,”

You nodded, breathless at how his eyes were looking so fondly at you. “That was my first.”

His eyes softened. “Good. Then I’m glad it was me.”

You didn’t even realize you were smiling until he rested his forehead against yours, both of you laughing quietly for no reason other than sheer disbelief.

“OH MY GOD!”

You jumped apart. From the edge of the field, a cluster of silhouettes waved frantically like South Korea two years ago for the World Cup. You hid your face on the curve that connected his neck and shoulder, his arms engulfing you.

“Finally!” Leeseo hissed, hugging Yujin happily while he had a smile on his face.

“Pay up, Seonghyeon.” James snickered, waving a few bills. 

“It took you three years, love your perseverance!” Juhoon screamed, and you couldn’t help but laugh from your spot.

“Worth the wait!” Yujin yelled, pretending to wipe fake tears.

You covered your face, groaning. “They were watching?!”

Martin just laughed, “Of course they were. They were looking at us from the gym.”

He turned toward them, raising your joined hands like a victory gesture. The others erupted in cheers, chanting both your names like a ridiculous anthem.

“Also, did I just hear ‘Pay up’?” Martin raised his shoulder, giving away the answer. You huffed, “Can’t believe they’ve been betting on us.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “And for once, I don’t mind losing.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

He looked back at you, his eyes were full of every emotion you were both feeling. “Ridiculously in love with you.”

And before you could think twice, he leaned in again, slower this time, just enough for your lashes to brush his cheek, for you to close your eyes and let the world spin quietly around you.

You didn’t even care if your friends were still watching.

Because under the silver lights of the empty field, with his jacket around your shoulders, hands on your waist, and your heart in a state of pure bliss, everything finally made sense.

And for once—in the middle of all the noise—you didn’t feel like you had to be perfect. You just felt real.

Just like him.

Just like everlong.

“That’s a cute outfit.” You playfully did a princess bow, the outfit that you pulled the night before consisted of a white collared button-up shirt under your fitted, long-sleeve blue sweater, covering perfectly your exposed abdomen that your denim mini skirt showed. It was cinched in with a chunky black belt and some white socks with black shoes with a little bit of heel. 

“Thank you, Yujin. You don’t look bad, either.” He spun dramatically in place, making his backpack bounce.

“Please. My mom picked this outfit. I had to wear it, otherwise she wouldn’t let me go to our karaoke tradition.” He opened his backpack, pulling out strawberry milk.

“You’re the absolute best,” you said, stabbing the straw through the foil and taking a sip without hesitation.

“So, how was your vacation?” 

“It was good. I went to the beach for a week before going to visit colleges with my mom.” he gave a dramatic sigh.

“She is more obsessed with your future than you.” You raised your shoulders, way too used to his words. 

“Well, sadly, I have to go along with—”

“Yah, Han Yujin!” The wall made that scream bounce, creating an echo where the two of you froze. As a matter of fact, everybody there did; you saw the unforgettable figure of your friend Leeseo running to you two, and you looked to your right to see the face of pure fear on Yujin’s face. 

“What have you done?” you whispered, before he could speak. Leeseo was already trying to hit him. His hands went to your shoulder, and he started using you as a shield.

“Leeseo, stop!” you gasped, trying to wriggle out of Yujin’s grip.

“Oh, hi there, Y/N. Can you please move? I want to kick his ass.” It was comical how everything was going down, cameras shutting off as they captured the first banter of the duo. You decided to enter the class, and a spot near the desk and next to the window was your favorite.

“Leeseo—ouch! Wait!” Both of them entered as she finally left him alone after she gave a pretty hard smack on his back. Leeseo sat next to you, and Yujin took the spot behind you two.

“You idiot, why didn't you tell me that Martin is back?!” Her whisper made your ear raise at the name.

“I didn’t spend time here; I went to the countryside to visit my grandma. How do you know?”

“Because he was getting scolded by the teacher at the entrance.”

“Nothing new, then,” you spoke before you could think. You placed your pencil case and notebook on your desk. Leeseo’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide as if what you just said was the dumbest thing ever.

“Nothing new? Y/N, he was supposed to go to Canada for his senior year; he even spoke about it.”

“Now that you said that,” Yujin put his strawberry milk on his table, leaning between you two. “Yesterday, when I was leaving out to do the groceries for mom, Martin and his dad were discussing it; it looked pretty heated.” 

“Oh great, the menace is back.” You keep your eyes focused on what you were writing in your notebook, which consisted mostly of a to-do list of the day.

“Why do you act like this news is a normal Tuesday’s cafeteria menu?”

“Because that’s exactly what it is. Martin gets in trouble like he has been doing for the past couple of years, the teacher yells, and the earth spins. What else is new?”

Yujin chuckled, “Careful tho. Keep talking like that, and he might think you missed him.”

You whipped around, smacking the back of his head with enough power to bother him. “Don’t even joke.”

People kept entering the classroom, some were going straight to their friend group, others to get ready, and a few simply lay on the desk to sleep for a few minutes before the usual first day announcement. 

You grabbed your small makeup pouch so you could go to the restroom, standing in the middle sink and smiling at your polished reflection. Pulling the gloss, you painted your lips with a thin layer of gloss, the mascara was next to give volume to your eyelashes, and finally, some blush on your cheeks. 

When you were satisfied, you left the bathroom, fixing your pouch, crashing with someone, and dropping everything inside them, you could bet your blush was broken into pieces. 

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," you said, bowing as you rushed to at least some of the remains. 

"I can't believe the school role model is wearing makeup, breaking the rules already?" you sighed, still picking up your stuff, your mood completely dropping. 

"I take that back, I'm not sorry." You finally got up and looked at what was supposed to be Martin's height last year, your neck hurting slightly as you looked a little more up. Leeseo was right, he got unbelievably tall.

He was wearing a band tee with ripped jeans that looked twice his size, hanging on his hips like they were holding on for dear life. Scuffed Vans dragged slightly as he shifted his weight, the hoodie unzipped and frayed at the sleeves. His hair looked like he’d rolled out of bed on purpose, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips only made it worse.

The outfit made you know that he would be the reason for your headaches for another year.

“Martin Edwards,” you said flatly, clutching your pouch like it was armor.

“Still bowing to people in hallways. How cute,” he drawled back, his smirk spreading slowly with his hand shoved into his hoodie pocket.

“Still getting yelled at by teachers on the first day. How predictable.” You stepped sideways, but he shifted too, blocking your path with a lazy lean against the wall, watching you close your eyes, irritated.

“You know that I can’t help it if they’ve missed me.” He tilted his head. “Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

Your laugh came out louder than intended, calming down quickly. “Please. The place was finally quiet without you.”

“Quiet’s overrated.” You could see how his eyes flicked down, lingering on the glossy shine of your lips, making you look down briefly. “Besides, you look better with noise around.”

He leaned in slightly so you were the only one hearing. “Come on, Prez. Admit it. You missed me.”

“I miss the news of you moving to Canada.” You scoffed, you looked at his eyes, and you could see how that challenging look disappeared for a second.

“Damn.” He pressed a hand over his chest like you’d shot him. “Still ruthless with the comebacks. What happened to the sweet, polite, and lovely person?”

“She’s still here, she just doesn’t like you,” you shot back, already making your way out. He appeared next to you, the height difference even more noticeable. You stopped on your tracks, him copying you after. 

It was your turn to step forward, your chin high, although it didn’t make you look intimidating. “You’re going to make this year miserable, aren’t you?”

“Depends on how much attention you give me, pretty,” he said easily, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it was nothing, turning the tip of your ears slightly warm.

Before you could say something, the bell overhead rang, echoing through the hallway. The students started invading the hallways, brushing past the two of you with curious eyes.

You exhaled, finally brushing past him to go to your class to hide the pouch, coming back to see him waiting outside the class. “I’m making one thing clear. Give me some free time for our teachers scolding me because of you, I don’t want that on my record.”

You marched your way with your class, heels softly clicking. 

“Can’t promise that, Prez!” His voice followed you down the hall.

It was official, this was going to be a long senior year.

Four months passed like a blur, and just like you predicted, everything stacked up to you. Not even a week in, and the classes and teachers nominated you to be the president of the school council. You were about to give up that opportunity for the sake of a slightly peaceful year, but when your mom heard about it, she forced you to keep it, not turning back even when your dad tried to talk her through it. 

The school was quick to give you a list of activities you and the committee had to plan, and because of your last events as class president, students were quick to say the same sentence.

“We are having a prom AND a school trip? Y/N, you’re the best!”

Normally, the country itself wasn’t exactly used to having a prom the way other countries did, renting movies to watch on a Friday night was enough to plant the idea in every senior’s head, even yours, not believing that you were the one supposed to make it happen. Thankfully, the first big event on the calendar wasn’t prom—but the spring school trip.

With the help of Yujin’s mom, we secured a short trip of two nights in Gyeongju for the last week of October. 

It was 7 pm, and you were walking back home with the rented DVD of 10 Things I Hate About You, ready to drown in ramen and your blankets. The reason? You were tired of council meetings, study schedules, and Martin already racking up three warnings from teachers.

“Why are you in pajamas?” Leeseo surprised you by being in front of your house. 

“Because I’m staying at home…?” Your sentence sounded more like a question than you wanted it to, especially because Leeseo was standing at your gate with her backpack.

“Wrong answer,” she said, shoving past you. “Your mom thinks you’re staying at my house for a study-slash-sleepover. I’m telling you, she almost hugged me when I told her we are even reviewing college math problems.”

“What? Leeseo, I’m in pajamas. I bought snacks! I’m committed to my bed tonight.”

“You can change, and the snacks can wait.” She plopped the backpack on your bedroom floor before going straight to your closet, pulling out outfits that seemed fitting to fool your mom even more. “I’m not letting you waste your Friday night watching Heath Ledger for the 100th time.”

“Shut up.”

She threw your pink cardigan in your face. “Come on, your mom needs to see you leave like we are going to church."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Call me if anything happens, okay?” You nodded at your mom before she lightly hugged you. “Thank you for doing this, darling. I know you will match my baby’s commitment to college.”

Leeseo bowed down while you tried to hide your face, your head by lowering it. “Anything to get that 100, I will bring her tomorrow!”

You two started walking out, feeling the gaze of your mom behind you. “When we turn around here, Yujin and his brother are waiting for us.”

And just like she said, Hanbin and Yujin were there, opening the car right when they saw you two. “Were you two creating a summer season collection?”

“Quiet, Yujin. Hi Hanbin,” you said. Hanbin simply smiled at you.

“Where now, to our house?” Hanbin spoke, this time looking at Leeseo.

“Yes, we need to change her clothes,” you said, looking at her, confused.

“But why? I think it’s cute.” You looked down, a pink polo shirt layered under a pastel cable-knit sweater, khaki skirt, and pearl studs.

“Don’t get me wrong, it is cute, but it looks like you will hold a mass on the dance floor.” Now you laughed, already feeling at ease when the wind touched your face. “And then to Martin’s”

Once again, the mood turned down. “Wait—Martin? As in Martin Edwards?”

“Yes. Keonho texted me, and he said his mom’s gone, and his band has their amps set up in the garage. Apparently, half of the school’s going.” Yujin said, and that’s when you looked at Leeseo, who was actively trying to avoid your face.

“Oh my god! I love this song, turn it up, Hanbin!” she screamed.

The car ride to Hanbin’s house wasn’t long. Yujin’s house was empty when you arrived. Leeseo didn’t waste a second—the soft outfit was already in her backpack, so you can wear the black cropped baby tee with a rhinestone butterfly, a pleated low-rise denim skirt, and a chunky studded belt. Your makeup is slightly altered with the use of eyeliner, but since it was a style you have secretly wanted to try for a while, you enjoyed it. 

Leeseo opened the door of Yujin’s room. The second you stepped out, both brothers gasped. You rolled your eyes with your face burning at the attention. 

“Now that outfit is the one that will take your mom to a coma,” Yujin said. Hanbin punched him softly, and you simply laughed.  

It took a few steps to arrive there since they were neighbors, and the bass from the garage was already rattling the pavement. Cars were parked crooked along the curb, kids were sitting on the front lawn with red cups, and some of them, who you recognized as graduates, were drunk.

“This looks safe,” you muttered. Leeseo slipped her arm through yours.

“Relax, it’s just a party. Besides, Martin’s band is playing. It will be good.”

You rolled your eyes. “Martin’s band will probably sound like three lawnmowers in a blender.”

“That’s kind of the point.” 

The smell of cheap soju mixed with hairspray lingered in the air; there were some Christmas lights strung along the ceiling, casting the whole space in a warm glow. You moved between people to grab something to drink from the table. 

“Noona?” 

You turned around, half-expecting another stranger with either a can of soda or a red cup. Instead, it was Keonho—well, another version that was surely not the one you used to watch on council meetings.

It was almost comical the way your eyes widened at the same time, like you were looking at two entirely different people from the ones you’d last seen in pressed uniforms.

“...Keonho?” you blinked, scanning him from head to toe. “What are you wearing?”

Baggy jeans sagging low on his hips, showing a part of his boxers, a chain clinking against his belt loop, oversized sneaker, and a graphic tee layered under a half-zipped hoodie. His gel-free hair was messy, kinda like he came out of an MTV music video. He looked good, you had to admit.

Keonho gawked back at you with the same disbelief. “Me? Noona, look at your outfit.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, suddenly becoming hyperaware of your fit.

You crossed your arms defensively. “At least I don’t look like I lost a fight with my closet… but you look good, I guess.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair. But still… wow. Didn’t think you could look like that. It suits you.”

Before you could thank him, the garage speakers squealed as the music turned down. Keonho’s grin widened instantly. “Anyways, you have to come listen. Cortis is next.”

You arched a brow. “Cortis?”

“The band I joined!” he said, a happy smile showing his pride. “James is on drums, Juhoon’s rhythm, Seonghyeon on keys, I’m bass.”

“Oh, all of you sing?” you asked, following his steps to the garage.

“Sometimes, but the main singer—”

“What’s up, School of Performing Arts of Seoul!” Martin's voice resonated all over the place, the crowd screaming in response. 

“Keonho.”

“I know you don’t like him at all, but listen to us for a moment, we practiced a lot.” he did a small pout, you had to nod to see him smiling, and run to his bass. 

You scanned the group, eyes stopping on Martin, his guitar strap slung low and standing front and center.

“Thanks for being here. We’re Cortis, and we will do something old since classics never die.”

They surprised you by opening with a familiar riff of one of your favorite bands, blink-182. “All the small things” made the whole garage shake with the force of it, and you had to admit it—it didn’t sound half bad. They were all completely lost in their performance and interacting with people in the crowd who were busy nodding their heads and screaming their names.

The song ended, and the five boys were sweat-slicked and breathless, quickly grabbing a can of soda to quench their thirst. Martin left for a moment, arriving soon after to connect an acoustic guitar to the amps.

You audibly gasped when the familiar melody hit your eardrums. “Wonderwall”. 

You moved through the crowd to get a clearer view, spotting Leeseo and Yujin by the first rows, both singing along dramatically the wrong lyrics—you didn’t mean to reveal your love for rock music there, but after securing your spot next to your friends, your body moved first, soon the lyrics easily feel off your lips like you’d been waiting for that exact song all night, far away from your mother.

For the first time, you let yourself loose. They weren’t perfect; the performance itself was pretty raw to the point that the energy could be felt all over the place. Martin looked up mid-chorus, eyes landing on you. You could see how his eyes opened at the view of you enjoying the chaos he was creating. It felt like the noise dimmed, even just for a second, before he went back to singing his heart out.

The night stretched on with more covers, every single one better than the one before. Eventually, the closeness got too much, making you slip through the crowd and push the back door open, stepping outside after grabbing a can of soda. The cool night air hit your face like a relief, although the sound of crickets filling the silence that the muffled music left behind wasn’t exactly your cup of tea.

You exhaled, leaning against the side of the house, closing your eyes for a moment, finally feeling a little sense of peace after what was probably the longest year so far.

“You hiding, Prez?”

You startled, spinning around to see Martin also leaning against the railing, hair damp with sweat, a crooked smile painted across his face. Even outside, he carried the same reckless kind of confidence that made people look twice. 

“Not hiding,” you said flatly. “Just avoiding the noise pollution.”

“Funny that you say that, knowing how much you enjoyed back there.” His smile grew at the sight of you trying to play it cool.

You scoffed lightly, crossing your arms. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just… surprised you didn’t completely butcher the songs.”

“Ouch.” He chuckled, pushing off the railing to stand a little closer. “You’re tough to impress.”

“That’s not new information.” 

For a brief moment, he didn’t say anything — just looked at you. “Didn’t think I’d see you at one of my shows,” he said, quieter this time.

“Me neither. I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you said, the words coming out before you could even stop yourself. “Wasn’t Canada calling your name?”

You stood there waiting for a silly comment like he always does, just to see your irritating face. But there was nothing but silence, and you were smart enough to know you messed up.

He let out a soft laugh, a bitter one. “Yeah, it was.”

Your silence was a cue for him to continue, which even made you question why you suddenly wanted to hear the rest.

“My dad wanted me there, to finish high school there, the same high school he graduated from,” he said. “Said it’s ‘set me for the future.’, but while he was setting me up, he was setting someone else up too. In another country.”

You froze, for the first time, not having an answer to talk back.

“My mom knew,” he added. “She knew the whole time and just… kept living like nothing happened. So I decided to stay with the person I’m less angry at—while making him angry enough that I like music.”

"He wanted you to be something else when you graduated?"

"Electric engineer. Just like him, so I can help with his company." 

You suddenly remember the article that the principal showed one time — Edward Industries’ CEO invests in youth innovation — and the photo of Martin’s father shaking hands with people, smiling like his world was perfect.

“That’s… a lot to live up to and process,” you said quietly.

“Well, you know I’m not great at following instructions.” His lips twitched, but his usual smirk didn’t quite form this time.

You took a sip of the last part of the soda, swallowing it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know you hate me enough to not care.”

Your breath caught at the way he said it, like it wasn't a joke, but that stung a part of you. You look at him and, for the first time in your eyes, he doesn’t look untouchable or smug. He looked tired.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” you said softly.

“Don’t be. I’d rather be here playing and producing music with the boys and annoying you.”

You let out a small laugh. “You’re doing a great job at both.”

“Y/N! Are you here?!” 

You both turned toward the sound of Yujin’s scream echoing faintly from the other side of the yard. Flashlights from someone’s phone swung through the dark as your friends searched for you.

“Your friends are calling you,” Martin said, stating the obvious. You ran a hand through your hair and twisted it into a messy low bun. He watched the motion quietly, cheeks warming before he could stop himself.

You met his gaze again. “Good night, Martin.”

“Night, Prez.” He added, finally smiling a little bit. 

You started to walk away, then paused mid-step to look back over your shoulder.

“I don’t hate you,” you said. “I just hate that the only thing that damages my school profile is your warnings.”

He let out a chuckle, for real this time, his mouth now doing his familiar grin. “Then I guess I’m doing you a favor. Give your résumé some personality.” 

You blinked, completely caught off guard, before a laugh escaped you, making his grin widen.

“Hey! Don’t laugh!” he said, though the lack of bite in the tone betrayed him, too focused on the happiness that you radiated outside the school.

From a distance, Yujin called your name again, his voice half-drowned by the music. You turned to glance at the noise, still smiling as you stepped back.

Martin stayed where he was, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you go, putting his hand on his chest to calm it down a bit at the sudden racing of it.

[Jump to mid-August] Sitting again at your desk felt like hell. The summer break had been a blur, and what you wished to do the most—relaxing, catching up on your TV shows, and simply not thinking too much about high school—was replaced by college prep books and an endless to-do list dictated by your mother. You manage to sneak out with Leeseo and Yujin only once.

Long story short, you were practically glued to your desk. So the return to school felt more like a choker pressing even tighter around your neck.

“You guys won’t believe what I just saw!” Yujin entered the room, slamming the door closed before running to your spot.

“Yujin, tone it down! Drink some.” You gave him your water, practically chugging it down to ease his thirst.

“Thank you, I came here running as fast as I could.” 

“Couldn’t tell." The sarcasm in Leeseo’s voice made him narrow his eyes at her. “Say what you saw.” 

Before he could, the door slid open again, and a collective gasp rippled through the classroom.

Martin.

But it was Martin wearing the school uniform properly. Key word: properly. White shirt tucked in, tie actually knotted, blazer neat. The only nods to his usual style were a thick, silver ring on his index finger and the slight, purposeful messiness of his hair that framed his face.

He dropped his backpack onto his usual seat in the back, then strolled casually toward the front to grab a new syllabus. On the way back, he caught Yujin’s eye.

“Morning, Han, Leeseo, Prez.” he nodded coolly, taking a seat on the empty spot.

“That’s what I saw,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

Far from being discreet, Leeseo was already studying Martin, who was playing dumb and doing random poses. “I hate this. Bring back your ‘I hate the system’ attitude right now. That’s my only entertainment in this school.”

Martin looked up, grinning. “Can’t. I’m going for the rebrand. Gotta keep the audience guessing.”

You kept your eyes fixed on your notebook, pretending to write down something important, and you were hyper-aware of the space he occupied beside you.

Then came the knock on the wood right next to your pencil case. “Do I look good, Prez?”

When you finally risked a glance at him, it was enough to have the class eyes on both of you, especially his bold yet teasing stare. 

“You look like a normal student. Congratulations.”

The bell rang, and everyone began shuffling to their seats. Martin kneeled in front of you and leaned near enough to whisper, “Thank you, princess.” 

Yujin choked with the water again, and Leeseo was just there, wide-eyed and jaw on the floor. You froze, brain stuttering to find something coherent to say after that. It was well known that you hated nicknames like that, but why are you feeling your cheeks warming up so fast? The class started whispering. 

Days passed, but something about him had shifted.

He still sat in the back (mostly because of his height), still wore that lazy smirk when teachers called his name, but between the sarcasm and the half-lidded stares out the window, you caught him writing. Even more, he divided the notebook into two, where he had both school material and lyrics alongside some guitar chords. Once, you even saw the corner of a paper titled “CORTIS - Set Ideas!!” when you were delivering lesson papers.

He wasn’t slacking off anymore. He was trying.

And since he was trying, the warnings of your bad leadership were almost nonexistent. And it was weird, mostly because you didn’t know how to feel about it.

By the second week, the girls' bathroom was starting to fill with rumors.

“Cortis is joining the Battle of the Bands next month! I’m going to support Juhoon.” “Keonho and Seonghyeon are the youngest people to be there.” “If they go and win, they will break Hamlin's streak of three years.”

You overheard it all, pretending not to listen, but it was inevitable, the emotions for everyone there, since it’s their big “gig”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

At home, though, things stop being simple. Your mother had entered one of her “planning phases,” consisting of color-coded schedules of times to study for the college entrance exam, college catalogs spread across your desk.

“Mother, I’m home,” you screamed. You heard the footsteps of your mother coming from the kitchen. She even has more college catalogs in her hands.

“Y/N, I made a decision. You're going to apply for early admission.” You stopped, looking at her in confusion.

“I thought we agreed that I would not do that.”

“You need to focus. You have the grades; now you need the commitment. No distractions,” she reminded you for the fourth time that week. 

"Mother, I have all my study schedules already, and I'm on track for the mock exams. I'm literally planning the school's social calendar while keeping my GPA up. What more commitment do you need that you found the need to make that decision without consulting me?” you said, trying to keep your tone even.

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” she snapped, the papers in her hands hitting the table with a dull thud. “I know what’s best for your future. You don’t. You think organizing dances and trips for your classmates is going to help you get into Seoul National?”

You clenched your fists. “It’s not about that! It’s about the fact that you don’t trust me to handle my own life!”

“You’re seventeen, Y/N. You don’t even know what you’ll want in five years!”

“Because you’ve never given me the chance to figure it out!” you shot back before you could stop yourself, your voice breaking slightly. 

“I’m going to college and not mess it up like you!” Your mother’s palm slapped sharply on your cheek. 

“What’s going on here?!” Your father’s voice came from the hallway. You hadn’t even realized he’d arrived. But you didn’t care.

You pushed past him, tears already blurring your vision as you ran out the door. You could hear him calling your name, but his voice faded behind you, swallowed by the night air.

You didn’t care about your mom.

You didn’t care about the neighbors staring as you rushed down the street, barefoot in house slippers.

You didn’t care about the way your chest tightened with every breath you took.

You just ran.

And when your legs finally gave out, you found yourself in a quiet park. The street lights flickered faintly, the world spinning around you.

Your knees hit the ground first. Then came the sobs. You pressed your palms to the dirt as your body trembled, the sound of your breathing broken and uneven. For once, you couldn’t hold it in.

The pressure, the expectations, the endless need to be perfect, it all cracked open at once. You barely noticed the screams of a familiar tune until a shadow moved a few meters away.

“Y/N! Are you here?!” Martin’s voice didn’t even make you look up at him. The footsteps grew closer until you felt his presence. “God, what’s wrong—”

Your arms wrapped around him, crying even harder. The bag he’d been holding slipped from his hand, hitting the grass with a muffled thud. A few things rolled out, forgotten. 

He froze for half a second before his arms carefully wrapped around you as well.

“Hey… hey,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re okay.”

You shook your head against his chest, your sobs muffled by his hoodie. “No. I’m not. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just held you there as you cried, his hand moving slowly up and down your back. The only sounds were your uneven breaths and the faint rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

When you finally started to calm, he shifted slightly. Your eyes analyzed his face, the worry etched across his face—the kind you didn’t expect from him.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed hard, voice breaking slightly, “My mother.”

His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly to the faint redness on your cheek. You saw the flash of anger there. “There’s a bench there, go sit there.”

You did what he said, and when he came to sit next to you after picking up the stuff. He pulled a strawberry milk and gave it to you, thanking him.

“I saw you running,” he said. “I was leaving the supermarket, and I just followed. It looked like you were about to disappear.”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t.” His voice softened immediately. “You don’t have to apologize for crashing out.”

You drank up the milk, sighing after.

“I’m just so tired, Martin.”

“I know.” He glanced up at the night sky for a moment. “You don’t have to keep proving you can handle everything. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

You gave a small laugh. “That’s not really on my schedule.”

“Then it’s time to break it,” he said simply, his tone somewhere between teasing and kind. 

That actually pulled a real laugh from you and a faint smile from Martin. His hand brushed the dirt off his uniform pants before doing the same with your knees. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit here.”

You nodded, eyes still wet but calmer. “Thanks for following me, I guess.”

“Anytime,” he said. “Though next time, please don’t make me drop all my groceries.”

You two stayed there for a while; neither of you said anything. You just sat there sharing peace, a feeling none of you felt in a long time, and for different situations.

The night air had cooled a little by the time you both stood up from the bench.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the road. “I’ll walk you home before your dad sends a search party.”

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. The street was almost empty as you walked side by side, your steps slow and the sound of cicadas blending with the quiet, distant buzz of traffic.

“Again, I’m really sorry,” you said after a couple of steps. “I must have been a burden to you today.”

Martin glanced at you, his expression unreadable in the streetlight glow. “You needed someone to find you. That’s all.”

After a few more quiet steps, you sighed, kicking at a pebble on the pavement. “It’s just not my mother. Everything’s been… too much. The prom planning, the trip, the mock exams—it’s like I can’t breathe without having something due.”

Martin chuckled softly. “Leave it to you to get stressed about fun things.”

“They’re only fun when people actually help,” you said, exasperated. “Even if the committee is completely involved in those two things, the principal is bothering me. I’ve been running back and forth with the school board about budget approvals, and I swear, if one more teacher calls me responsible like it’s a compliment, I’m going to scream.”

“Then scream. I’ll join you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You? You’d probably turn it into a song.”

“Maybe I already did.”

You looked up at him, but he just shrugged. “We’re working on something for the Battle of the Bands,” he said. “Prize money isn't bad. Thinking of donating it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Donating? Since when are you that noble?”

“Since I found out how expensive renting a DJ, using massive decorations, and the food is,” he said, giving you a sideways glance. “Keonho is stressed with that too, and we figured if we win, we’ll put some of the money toward your prom fund.”

You blinked, taken aback. “You’d do that?”

“For the school,” he confirmed, but the grin that followed made it impossible to believe him. “Well… mostly for you.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head in disbelief. “And what exactly do you get out of that deal?”

He took a moment before answering, kicking at the pavement as if he were debating whether to say it. “A date.”

You stopped walking. “A what?”

“A date,” he repeated, meeting your eyes. “With you. Just one.”

You stared at him, heart skipping in that annoying wait it always did around him lately. “You’re joking.”

“Not this time.” His voice had softened, “I’ve kinda liked you for a while, Y/N. Like, since sophomore year, a while”

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The words and the mere sight of how he rubbed the back of his neck with the faintest flush creeping into his cheeks were enough to really blow you away.

“You probably thought I was just being annoying all the time… That was me trying to get your attention without, you know, getting expelled for it.”

You blinked at him. “Two years?”

He nodded, starting to walk again. “Two very long and humbling years.”

You looked away at the back of his figure, hiding the small smile that tugged at your lips. Once you reached him, you focused on looking straight.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied. “Just… let me win first. Then decide.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m a ridiculous guy with a plan,” he said, lightly swinging his hips to move your body. 

You reached your gate a few minutes later. The house lights were still on, the silhouette of your dad faintly visible through the curtains.

When you stopped, so he did, taking a look at your place for the first time. “You gonna be okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

He smiled. “Good. Don’t disappear like that again, okay? I can’t keep rescuing the class president from emotional breakdowns.”

You smirked faintly. “And here I thought you liked being the hero.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Maybe I just like you.”

You froze at the words. You saw how he shoved his hands into his pockets. 

“See you tomorrow, Prez.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

He started walking away. You stood there for a moment, heart beating way too fast for someone who’d just survived a meltdown. Your feet started walking fast to where he was.

“Martin!” He stopped instantly, turning on his heel. The look on his face was equal parts concern and confusion, the grocery bag still dangling from one hand. 

You walked up to him, stopping close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Your hand reached for his tie, pulling him down gently. 

On your tiptoes, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m really thankful,” you murmured.

Neither of you moved. His eyes widened slightly before that boyish grin spread across his face, causing you to smile back. You stepped back quickly, cheeks burning, and darted toward the gate before he could say anything else.

Once inside, you shut it softly behind you, leaning against the cool metal to steady your racing heartbeat and touching your lips. Curiosity got the better of you, and you peeked through the small hole in the wall that your dad refused to fix.

Martin was still there, frozen in place, and soon enough, he pulled his fist to the sky while walking away, or more like dancing away, down the sidewalk. “Let’s go!” you heard the scream, and you bit your lip, stifling a laugh of your own.

October came fast, mostly because your parents decided on an uncontested divorce and your dad got the apartment downtown. Yujin jumped when he found out it’s five minutes away from his house. The place felt quieter; your mother had thrown herself into work, and you into whatever kept you from thinking too much: school, council duties, and, against all odds, CORTIS.

Somehow, Martin had managed to stop getting detention every other week. He still mouthed off at the teachers sometimes, wore his ring and the smirk, but he wasn’t the same boy who used to skip class just to nap on the rooftop.

It was truly impressive, you saw how he actually took notes during math, how he waited for everyone after band practice instead of just storming off, how he asked the teacher questions about topics, and even delivered small notes on your desk, ones that make you happy, as if it was a normal thing to do.

Leeseo had caught all that and more, dedicating his free time to watching you watching him, whispering, “You’re so done for,” grinning and doing a couple of mimics with Yujin.

But of course, you denied it every time. 

Because no one needs to know that you were actually falling for him.

Still, when the last high school exam ended, everyone started spilling out of the classrooms, screaming “freedom!” the second the bell rang for the end of the day. Everyone stood up joyfully, and from the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Martin coming your way, a bag lazily hanging on his shoulder.

“Everybody listen up!” Yujin shouted, standing on top of a chair and waving his arms dramatically. “Today, it’s the Band of Battles. Let’s all go and support our beautiful high school and CORTIS as a last act of love to this place!” 

The whole class erupted in cheers, the rest of the students clapping at his words like he said something revolutionary.

Yujin’s friend, Gunwook, jumped onto a chair too, holding up his hand to point at Martin. “Martin, as the leader, pick a color so we can dress up.” 

Martin posed theatrically, pretending to think it through before his eyes looked at you. His grin softened as soon as his fingers brushed the small red bow pinned in your hair.

“I like red today.” The whole class went wild, but his eyes simply scanned the redness that the tip of your ears caught. You tried to act unfazed, but the way he smirked at you made your stomach twist. 

His mouth went near your ear, “You can wear whatever you like, you look good in anything.”

By the time the noise died down, so did your heartbeat when he left the classroom, mouthing, “I’ll see you there”. Everyone had plans and was starting to spread the word before heading home to change and go to the event.

You, on the other hand, had to stay behind, for quite a while, actually. 

While your classmates flooded out of the building, already buzzing about the performance, you found yourself sitting across from the principal for more than an hour, finalizing the last details for the senior trip next week. Each little break, you looked up at the clock hanging on top of the wall, sighing in relief when he thanked you for your dedication, which was a nice way to say “you work too much” and finally let you go. You were already late, and you at least wanted to arrive one act before the boys.

The hallways were nearly empty now, sunlight slanting through the windows in soft orange streaks. You smiled faintly when you passed a whiteboard where someone had scrawled “CORTIS = Victory!” alongside other words of encouragement.

Your chest felt a little lighter reading it, even making you pull out your camera to snap a picture so you can show it to the band through Keonho later.

You were halfway down the front steps when you saw a woman standing outside the school gates, elegantly dressed in a cream coat and hair pinned neatly back. Without losing the beat of your quick steps, you continued until you felt a presence near you and soon, a hand on your shoulder that made you jump.

“Excuse me,” she called gently, laughing awkwardly at your reaction. “Are you Y/N?”

You hesitated before nodding, “Yes… Do I know you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Martin’s mom.”

You blinked before bowing down; you didn’t expect his mother to look that elegant yet have such an expression that felt oddly familiar.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I’m the one I should say that, darling. I’ve heard about you,” she said. “Martin speaks of you more than he probably realizes.”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your face. “Thank you so much.”

“He’s changed lately,” she said. “He comes home earlier, studies, and seems steadier. And I know you might have something to do with that positive change.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. “Well, he’s been working hard in high school and for the band. You probably already know how much it means to him.”

Her smile faltered, just a tiny bit, before speaking again. “Yes, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About the band?” you frowned, already thinking of what she was about to say.

“Music has always been a phase for him. His father has great plans, engineering, university abroad, to be specific. I was hoping you could talk to him, convince him to take his future seriously again.”

That’s the moment you went speechless. Your mind works ten times faster to choose your words carefully. “With all respect, Mrs. Park. I don't think it's a phase, and I won’t do that. At all.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, confusion flickering on her face.

“I’ve seen him when he’s performing,” you said. “When he’s practicing with the band, when he’s writing lyrics on the back of his notebook, he’s not pretending; he looks alive doing that. It's not just a distraction for him; it’s who he actually is.”

You could see how the first crack in her composure showed, lips parted. “You sound just like him.”

“Maybe that’s because you both underestimate how much he cares about what he does,” you vented. “I get that engineering might have been his father’s and your dream. But music as a whole makes him happy. Whether it’s producing or singing, that’s how he wants to live his life.”

There was a silence for a moment, so you took that moment to inhale briefly and continue.

"Martin listens to music when he’s feeling stressed. He’s not into literature, but he writes such good lyrics that you might even think he’s becoming some kind of poet. And the way he looks when he’s playing? That’s him in his element.”

The woman lowered her head, sighing. “I just don’t want him to throw his future away. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“Maybe this is his future, it just doesn’t look like the one you two pictured.”

 “You’re a very smart girl, Y/N,” she finally said.

“I’m just honest,” you replied, offering a small smile.

“That’s even rarer,” she murmured. “I can see why he—” she stopped herself, simply smiling again, “Thank you for being good to him.”

An idea came to you, the backpack that was on your shoulder ended in the middle of you two, taking away the pamphlet Seonghyeon and James had given to promote, and extended to her. “He’s a good person, Mrs. Park. And just like how you believe in him to achieve the engineering future, believe and trust him with his.”

You bowed slightly when she took the paper, walking away to catch the bus that would take you home. Thankfully, you arrived safely.

You kicked off your shoes at the entrance, calling out, “Dad, I’m home!” before leaning down to kiss his forehead as he read through a newspaper on the couch with his work clothes still on.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said with a smile. “You look busy.”

“Always!” you shouted, darting into your room.

They were still scattered with open notebooks and the faint scent of highlighter ink, stuff you’d temporarily promised yourself to forget tonight.

After the divorce, your dad had insisted on helping you “reclaim the place.” He’d driven you to buy new clothes, helped you hang posters, and even tolerated the sparkly beaded curtain you’d begged to put on your door. For the first time in months, the room looked like yours, not your mother’s version of perfection. 

You took the quickest shower and got dressed in record time, the white camisole layered under a cropped denim jacket, a mini skirt with a rhinestone belt, and your sports shoes. A knock on your door made you look away from the mirror.

“Come in!” you called, picking some blush on your brush to put it onto your cheeks.

Your dad peeked in, smiling softly as he stepped inside. “Are you still getting ready?”

“Almost done, thanks for driving me there,” you replied, setting down the brush.

He chuckled and sat on the edge of your bed, looking around and whistling. “Wow, you’re really made this place your own.”

You smiled at his reflection in the mirror proudly. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“You also seem different lately. Happier.”

“Maybe because exams are over, both of us are in a good place, and I’m finally hanging out with my friends. Which, by the way, I’m grateful for.”

“Well, you deserve them since you’ve always worked hard,” he smiled. You felt that shift when he was done, suddenly suffocating.

He watched you for a moment, a teasing glint in his eyes. “So… what do you want to ask?” you said, already suspicious.

“Now, why do you think that?” he asked, laughing when you raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him leaning forward with a grin on his face. “What’s his name?”

The mascara wand ended halfway to your lashes. “What's whose name?”

“The boy,” he said simply. “And don’t tell me there isn’t one. I’m not blind. You’ve been smiling more, playing music in your room, and I’m pretty sure he’s the same boy who brought you home that night.”

You covered your face, groaning, feeling your cheeks getting warmer with each second. “Dad, please.”

“So I’m right,” he said, amused that his dad instincts didn’t betray him. “What’s his name?”

The small silence was broken when you sighed softly. “Martin.”

Your dad nodded slowly. “Is that the boy who’s in that band you mentioned, right?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying your best to sound casual. “He’s their leader, and he has been studying with me since middle school. Kind of stubborn. Really annoying sometimes.”

“Huh—” you could tell by how he was clearly unconvinced. “And what makes him so annoying?”

You opened your mouth—ready to list something—but nothing came. Instead, what slipped out was, “He doesn’t quit. Even when everyone expects him to.”

Your dad hummed softly. 

“And when he talks about music,” you went on, your mind planting words in a second, “he gets this look… like the rest of the world just disappears, he’s in his own happy place.”

You paused, but somehow the words kept coming. “He’s also funny,” you admitted, taking your hairclips to fix your hair with a smile tugging at your lips. “Not the kind that tries hard, it’s like, half of the time he says something and you can’t even tell if it’s a joke or he’s being serious. It makes you laugh anyway.”

You stood up to pick some rings to match the outfit, continuing to speak. “He’s kind, pretends he doesn’t care, but he remembers things. He smiles with his whole face, and when there’s something  he likes, he won’t stop until he gets it.”

“I thought you were saying something about him being annoying, right?”

Heat crept up your neck immediately. “I—That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Darling. It’s okay, I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Oh my God, please stop talking.” You took your essentials quickly and ran to the front door, waiting in the car immediately. 

The drive was calm, the windows cracked open, making the October air carry faint echoes of music from blocks away. The sunset was painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold.

He glanced at you as they stopped at a red light. “Sounds like you really care about him. And so does he.”

“I guess I do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

“I would love to meet him properly sometime,” you were about to protest, but he shushed you quickly. “No ‘buts’”

“Fine.” You both arrived at the youth center quite fast. The road was already lined with parked cars, students who didn’t receive a ticket and decided to enjoy from outside, a handful of paparazzi, and a lot of security.

You heard your dad’s whistle under his breath. “Looks like the whole district showed up.”

“It really does.” You clutched your bag a little tighter.

He slowed the car near the entrance, smiling as he glanced at you. “Are you nervous?”

You shook your head quickly. “Maybe a little.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“I’m not performing,” you laughed a little, confused.

He grinned, a hand on top of your shoulder. “Didn’t say you were. But I have a feeling something might happen.”

You rolled your eyes, unbuckled your seatbelt, and checked one last time that you didn’t forget the vip ticket Martin left on your locker.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, kissing his cheek.

“Anytime, sweetheart. Tell me if you’re going somewhere else, and tell Martin I said good luck!”

“Dad!” You heard his laugh as you walked away, turning around to wave him off before stepping into the noise of the crowd after safely passing security, although you almost fell after a few of them tried to fight security.

The venue wasn’t really one, more like a repurposed parking lot with a stage at one end and strings of lights hanging overhead. Students from different schools packed the space, every single one was excited, waving balloons from side to side or a flashlight.

“Y/N!” Leeseo appeared right in front of you, hugging you, and Yujin arrived a little later. “You just missed like two acts, Hanlim was even better than last year!”

“How did your meeting go?” Yujin asked, and a smile was more than enough for them.

“The trip is completely done, there are no problems.”

“Finally!” Yujin grinned. “We deserve that trip; this year has been trash.”

“Not for Y/N, she finally has a crush,” she sang, Yujin and Leeseo start poking your sides. “You know Martin’s going to show off.”

You rolled your eyes. “He always does.”

But your pulse quickened anyway when the stage lights flickered to red and you saw the MC going to the center of the stage, gaining a scream from the crowd.

“What a performance from Hanlim!” she said. A roar of cheers from a group of students startled you. “Let’s keep this energy up for the next group, from SOPA… give it up for CORTIS!”

The boys walked to the stage, the excitement and screams from the place feeding them. James settled behind the drums, spinning a stick in one hand. Juhoon adjusted his guitar strap, Seonghyeon’s fingers danced over the keys to test it, and Keonho flashed his familiar grin from behind his bass.

Then Martin walked out.

Graphic tee with layered chains, jeans slouching low, sneakers unlaced. Stage lights caught on his chain as he leaned into the mic. “What’s up, Seoul!” 

Cheers erupted again, a few girls screaming his name and the other guys. “Tonight, it’s a special night because we’re performing our self-produced song for the world to hear!”

Leeseo elbowed when you immediately started clapping and cheering.

“Enjoy yourself, love. You deserve this!” Martin started playing some guitar chords.

“Crash, smash, rock, mash up Ooh, take what you want 돈, 멋, 명예, love, and what? Ooh, take what you want.”

You remember hearing them practice bits of it during free periods when you walked by to give them some snacks and reminding Keonho about little details to fix for the trip.

Hearing it live was very different from it; all of the instruments crashed together in perfect sync, and you finally listened to all five singing together, which was uncommon for bands. Everyone was shouting along, even if they didn’t know the words. In a moment, Martin’s eyes found you. For that split second, you could feel your heart trying to escape from your ribs. 

“Some people want this, some people want that Same here, all seventeen years of my life.”

Martin started walking around to interact with people, standing in front of you three.

“Chased after love, chased after fame. So now I want the whole world to know my name.”

He winked at you, feeling it like a spark as heat rushed to your cheeks. Yujin started laughing at your face, and Keonho smiled teasingly at you.

A couple of minutes later, the song ended with a burst of applause, Martin running a hand through his hair before grabbing the mic again.

“Alright,” he said, breathless but grinning. “We’ve got one more for you.” 

He paused the moment his gaze found you immediately. 

You smiled faintly, catching the flicker of nerves in his eyes, and mouthed, “Breathe.”

He huffed out a laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting before turning his head to the band. Juhoon leaned into his mic.

“Go for it, dude.” The five boys laughed, Martin turning back to his mic.

“This,” he started, “is one of the many songs I wrote for this girl.” His eyes never left yours. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I’d have written any of them. 

You looked at Leeseo and Yujin on your side; they were smiling already. They knew this would happen.

He stepped back slightly, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder, and nodded toward the rest of the band. “It’s called ‘Iris.’”

"And I'd give up forever to touch you 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow You're the closest to Heaven that I'll ever be And I don't wanna go home right now."

The lyrics drifted through the air, and though he was looking out toward the audience, every few lines his gaze found its way back to you, long enough that it was impossible to look away.

He wasn’t performing anymore. He was confessing to you for a second time.

You felt your throat tighten, fingers twisting around the hem of your jacket, your heart beating full speed, and making you clear of one thing. You were completely in love with that person whom you thought you hated.

"And I don't want the world to see me 'Cause I don't think that they'd understand When everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am."

The crowd swayed with the melody, arms raised, voices echoing when they learn a little piece of the song. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he smiled at you mid-line. The final chorus exploded, lights flashing, the crowd roaring. Martin’s voice cracked slightly on the last note—and somehow, it made it perfect. You screamed at the very end, chanting with your friends, “CORTIS!”.

The five joined Martin, bowing down in gratitude with big smiles on their faces. Juhoon was teary-eyed, and you could tell that it moved the rest of the members as they walked out. The MC came back, impressed.

“Wow! Cortis really wants the money. We will have a five-minute break so the judges can decide.”  

Leeseo grabbed your arm, eyes wide. “Y/N… I think you just got serenaded.”

“Go see him.” Yujin pointed at the small hallway you could go to. You looked at him, panicking.

“Like now?”

“Yes!” Both of them pushed you there, moving for a couple of minutes before you reach it. You waited for the security to get distracted to enter there, closing it as fast as you opened it.

At a distance, you saw Martin laughing while watching James and Keonho jumping in happiness, James even half-yelling something about “not missing the last chord for once.”

You slipped past the curtain, unsure whether to find him or run before someone teased you for looking like you belonged there.

“Noona!”

Too late. You turned just in time to see Seonghyeon spot you instantly. 

His shout was loud enough to catch the attention of all five.

“Prez!” Keonho was the first to move, practically launching himself into your arms before you could even react. “What do you think, Prez?”

You laughed, stumbling back half a step under his weight. “I think you’re all still dangerously hyper.”

“We totally killed it, what do you mean?” Juhoon cut in proudly, slinging an arm over Keonho’s shoulders. James raised his drumsticks triumphantly in agreement, and Seonghyeon grinned from behind the keyboard setup, already pretending to wipe sweat off his brow dramatically.

You shook your head fondly, brushing hair from your face. “You guys were amazing. Really.”

“Both,” you added when another voice came from behind the group. “Though you did almost drop the mic stand again.”

He was standing a few feet away, hair damp with sweat, guitar strap still hanging loose at his side. The grin he wore was boyish, tired, and radiant all at once.

“Occupational hazard,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “So? How’d we do?”

“You’re asking the school council president for a review?” you teased.

“I trust your judgment,” he said simply. 

“More like his crush judgment,” Seonghyeon spoke, hissing later after Juhoon pinched him.

“Can you leave us alone for a sec?” Martin looked at James.

“You all heard him! Step back, ladies,” you laughed at the funny view of them trying to listen.

The grin softened before becoming quiet again. “So?”

You exhaled, letting yourself smile despite yourself. “You were amazing, Martin. Really.”

He froze for a heartbeat, eyes lighting up. “You mean that?”

You nodded. “Every word.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pretending to play it cool, but the faint flush at the tips of his ears betrayed him. “Guess that means I can cash in on my deal.”

You frowned. “Deal?”

“The one where if we win, you owe me a date.”

You scoffed, trying not to grin. “You haven’t even won yet.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “We both know we’re not walking out of here without that trophy and cash.”

You were about to fire back something smart when the loudspeaker crackled to life outside.

“All bands, please gather near the stage! Results will be announced!”

He looked at you and smirked. “Come on, front row like before, Prez.”

The crowd was electric again when you came back, students pressing closer to the makeshift stage, voices rising in chaotic chants. Hanlim High’s band stood on one side, exhausted but smiling; CORTIS stood on the other. You could sense the adrenaline pulsing through their little group.

You stood with Leeseo and Yujin near the barricade, your heart weirdly hammering even though you weren’t the one competing. You three held hands.

“And the winners of this year’s Battle of the Bands…” the announcer said, drawing it out. The entire lot went silent for a breath.

“…CORTIS!”

The explosion of sound was immediate.

Students screamed, threw confetti, jumped, and cheered so loud you could barely hear the band’s name being repeated over the speakers. Keonho dropped to his knees, James banged a drum in celebration, and Juhoon lifted his guitar triumphantly in the air.

Martin just stood there for a second, blinking in disbelief as he grabbed the big cardboard check before looking toward you through the chaos.

You clapped your hands over your mouth, laughing, and he broke into the brightest smile you’d ever seen. Then, like it was instinct, he pointed right at you before turning to grab the mic.

“This one’s for SOPA High, and for the people who never stopped believing in us!” he shouted. “Especially one of them.”

Leeseo smirked beside you. “If you don’t date him soon, I will.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply because Martin had already jumped off the stage into the crowd, swallowed by a sea of cheering hands and students trying to high-five him. You decided not to bother the moment by moving near a corner to breathe properly with Leeseo next to you, who was almost suffocating.

Later, when the crowd started thinning, people made plans to celebrate at a nearby karaoke place. Banners were torn down, the lights dimmed, and laughter filled the streets as everyone drifted away in groups.

You were helping Yujin pick up some discarded signs when you noticed Martin slipping away from the commotion, walking towards you with a smile. Before he could reach you, he paused, looking right behind you.

Following his gaze, you saw her.

His mom.

Standing near both of you, clutching her bag, and if your vision wasn’t playing, you could see her eyes wet from what she’d just watched.

Martin froze when he saw her. For a second, he looked like a little boy again, before taking a slow step forward to be next to you.

“Mom,” he said quietly.

She smiled faintly, her voice soft. “You were incredible.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You… came?”

“I had some help,” she said, glancing to your side, and your heart skipped when you realized she meant you.

Martin turned slightly. You gave a small bow before stepping back.

“I will give you two some space,” you bowed again before walking to where Leeseo and Juhoon were standing. 

When he looked back at his mom, her eyes were already glistening.

“I see what she meant,” she said.

He frowned slightly. “What did who mean?”

“Y/N,” she said. “She told me that music isn’t your rebellion, it’s more like your peace.” Her voice trembled slightly, but her smile didn’t waver. “She was right. You looked… happy. Really happy.”

Martin swallowed hard. “Mom…”

“I’ve been thinking about something for months,” she continued, clutching her purse tighter. “And after tonight, I think I've finally made up my mind.” She paused, steadying her breath. “I’m going to file for divorce.”

His eyes widened in surprise, a sudden feeling of relief occupying his whole body. “You’re serious?”

She nodded. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine. And I think you, your father, and I both deserve honesty, even if it hurts.”

Martin’s throat tightened. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”

Her smile wavered, tears finally spilling over. “No, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t hesitate, just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. This was the first time in a while he gave and felt a hug that was that tight and overdue. 

After a while, she pulled back and brushed his hair from his forehead, her voice quiet. “You’ve grown up so much. And that girl… she’s good for you.”

Martin blinked, glancing instinctively toward where you stood, half-hidden behind the fence. You were talking to Leeseo, occasionally looking at him with your smile.

“She’s a great girl,” his mom added softly. “Don’t let her slip away.”

He smiled, that same shy, crooked smile that only ever showed up when it came to you. “I won’t.”

“Cortis and friends!” she screamed, not even willing to bat their eyelids. “Grab your stuff and get in the car, food is on me.”

As his mom turned to leave for the car, he looked back toward you again. You were laughing now as you watched James running at the word food, the streetlights glinting off your red bow as you tucked your hair behind your ear.

And for the first time in a long while, Martin didn’t feel like the boy running away from everything. He felt like someone finally heading toward something worth staying for.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The school courtyard was anything but calm. Countless rolling suitcases, half-zipped duffel bags, and sleepy students chugging canned coffee like their lives depended on it to keep awake for at least of the way there.

After a weekend of endless messages about CORTIS’ victory on Cyworld and your classmates posting grainy flip-phone photos of Martin grinning with the trophy, it felt surreal that it was finally trip day. The band made sure they cashed the prize and gave you a big amount for the prom if they got to perform again, which you obviously agreed to.

You adjusted your backpack and sighed as Leeseo ran up to you, waving a folded permission slip.

“Can you believe they’re trusting us with three whole nights away from supervision?” she grinned.

“Please,” you said, smiling faintly. “You know half the teachers are going to patrol the halls like spies.”

Yujin jogged up behind her, yawning. “I’m only here for the free breakfast buffet.”

“You’re here because you begged to be in my room,” Leeseo shot back.

“Prez!”

You turned instinctively, only for Keonho to appear out of nowhere, blocking your view with a grin too wide to be innocent. Last time he gave you that type of smile, you were in the director's office.

“Morning!” he said brightly, holding a carton of banana milk. “You want one?”

You frowned, eyeing him. “You hate banana milk.”

“Do I?” He glanced down, pretending to think. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

Before you could answer, Juhoon popped up behind him. “Y/N! Quick question: if a band wins something again, should the prize money go into savings or celebration snacks?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Snacks,” James said immediately, dragging his suitcase past.

“Definitely savings,” Seonghyeon countered.

“Hold on, I didn’t even—”

“Exactly!” Keonho interrupted, looping an arm through yours. “We are the only ones who can settle it. Come on, let’s walk and talk, far away from the buses.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you guys up to?”

“Nothing,” they chorused, which was, of course, the most suspicious answer possible.

By the time you reached the front of the boarding area, the CORTIS boys had somehow managed to keep you talking about everything from “the ethics of snack budgeting” to “who snores the loudest during overnight trips” (it was apparently James).

Every time you tried to glance toward the loading buses, one of them moved strategically into your line of sight.

“Okay,” you said finally, crossing your arms. “What’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ again.”

Before you could press further, the teachers started calling everyone to board.

“Saved by the bell,” Seonghyeon muttered, pushing his suitcase forward.

You squinted suspiciously at all four of them. “You’re all terrible liars.”

Keonho only winked. “We learned from the best.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling as you followed them onto the bus.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The trip flew by in a blur of beach air, sightseeing, and several promposals that only happened when a hundred high school seniors were given freedom for three days straight and allowed their use of free will. You even helped out with Yujin’s promposal to Leeseo, to which she accepted happily.

You found yourself laughing more than you had in months, mostly because the CORTIS boys had taken it upon themselves to make every activity as dramatic as possible.

At lunch, James accidentally tripped and dropped an entire tray of kimbap, dramatically claiming it was “artistic sacrifice.” Juhoon tried to serenade a teacher with a guitar for bonus points on attendance. And the best for last was probably Keonho and Seonghyeon attempting to sneak extra dessert for everyone, only to get caught by the cafeteria lady, who then gave them more because she found them “charming.”

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somehow, their energy became the highlight of the trip.

Every so often, though, you caught Martin watching you from across the group, who you were impressed by how distracted he looked all this trip, exchanging some words with you now and then.

On the last night, during the “recreation period,” the teachers announced everyone could stay in the courtyard area to watch the sunset and enjoy the small outdoor stage. 

You and Leeseo were sitting near the front, sharing a pack of chips on a break after a small duet given by Wonbin and Liz.

“Yujin, what are you moving your head like a meerkat? You’re stressing me out.” Leeseo’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Okay, don’t freak out, but I think something is happening.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, already getting stressed out. You might have changed a little bit, but you were still a little perfectionist.

Music started playing from the speakers, and your mind instantly recognized the familiar brass riff it had.

“You’re just too good to be true…”

Your jaw dropped at the voice of Martin. “Leeseo, is this real?.”

“Oh, yes,” Leeseo whispered, eyes sparkling. You didn’t notice how she was holding a recording camera, pointing it at you.

Martin opened the curtain that worked as a background on the stage, his gaze fully on you. Martin jumped off the stage, mic in hand, grinning as he began to sing the classic with over-the-top theatrics.

“Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

He pointed at you on the last word, and everyone screamed.

You covered your face, but it was useless. Martin was committed. He climbed onto one of the benches, sang to the teachers (who pretended not to laugh), and even slid down on one knee in front of a startled Yujin, who dramatically clutched his heart.

The entire class was upside down as the music built. He ran up the small aisle and stopped right in front of you.

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Martin—”

He was interrupted by singing directly to you, his grin wider than ever.

“I love you, baby, and if it’s quite alright…”

You buried your face in your hands, but he gently pulled them away, still singing. The crowd clapped along to the beat, the boys behind him quickly moving. Martin spun around, giving a cue to Juhoon to give him a flower bouquet to go again in front of you, kneeling on one knee.

When the song finally ended, Martin was breathless, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, but his eyes never left yours.

Behind him, James and Seonghyeon were holding a banner, the phrase: “I may not be Shakespeare, but I promise prom with me will be a sonnet.”

The entire courtyard went silent. 

He held the mic higher, the faint tremor in his hand betraying the adrenaline rushing through him. Despite the wide grin on his face, you could see his chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“So…” he said, catching his breath. “I think it’s pretty obvious what my feelings about you are.” 

“You drive me insane, make me want to be better, even when I swear I don’t care about anything.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “But I do. I care too much, especially when it comes to you.”

A few students in the front row let out small gasps, someone whispering, “Oh my god, he’s serious.”

Martin looked down for a second, the mic brushing against his lip as if he needed that pause to steady himself. When he lifted his head again, there was no smirk this time.e

“Maybe you don’t see it yet despite me saying I had this crush on you that night,” he said, voice softer now, “but when I look at you, it’s like the noise stops. And that’s saying something, coming from me.” The crowd laughed gently, and even you couldn’t help the small smile that broke through your shock.

Then he tilted his head, eyes glinting. “So yeah,” he said, tone dipping back into that familiar warmth, “I had to do this your way because words weren’t cutting it anymore.”

The crowd burst into cheers again, clapping and whistling, chanting your name and his. You were still processing the words, your heart thudding painfully fast, when he looked straight at you again, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“So, Y/N,” he said, almost shyly this time, pointing at the banner behind him that was shaken by the boys, “will you go to prom with me?”

The crowd collectively held its breath.

You blinked, stunned, then let out a shaky laugh. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

He grinned, his breath still uneven, voice hoarse from the singing and the nerves.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You looked at him, the boy who’d spent half a year driving you crazy and the other half trying to make you smile. Your hand brushed against his as you took the bouquet. “Martin,” you said softly, eyes meeting his, “yes. Of course I’ll go with you.”

The courtyard erupted—cheers, applause, a few whistles from the back. Juhoon and James started playing the outro riff again, and Keonho let out a triumphant, “She said yes!” into the backup mic.

Martin blinked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Wait—really?”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest. “Really.”

For a moment, he just stared, then he exhaled, his smile breaking into something so bright it made your stomach twist. “I’m—uh—wow. Okay.”

The boys were already pushing him forward, shouting for him to say something cool, but he just chuckled helplessly, scratching the back of his head. 

“Hug each other, idiots!” Yujin screamed, and before you could react, Martin’s arms wrapped around you, lifting you clean off the ground.

Your surprised laugh got lost in the roar of the crowd. He spun you once, just enough for your shoes to leave the pavement, and when he set you down, your heart was racing far faster than it should’ve

As the music picked up again, his hand reached out instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. He looked like he wanted to say more—so much more—but instead, he whispered, “See you at night, Y/N.”

Your frowned. “Wait, what?”

Before you could demand an explanation, Leeseo grabbed your wrist. “No time for questions—let’s go.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, stumbling after her.

She only grinned. “Operation ‘Date Night,’ obviously.”

“Excuse me, what?”

Yujin was waiting near the dorms, arms crossed like an overexcited manager. “Martin’s orders. You’re not allowed to show up in a school jacket in a romantic setting. Leeseo, you know what to do.”

“On it,” she said, pulling you inside.

Ten minutes later, your room looked like a battlefield of denim, perfume, and lip gloss.

Leeseo had raided your bag, holding up two outfits with the seriousness of a stylist dressing an idol.

“Okay, option one: the floral skirt and cardigan combo. It’s cute, safe, and very student council president. Option two…” She tossed a bundle at you. “Something that’ll make him forget his own lyrics.”

You gave her a look. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re welcome.”

Leeseo was taking her sweet time; everything she was doing was slow and steady, keeping you busy with prom details and suggesting matching colors and opinions for her and Yujin for the event. Which also made you think if Martin is into matching colors.

When you finally looked in the mirror, the second Leeseo screamed in joy, you barely recognized yourself. The simple denim skirt paired with a white tank layered under a cropped cardigan, your hair loose and soft around your shoulders. A thin silver necklace rested at your collarbone.

“Thank you, Leeseo.” You hugged her tightly.

“Anything to see you leaving this school with your first boyfriend and have your first kiss.” You laughed at her tease, face turning red. You left the dorm to start walking to the place, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, and you were sure that it was leaving behind streaks of rose and violet across the water.

When you reached the beach, fairy lights were strung between two wooden poles, flickering softly. A small speaker played a slow guitar riff, so it was clear he was there.

And there, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket with a basket on his side, was Martin.

He wasn’t dressed like the usual; he decided to wear a plain white tee layered under an open gray button-up, dark jeans cuffed at the ankles, and a simple silver chain that glinted every time he moved. His sneakers were scuffed, but clean, and his hair still messy from earlier, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it because he knew you’d recognize him anyway.

He looked up as soon as he heard your footsteps, that same lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” you said, trying not to sound as breathless as you suddenly felt. “So this was your mysterious ‘see you tonight’ plan?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Yeah. The guys helped. Keonho almost set the lights on fire, but we made it work.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you sat beside him. “This is… nice.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying not to look too eager.

“Yeah,” you said softly, your gaze drifting toward the waves. “Really nice.”

He exhaled, shoulders dropping. “Good. I was worried it’d feel too much.”

“Not at all, Tin,” he laughed at the nickname.

For a while, you talked about everything and nothing while eating. The songs they were writing, the stress of exams finally being over, minus the one for college, and how Leeseo had forced you to change outfits under threat of “fashion failure.”

Martin was quieter than usual. His usual sarcasm softened into warmth, his eyes flickering between you and the sea from time to time.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” you said at one point, voice gentle.

He shook his head. “I wanted to. I just… wanted you to have a night that wasn’t about expectations or responsibilities. Just… you.”

That made you look up, startled, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

The wind tugged at your hair, and he reached forward instinctively like before, brushing it back behind your ear. His hand lingered, thumb grazing your jaw as his breath caught.

“Martin…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t move away either. His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if he were fighting himself.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, half to himself. “Not unless you—”

Your heart stuttered. “Unless I what?”

He smiled faintly. “Unless you’d actually let me.”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, a loud crash echoed from behind the dunes.

“REALLY YUJIN?!”  Keonho’s voice.

You both jumped apart, laughing in disbelief.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, covering your face. “They were spying?”

Martin ran a hand through his hair, chuckling. “I told them to stay in their rooms.”

Another yell followed. “Did they kiss yet?”

You looked at each other, bursting out laughing, really laughing, until your stomach hurt and the tension melted. Martin leaned back on his hands, still smiling. “Guess they saved us from doing something we’d probably overthink later.”

You nudged his shoulder. “Probably.”

He turned to you again, that same soft look from the concert flickering across his face. “Still,” he said quietly, “you make overthinking kind of worth it.”

Your breath caught, but you just smiled. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teased.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes. “Here I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Martin and you got closer than ever, and even though it wasn’t official yet, not even your father could deny the chemistry between you two. You spent afternoons studying together, stealing glances over textbooks, and laughing about how far you’d come. The bond grew quietly, in the little things: late-night calls, going out with all of them, and the way he always walked you home after those little evenings, even when it meant taking the long route.

By the time November came around, the entrance exam was long over. The pressure had finally lifted, replaced by a sense of pride and relief. To your fortune, you’d gotten the scholarship for the career you’d always dreamed of, and everyone couldn’t be prouder. 

Graduation day was full of bittersweet smiles. You got your physical pictures, one of you and Martin, standing close with your caps tilted while he carried you, another with your best friends, not leaving behind Keonho and Seonghyeon, who came to see you all six of you graduate. All of you are holding onto that perfect moment before life pulls you in different directions. 

“Can you please stop looking at the picture with your boyfriend and help me with my hair like you promised?” You turned your head to see Leeseo struggling to remove the hair rollers. 

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yet,” she moved her eyebrows up and down, happily seeing the look on your face.

Leeseo had barged into your room hours earlier, armed with curling irons, body glitter, and enough lip gloss to coat a car. Your bedroom floor was a battlefield of shoe boxes, safety pins, and half-zipped purses.

“Thank you, now turn so I can help you,” she ordered, tugging at the straps of your satin dress. It was simple but elegant. Soft champagne color, an a-line skirt, and a ribbon that tied at the back. Your silver necklace gleamed faintly at your collarbone, the same one you’d worn at the beach.

“Leeseo, I think my ribs can’t breathe,” you muttered.

“That’s how you know it fits,” she said, completely unfazed. “Now smile. You’re about to make a boy combust.”

“Stop,” you groaned, cheeks already heating.

By the time you finished curling your hair, the doorbell rang, making you both freeze in place.

“They’re here,” she whispered dramatically.

Leeseo grabbed her clutch, smoothing her pastel blue dress. “You ready?”

You exhaled slowly, heart fluttering. “As I’ll ever be.”

When you opened your bedroom door, your father was already downstairs, peeking through the hallway mirror before unlocking it.

The door swung open to reveal Yujin and Martin. Yujin wore a pale gray suit that was clearly too tight around his shoulders, and Martin… Martin was in a black suit jacket over a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, and his signature silver chain glinting faintly at his collarbone. His hair was swept back loosely, enough to look polished without losing that “Martin” edge.

You heard your dad talking. “Ah, so these are the young men I’ve been hearing about.”

“Sir,” Yujin said quickly, bowing with his usual charm. “We promise to bring your daughter back before midnight.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. “You'd better. I know where the school is.”

Martin laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I will tell my mom that, sir.”

Then you appeared at the top of the stairs, and for a second—just a second—Martin forgot how to breathe.

He’d seen you in a thousand different ways: annoyed, serious, focused, laughing. But this was new, and it surely made his pulse stutter.

You hesitated halfway down the stairs. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said quietly, eyes following you until you reached the last step.

Leeseo descended right behind you, looking stunning in her powder-blue dress, immediately elbowing you when she caught Martin staring.

“Alright, everyone,” your dad said, breaking the silence with a teasing smile, “before you leave, I need a photo. This is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, you don’t see this in Seoul.”

“Dad—” you began, but he was already grabbing the camera from the counter.

“Line up,” he ordered.

Yujin and Leeseo posed first, grinning widely. Then he waved at you and Martin. “Your turn.”

You exchanged a helpless look with Martin before stepping closer. His hand brushed yours until your dad adjusted the frame.

“Closer,” he said. “You two look like you’re taking an ID photo.”

Martin chuckled softly, sliding an arm around your waist. His hand rested lightly against your back, and you swore your heartbeat could be heard across the room.

Your dad smiled behind the camera. “There we go. Perfect.” Click.

The flash went off, and you both blinked, still standing close, when he lowered the camera.

“Beautiful,” your father said warmly. “Now go, before you make me cry.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “We’ll see you later, Dad.”

“Have fun, sweetheart,” he said, then glanced at Martin with mock seriousness. “Be safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said, smiling.

“You clean up well,” you said, forcing a casual smile.

“You too. Didn’t know the Prez had a gown in her closet.”

“Didn’t know you owned a shirt with buttons.”

“Touché.”

Yujin cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, that’s enough flirting for the driveway. Mrs. Park’s waiting!”

You turned to see Martin’s mom, sitting in the front seat of her car, waving with a proud smile. “Come on, kids!”

She looked radiant, freer than she had the last time you’d seen her. When you climbed in beside Leeseo, she glanced back at you through the mirror. “You both look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you said, touched.

The car rolled up to the school gym, saying goodbye to his mom before going inside with your arm wrapped around Martin’s. The windows were glowing gold from the string lights inside that were giving out the theme “Golden Memories.” You could already hear the song mix the DJ was creating on the spot.

“I can believe the committee pulled this off,” You smiled proudly, thankful for the art club's offering to help out with the decorations art club did. 

“Not bad for a bunch of overworked seniors.”

“You guys are late!”

James started to have his arms, Keonho, Seonghyeon, and Juhoon at his sides, waving calmly near the entrance. You find it funny how James’s tie was crooked, Juhoon was trying to help him fix it, and the other two were holding a notebook that you recognized as Martin’s. 

“Nice of you to dress up, boys,” Martin called, grinning.

“Dress up?” Seonghyeon huffed, “It’s not even my graduation, and I look better than the three of you.”

“You girls look great.” Keonho smiled, walking up to hug you first before going to Martin’s.

“Our leader is all grown up. Wearing a tie, bringing a date… next thing you know, he’ll start paying taxes.”

“Don’t curse me like that,” Martin laughed it off.

You looked at Yujin and Leeseo. Despite laughing it off and teasing like usual, it was no news that it was their last big night as CORTIS before graduation. And although they were really committed to the band and set a goal to go a long way, it was their last performance in high school before life pulled them in different directions.

Seonghyeon must’ve felt it too, because when he clapped Martin’s shoulder, his voice wavered slightly. “Let’s have fun today.”

“Oh, we will have fun.” A song started playing, and Leeseo dropped Yujin’s arm.

“Come on, we’re not wasting a good song!” She immediately dragged you to the dance floor, feeling Martin’s gaze behind you.

Leeseo’s infectious energy made you join after a moment of hesitation; even the boys joined in after a few songs. Everyone lost count of how many songs they danced and went inside the circle, and by the time the slow songs rolled in, everyone started to pull their partners.

You were about to sit down, but you caught Martin’s eye once. He smiled at you while excusing himself to cross the floor toward you. The lights dimmed, and your teacher took the stage with a mic in hand.

“Okay, everyone. We are going to do this quickly. Let’s announce your prom king and queen. I need the president of the student council to come to hand the crowns.”

You left Martin to pick up the cushion that had both crowns and stay at the end of the stage.

“To remind all of you, the voting was done by taking paper and writing the name of the person you thought was suitable for the title. Let’s start by naming the king.” 

He flipped the card, sighing at the result. He paused for effect. “Martin Edwards.”

Your jaw dropped, watching your friends go wild, shoving him forward as he was in disbelief. He walked to the stage, standing in front of you. You took the crown to neatly put it on top of his head.

“Congratulations, Tin,” he smiled, walking away to stand behind the teacher.

“Now, to our prom queen…” he repeated the pause from before. “It’s my honor to say this. Y/N!”

You blinked, the spotlight turning toward you and your shocked face. Martin went to you quickly, taking your crown and putting it on top of your head. He threw the cushion away to take your hand, interwining your fingers.

“Was this planned?” you said, laughing, slightly red from embarrassment.

“I don’t know. But I guess that makes you my queen tonight, huh?” he teased.

“Don’t push your luck,” you smiled.

“Now, the king and the queen will slow dance. Students, the floor is yours.” The crowd began to sway, and Martin offered his hand, his usual cockiness melting.

“May I have this dance, Your Majesty?”

You tried not to laugh as you placed your hand in his. “Fine. But don’t step on my dress.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said, grinning.

As you both stood in the middle, his hands sat at your waist politely. Thanks to the heels, you could reach enough to wrap your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the back of his hair.

“Can’t believe I came with the queen of prom.”

“Say the king himself, I think we are both lucky,” he smiled. Neither of you spoke for a moment; the song made you replay some memories you had with your friends, and soon enough, with Martin.

“You know,” he murmured finally. “I never really liked dances, even more the ones where my mom used to force me to go for her work.”

You looked up, amused. “Why’s that?”

“Because I never had anyone worth dancing with.” Since you didn’t know what to say, you let yourself sway with him. Your head rested lightly against his chest.

You didn’t even realize that your friends and more couples joined in. You noticed when the music started to fade away. Martin cursed under his breath, looking at you.

“Is it time for your performance?”  

“Yeah, I’ll be back. I promise,” he took your hands from his neck, kissing the top of them before going to the stage. You looked to your left, seeing Yujin and Leeseo smiling at you.

“What are you thinking?” you sighed, lovestruck.

“On how I will confess to him after this.” Both of them stopped their moves, the tap of the mic being tested rebounding on the gymnasium. 

“We still have a little more than half an hour to end this night. And before we wrap up, let’s welcome CORTIS to the stage.”

The applause was quick to come, them moving on the stage, exchanging nods between them. Martin stepped forward while everyone got their instruments ready.

“Hey, everyone,” he said. “We didn’t plan to play tonight, but this is our last time together before we graduate. So… this is for all of you. For the friend who stuck around, the teacher who, although I knew I wasn’t particularly his favorite student,” the place laughed softly. “They still listened and advised us with warm hearts.”

He paused for a minute, looking at the boys whose eyes were probably as glossy as his. “This is not the end, but a little break before we go all in. Keonho. Seonghyeon, hope we can play at your graduation, and thank you for trusting the band.”

They started with two of their own songs, dancing along with everyone and screaming the songs at the top of their lungs. Energy was never missed when it came to them, even more since they played like it was the last thing they’d ever do, and maybe in a way, it was.

When the applause finally died down, Martin took a sip of water with his members, stepping back to the mic afterward.

“Thank—”

“Wait!” James stopped Martin, who was as confused as the rest of the place, minus the four boys. “There’s one more song.”

Martin walked to him with the rest behind them, covering his mic with his palm. Quickly returning after some clarification.

“This is a surprise,” he stated. “I wasn’t supposed to release this song this soon. I want to thank you guys for creating the instrumental and letting me perform this, and I want to thank my muse for inspiring me to write this song. This is called ‘Everlong’”

The keyboards started, his voice filled the room, and after a couple of verses, Seonghyeon joined.

"And I wonder When I sing along with you If everything could ever be this real forever If anything could ever be this good again The only thing I'll ever ask of you You've got to promise not to stop when I say when She sang."

You simply stood there, digesting the lyrics while people danced to the beat. You didn’t cry until the last note faded, applauding with a smile on your face. Yujin and Leeseo stood to your sides and then watched the boys on stage, officially tearing up.

You feel bad to realize how loved you were by your friends, and how much you had taken Martin’s silent warmth for granted.  He was loud and proud about his feelings for you, even if the tactic at first wasn’t that clear; he later never let you forget you mattered. In moments like this, you finally saw the depth beneath his jokes. 

You went to the refreshment table after the set, drinking some soda to calm yourself down.

“There you are,” you heard his voice. He was still a little breathless, and his jacket was on his arms, his shirt sleeves rolled higher. 

You smiled, suddenly a wave of nerves rushing through your body at his presence. It was now or never, “I want you to come with me.”

“Where—”

“I have to tell you something.” You grabbed his hand, he instinctively looked at it, and softly bit the smile that was threatening to show.

“Show me the way.” You led him to your table, grabbing your clutch and leaving your crown. You passed the chatter through the back doors that opened onto the empty football field. The night air was crisp, and the stars were faint, but somehow still visible and giving a nice glow to the night.

You stopped standing on one of the bleachers in the field so you could be slightly higher, letting go of his hand to turn toward him.

He smiled, a little confused. “Y/N, if this is about the song—”

“It’s not,” you said, heart hammering. “Okay, maybe it is.”

“Oh my God, do you feel embarrassed. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know what you meant,” you interrupted softly. “And you’re right.”

He frowned slightly. “Right about what?”

You exhale. “That everything feels real when it’s with you.”

You decided to step down the bleachers on time. “I didn’t even realize it at first because I truly believed you were just annoying me, to throw me off and my record. But then you started showing up—not just for me—to everyone. And every time you did, I found myself noticing more.”

“Like…?”

“The way you smile when something finally works for you, how you live your life with no regrets, and how your heart is so pure that you don’t even care if the other person hates you. You are there.”

You took a shaky breath, your hand clutching your purse more. “And somewhere between wanting to hate you and trying not to fall for you. I did.”

Martin’s lips parted slightly, “You mean—”

“Yes,” a small laugh broke through at his pure face of disbelief. “I fell for you, Martin Edwards.”

You could see his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his voice a little rough when he finally spoke. 

“Say it again,” he said softly.

“What?”

“My name. Like that.” His lips curved upward, shy and boyish at the same time. “It sounds so pretty when you say it.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled, getting closer to the bleachers, looking up at you. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that—well, not that exactly, but close.”

“I can imagine it after you told me that night.”

“Which, by the way, were those two years of you calling me a nuisance, giving me detention, pretending you didn't look for me at every assembly?”

You laughed, “I had to check if I was going to get called out because of you.”

“I noticed at a distance since you were the only person who actually saw me, even when you swore you couldn’t stand me.”

The wind picked up, making the bleachers creak and your hair sweep across your face. Your hands went to your arms, blaming yourself for being so forgetful and not picking up your sweater from the table. He stood on the deck of the bleacher, and his jacket was quickly placed over your shoulders.

And just what you thought, he reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear again, with he difference that his hand stayed on your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin.

“I didn’t mean to fall for you either,” he admitted, looking down.  “But I did. And I don’t regret a second of it.”

You smiled before reaching into your clutch, hand trembling, and pulled out an envelope.

“I was supposed to wait until tomorrow when we go to Yujin’s house,” you said, “but I can’t.”

He took it, puzzled, and watched what it contained. His eyes widened the second he saw the tickets, audibly gasping.

“There’s no way—”

“Two tickets to see Linkin Park in Seoul,” you smiled nervously. “Consider it a date. Come with me on Friday, and don’t say ‘maybe’.”

He reached for your hands. “You really are something else.”

“Something good?” you teased.

He looked at the sky. “You are something out of this world. God, you’re—”

Before he could finish, you leaned up on your tiptoes, your hand finding his tie to pull him down just like before, but this time, you didn’t hesitate.

Your lips brushed his, his breath caught, and then he kissed you back, gentle at first, as if afraid to break the moment. You froze for half a second, feeling your heart pounding so hard you could almost hear it over the faint music coming from the gym. 

Your nose bumped his, your fingers trembled against his chest, but Martin didn’t care. He smiled into the kiss, pulling back only enough to whisper. “Wow,”

You nodded, breathless at how his eyes were looking so fondly at you. “That was my first.”

His eyes softened. “Good. Then I’m glad it was me.”

You didn’t even realize you were smiling until he rested his forehead against yours, both of you laughing quietly for no reason other than sheer disbelief.

“OH MY GOD!”

You jumped apart. From the edge of the field, a cluster of silhouettes waved frantically like South Korea two years ago for the World Cup. You hid your face on the curve that connected his neck and shoulder, his arms engulfing you.

“Finally!” Leeseo hissed, hugging Yujin happily while he had a smile on his face.

“Pay up, Seonghyeon.” James snickered, waving a few bills. 

“It took you three years, love your perseverance!” Juhoon screamed, and you couldn’t help but laugh from your spot.

“Worth the wait!” Yujin yelled, pretending to wipe fake tears.

You covered your face, groaning. “They were watching?!”

Martin just laughed, “Of course they were. They were looking at us from the gym.”

He turned toward them, raising your joined hands like a victory gesture. The others erupted in cheers, chanting both your names like a ridiculous anthem.

“Also, did I just hear ‘Pay up’?” Martin raised his shoulder, giving away the answer. You huffed, “Can’t believe they’ve been betting on us.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “And for once, I don’t mind losing.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

He looked back at you, his eyes were full of every emotion you were both feeling. “Ridiculously in love with you.”

And before you could think twice, he leaned in again, slower this time, just enough for your lashes to brush his cheek, for you to close your eyes and let the world spin quietly around you.

You didn’t even care if your friends were still watching.

Because under the silver lights of the empty field, with his jacket around your shoulders, hands on your waist, and your heart in a state of pure bliss, everything finally made sense.

And for once—in the middle of all the noise—you didn’t feel like you had to be perfect. You just felt real.

Just like him.

Just like everlong.

Your father’s hand was heavy on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Keonho,” he said, his voice flat, clipped, the tone he always used in the lab when talking about chemicals and failed results. “He’ll be staying with us.”

You’d been excited. The thought of another child in the house made your heart flutter. Someone to play with, someone who wasn’t made of stern frowns and cold rules. You tugged on your father’s sleeve and whispered, “Is he my new friend?”

Your father’s sharp eyes softened only because they were looking at you. “Don’t be silly. He’s not family.”

But to you, he became family anyway.

At dinner, you sat beside him, bumping your knee against his like you were sharing a secret. He didn’t look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the table, on the food he didn’t dare touch too quickly.

You pushed your extra piece of meat onto his plate when your parents weren’t looking.

He froze, his fork hovering, and finally glanced at you with panic as if he’d done something wrong. Then, barely audible, came his whisper: “…Thank you.”

His voice was too soft, like he wasn’t used to being heard.

Your parents never scolded you for spilling your drink or forgetting to say “thank you.” At most, they gave you small sighs and gentle corrections. But when Keonho’s elbow brushed a glass and water tipped across the table, your father’s palm cracked across the back of his head so hard the sound echoed in your chest.

You jumped to your feet, shouting, “It was an accident!”

But your father ignored you. Your mother’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “If he can’t learn precision,” she muttered, “he’ll never be useful.”

That word lingered in your ears long after the dishes were cleared.

You shared a room in the early years. Two beds, one window, one sanctuary. At night, the world shrank to whispers traded between you, laughter muffled under the covers.

But even here, the house weighed on him.

Your parents praised you endlessly, your neat handwriting taped on the fridge, your careful drawings stacked in folders, your voice reciting lessons with clarity. But when Keonho tried to show something a toy he fixed, a paper he worked hard on, even a shy song hummed from memory your father’s voice cut it down with a single glance. “Not good enough.”

He stopped showing them things. He started hiding the little victories the way he could climb higher in trees than anyone else, the way he could memorize entire passages in one read, the way he built tiny gadgets from scraps in the shed. Instead, he folded those victories into himself like secret treasures.

You caught him crying once, curled under his blanket, shoulders shaking. You didn’t think. You crossed the space, climbed onto his bed, and wrapped your arms around him.

“Why do they hate me?” he whispered, voice cracking.

You didn’t have an answer. So you said the only thing you could, “I don’t. I never will.”

He cried harder, but his arms wrapped around you in return.

Time passed. Your parents’ rules thickened like walls.

They never let Keonho play outside.

If you begged to go to the park, you could go but not him. Your father claimed he “wasn’t ready,” or that “the world isn’t safe for him.” Sometimes he would even say, “He’ll distract you.”

So Keonho stayed home, pressed against windowsills, watching you leave.

When cousins visited, they never knew he lived there. Your mother locked him in your room, the door bolted from the outside. “He doesn’t need friends,” she told you once when you cried and begged to let him join. “He needs discipline.”

Discipline meant chores that were harsher than yours. Discipline meant rules that only he could break. Discipline meant silence.

Your father let you sit on his knee while he explained experiments, while he drew neat diagrams in his notebooks. You felt important, chosen, special. But when Keonho asked what he was working on, the answer was a cold stare and a slammed book.

“He wouldn’t understand,” your father would say. “He doesn’t have the mind for it.”

But you knew the truth. You’d seen Keonho’s notebooks little sketches of machines, rewired toys, perfect copies of your father’s formulas written in a child’s hand. He was brilliant. He was just never meant to shine.

The older you grew, the more you noticed the contrast.

Your birthdays were filled with cakes and gifts, pictures taken in the living room with smiles your parents only wore for you. Keonho’s birthdays passed like shadows no cake, no presents, no acknowledgment except maybe an extra chore. You were the only one who remembered, sneaking him a cookie under your blanket, whispering “Happy birthday” while the world slept.

The house made him invisible, but you refused to let him fade.

Sometimes he’d rebel, in small ways.

He’d leave his chores unfinished just to sit with you a little longer. He’d hide his bruises under long sleeves, but you learned to find them anyway, pressing your tiny hands against the marks like your touch could erase them. He’d sneak into the yard when your parents were gone, running barefoot through the grass until he was caught and punished.

Each punishment carved him sharper, quieter. But each time, you were there sneaking into his bed, whispering jokes, telling him stories, holding his hand until his breath evened out.

You were his anchor.

He was your shadow.

Together, you built a world in the cracks of the one your parents controlled.

But shadows grew longer as you both aged.

Your father’s experiments expanded. He spent hours in the basement lab, muttering about “progress” and “the next phase.” You weren’t allowed inside, not unless he wanted to show off. But sometimes you heard the skittering of cages, the hiss of locked doors.

And sometimes, you caught Keonho staring at the basement door like it was waiting for him.

Your father hadn’t taken him in out of kindness. He hadn’t raised him like a son. He’d been grooming him, sculpting him, waiting.

And the spiders the ones you’d glimpsed in glass tanks with glowing abdomens and twitching legs were the proof.

The last straw came when you were twelve.

You’d been allowed to attend a school picnic. You begged your parents to let Keonho come. You begged so hard you nearly cried.

Your father’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t need friends. He has you.”

Your mother added, “Stop asking. You’re only making things worse.”

That day, while you laughed and played with classmates under the sun, Keonho sat locked in his room, watching the sky from behind glass.

When you came home, sunburnt and happy, he wouldn’t look at you.

“I wanted to be there,” he whispered when you crawled into his bed that night. His voice cracked in a way that made your chest ache. “I wanted to know what it feels like… to just be normal.”

And you realized your parents hadn’t just mistreated him.

They had stolen the world from him.

From then on, you promised yourself something: if they tried to keep him locked away forever, you would find a way to open the door.

Even if it meant breaking everything.

Because Keonho wasn’t “useful.” He wasn’t a tool. He wasn’t an experiment.

He was a boy who laughed softly at night when you told silly stories.

He was the boy who clung to you when he cried, terrified of being unloved.

He was the boy you refused to let disappear.

And even though you didn’t know it yet, your father’s obsession the spider glowing in the lab below, the experiments waiting in the dark would one day change everything.

For now, you only knew this,

You loved him.

And you would never let him face the darkness alone.

The years slipped by like pages turned too fast. One moment you were children whispering in the dark, the next you were both taller, your voices lower, your laughter carrying a different weight.

Keonho’s eyes changed first. They no longer belonged to a boy. They were sharp, cautious, older than they should’ve been. And yet when he looked at you, they softened — just a fraction, like you were the only piece of the world he could still hold without it cutting him.

You were fourteen the first time your father told him he wasn’t allowed at the dinner table anymore.

It was an ordinary night. Plates clattered softly as your mother set the table, her expression smooth, composed. You were about to call for Keonho when your father’s voice cut the air.

“He’ll eat in his room from now on.”

You blinked, stunned. “What? Why?”

Your father didn’t look up from his soup. “He’s disruptive.”

The word stung like a slap even though it wasn’t directed at you. Across the hall, Keonho stood frozen, half in shadow, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His face was blank, carefully blank, but you knew the silence beneath it was screaming.

“That’s not fair!” you burst out. “He hasn’t done anything!”

Your father’s gaze sharpened. “He doesn’t belong at this table. Don’t argue.”

And that was it. The decision was final.

Keonho disappeared into his room without a word.

You lasted all of three minutes before slamming down your spoon and storming after him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, untouched plate on the desk beside him. His shoulders were tense, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Eat,” you ordered, setting your own plate beside his.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“You’re lying.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” His voice was sharp, rough, like he wanted to push you away before he broke in front of you.

Your chest ached. Slowly, you sat beside him, nudging his arm until he finally glanced at you.

“They can’t take this from you too,” you whispered. “Don’t let them win.”

His throat worked like he was swallowing something heavy. Then, quietly, he admitted, “It’s not just the food. It’s everything. They don’t want me here, they never did. Every time I try, it’s never enough. Every time I breathe wrong, it’s wrong.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Then I’ll make it enough. I’ll fight them, I’ll scream at them, I’ll make their lives miserable if I have to. But you’re not leaving me behind. Not now. Not ever.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then his hand rose, hesitated, and finally rested lightly on top of yours.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

That night, you fed him with your own hands, tearing pieces of bread, sliding food across the plate, making him eat bite after bite until the tension in his shoulders eased.

And when he finally smiled small, tired, but real you felt like you’d stolen light back from the darkness.

The punishments grew harsher as you grew older.

If he forgot a chore, your father’s belt snapped against his back. If he spoke out of turn, your mother’s words cut like glass. If he looked too happy too alive it was crushed out of him before it could bloom.

And every time, you were there.

You learned to raise your voice against your parents, consequences be damned. “Stop it! He didn’t do anything!” “Why are you always blaming him?” “You don’t even see him you don’t want to!”

Sometimes it ended with you crying in your room, your parents’ voices echoing down the hall. Sometimes it ended with you sneaking bandages and ice packs into Keonho’s room, his skin hot and bruised under your hands.

“I can take it,” he would mutter, always stubborn.

“You don’t have to,” you always replied.

And every time, when you wrapped your arms around him, he sank into you like he’d been holding his breath all day and only now remembered how to exhale.

Despite everything, you grew closer.

There were moments your parents couldn’t touch stolen pockets of time where you carved a world only for yourselves.

Sneaking into the yard at midnight, lying in the grass side by side, counting stars.

Trading secrets in whispers, promises spoken like oaths.

Building silly inventions from scraps in the shed, laughing until your stomachs hurt.

You began to notice things you hadn’t before.

The way his hair fell into his eyes when he laughed. The way his voice deepened when he was tired. The way his hand lingered a little longer on yours, as if he couldn’t quite let go.

And sometimes, when he looked at you, the weight in his eyes wasn’t just sadness. It was something else something unspoken, something that made your heart stumble.

But neither of you said it. Not yet.

Your parents noticed your closeness, and they hated it.

They started separating you on purpose. Different chores, different schedules. They locked his door sometimes when guests came, pretending he didn’t exist. They scolded you when they caught you sneaking food into his room, warning that you’d “spoil him,” that you’d “ruin the discipline.”

You never stopped.

If he was hungry, you fed him. If he was lonely, you sat outside his locked door, whispering stories until you heard the faintest laugh on the other side. If he was hurt, you held him until he stopped shaking.

They could control everything else, but they couldn’t control you loving him.

The older you grew, the more you fought back.

“You treat him like he’s nothing!” you shouted once at dinner, slamming your fist on the table.

Your father’s jaw tightened. “He is nothing. He’s lucky to even have a roof over his head.”

“He’s more than you’ll ever see!” you fired back, voice cracking.

The silence after was heavy, suffocating.

Keonho left the room quietly, his steps soft, but you saw the way his hand clenched on the doorframe. You knew what it meant. Your words mattered. To him, they mattered more than anything.

Later that night, you slipped into his room. He was sitting on the bed, staring at his hands.

“You shouldn’t fight them for me,” he whispered.

“I’ll fight the whole world if I have to,” you said without hesitation.

His eyes finally met yours, and something burned there raw, desperate, almost unbearable.

“You don’t know what that means,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do.”

And maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. But what mattered was that you weren’t going to let him believe he was alone. Not then, not ever.

By sixteen, the house was a battlefield.

Your parents didn’t hide their contempt for him anymore. They ordered him out of family photos. They told him he’d never be “part of you.” They blamed him for things he hadn’t done, punishing him for accidents that weren’t his.

And still, you stood between him and the worst of it.

Every scar he carried, you kissed better with your hands. Every insult he endured, you countered with your loyalty. Every time he looked like he was breaking, you pulled him closer.

And he believed you. Because no matter how cruel the house became, you were the one thing they couldn’t take from him.

But the shadows of the basement lab still loomed.

Your father’s experiments were growing, the spiders restless in their cages, the notes filled with calculations.

But for now, you were both still here.

Two teenagers clinging to each other in a house that tried to tear you apart.

Two souls bound by the promise you’d made as children,

I don’t. I never will.

And in the quiet of your room, with his head resting against yours, you believed it more fiercely than ever.

He wasn’t nothing.

He wasn’t a mistake.

He wasn’t theirs.

He was Keonho.

The years didn’t soften the edges of your household. If anything, the older you and Keonho grew, the sharper everything became.

Your parents had stopped pretending he was simply a guest in your home. Now, he was a shadow, hidden behind locked doors when visitors came over, kept out of photographs, dismissed as though he was less than nothing.

And yet, in the private spaces between cruelty and silence, you and Keonho found your own world. A world where his laughter was real, where your arms were a safe place to land, where even the ugliest punishments couldn’t erase the truth that you carried him closer and closer with each year.

It often started the same way your father’s voice echoing through the house, sharp and scalding.

“Keonho! How many times have I told you—”

The slam of a book, a clatter of glass, your mother’s sigh.

You freezing in your room, knowing he’d done nothing worth the storm.

By the time you reached the hallway, Keonho would already be shrinking under their gaze, fists tight at his sides, head bowed in silent apology. You hated that posture. Hated how they’d trained him into it — the bow, the muttered “I’m sorry” that slipped out even when he wasn’t.

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” your mother hissed once, after he’d dropped a single plate during dinner. Her tone was venom, but her eyes softened when they cut to you, “Sweetheart, finish eating. You did wonderfully on your exam today.”

When they ordered him out of the dining room, told him to eat later if at all, you snapped. “He’s not a dog,” you had said, slamming your chopsticks down. “He eats with me.”

Your father’s glare burned through you, but you didn’t flinch. You followed Keonho to his room, carrying your own plate with stubborn fingers. He tried to refuse, shaking his head, muttering, “Don’t.. don’t do this.” But you sat cross-legged on the floor, patting the spot beside you until he caved.

And afterward, when the house was silent, you whispered, “I’ll always sit with you. Even if it’s the floor. Even if it’s the dark.”

His answering look a small, fragile smile tugging at the corner of his mouth felt like the brightest rebellion in the world.

The roof became your sanctuary.

You discovered it by accident, one night after another shouting match. Keonho had disappeared from his room, and panic gripped your chest until you spotted him outside, climbing the side of the old shed to reach the roof.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” you hissed once you scrambled up beside him, the shingles rough under your palms.

He shrugged, lying back against the cool surface, eyes tilted toward the night sky. “It’s quieter up here.”

From then on, the roof was yours.

Some nights you lay shoulder to shoulder, trading stories about the constellations even though neither of you knew their names. You made them up instead — a crooked cluster of stars became the broken glass dragon, a streak of light became a runaway kite.

Other nights, you simply lay there in silence, listening to his breathing steady as the weight of your presence anchored him.

“Do you think,” he asked once, his voice tentative, “that somewhere out there… people like me get treated better?”

You turned your head to face him, close enough to see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Not somewhere. Everywhere. You just ended up here.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but instead he nodded, turning back to the stars. And that night, when you slipped your hand into his under the blanket of the sky, he didn’t let go.

Your parents grew more creative in their punishments.

When he laughed too loudly at something you said, your father ordered him to scrub the floors until his hands bled raw. When he accidentally left a light on, your mother locked him outside for hours in the rain.

You found him shivering on the back steps that night, soaked to the bone, his teeth chattering. Rage boiled inside you. You dragged him inside, ignoring your mother’s warning glance, wrapping him in one of your blankets.

“You’ll get sick,” you muttered, rubbing his arms, trying to coax warmth back into him.

His voice cracked when he whispered, “Why do you care so much?”

“Because if I don’t, who will?”

He stared at you, eyes wide, and for a moment you thought he might break. Instead, he tucked his face against your shoulder, trembling. You held him until the shivers stilled.

Not every moment was sorrow. Some became memories you both clung to.

The night you smuggled a candle and whispered stories until he laughed so hard tears slipped down his cheeks.

The time you baked cookies in secret, burning half of them, and he insisted the charred ones were “better” just so you wouldn’t feel bad.

The summer evening you caught fireflies together in a jar, watching them flicker like tiny lanterns until your father’s shadow appeared in the doorway and you smashed the jar to set them free, both of you running breathless and laughing.

The afternoon you gave him your favourite book, scribbling in the margins, “So you never feel like you’re reading alone.”

Each memory carved itself into the foundation of something neither of you dared name, but both of you carried in your bones, a bond forged in defiance, in softness, in stolen joy.

You started to notice changes in your father’s lab. Strange equipment arriving in crates, glass tanks filled with insects, files stacked high on his desk. You’d sneak glances when he wasn’t looking, catching glimpses of diagrams spiders sketched with red ink circling certain glands, words like mutation and enhancement.

Sometimes you caught Keonho staring too, curiosity flickering in his gaze. But whenever your father noticed, the punishment was swift a snapped order, a hand yanking him back, a scolding about “knowing his place.”

It unsettled you, though you didn’t yet understand why.

One night, after a particularly brutal argument where your father struck him hard enough to split his lip, you found Keonho hiding in the attic. He sat against a stack of old boxes, knees drawn up, blood drying on his chin.

Without a word, you knelt beside him, dabbing his lip gently with a cloth.

“Does it hurt?” you whispered.

“Not as much as being here,” he muttered.

You froze, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. And then you did the only thing you could — cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“I’ll never leave you,” you said, fierce, unshakable. “No matter what they do, no matter how hard they try to keep us apart. You’re mine, Keonho. Always.”

Something broke in him then. His breath hitched, his eyes brimmed, and before you could stop him he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. The closeness was dizzying, his breath mingling with yours, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.

And under the flickering light of the attic bulb, you both knew, whatever your parents had tried to break, you had already mended together.

You never meant to hear it.

It was one of those nights when the house was mostly asleep, the kind where even the clock’s tick felt loud. You had gone down the hall to fetch a book for some excuse to stay up anything to stall sleep that felt too close to the thought of what your father had been muttering about in the basement all week. He was obsessed lately, more so than before. Crates had arrived at odd hours, and sometimes, over the scrape of metal and the click of his workbench, you heard words that made your skin go cold.

You were halfway down the stairs when voices drifted up from the lab, low and clipped like two surgeons discussing a case. Your feet stopped, stubborn as a held breath. You couldn’t not listen. It was only for a second, you told yourself — but seconds were plenty. You pressed yourself to the wall and let the darkness hold you.

“…clean job,” your father said, the voice you’d learned to read like a ledger. “No loose ends. The accident expedited everything. He’s the perfect candidate.”

A second voice, muffled but urgent: “Are you sure about the timing? If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t. You know how I control perception. He’ll be useful, and he’ll never suspect where the help came from.”

The world tilted. Accident. Perfect candidate. Help came from him. Your heart knocked so hard you thought your ribs would split.

You should have stormed down and dragged the truth into the open, thrown those words in your father’s face and watched him crack. You should have told Keonho everything and held him until his heartbeat calmed and his hands stopped trembling.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you listened until the footsteps faded and the basement door thudded closed. The sentence ran in your head like an ugly chorus. He was the perfect candidate. The accident was not an accident.

You sat numbly on the bottom step for a long time. Images flared in your mind — the little boy at your door, rain stuck in his hair like a permanent halo, the way your parents had praised you and punished him, the neatness with which your father had folded cruelty into supposed care. It made a kind of horrible sense now. The “rescue,” the adoption, the way your father had always looked at Keonho like a problem to solve.

You clenched your fists until your nails bit your palms. You had to know. Proof. Something you could show Keonho without telling him the whole awful truth. Maybe if you found proof, it would make what you had heard real enough to fight.

The decision made itself for you in the silence of the stairs. You would go to the lab. Tonight. Alone.

Except that when you opened your bedroom door, there he was in the doorway Keonho, bleary-eyed, hair a mess, rubbing sleep from his eyes as if he’d woken with the same starless worry lodged in his chest.

“What are you doing up?” you breathed, before you could shut your mouth.

He blinked, and the old, familiar softness crossed his face. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get some air.”

“Come with me.” You said.

He brightened in the barest way, because curiosity had always been his first true joy. You almost laughed a tour to him of the lab would be magic, jars and strange machines, the hush of secrets. He loved the hum of the lab, the way it smelled like ozone and cold coffee. It meant being near your father’s brilliant mind, close to the thing that fed his hunger for understanding.

You told him it was a tour. “You’ll like it,” you promised. “But you mustn’t touch anything. Promise?”

He nodded solemnly the way he used to when you were children, still delighting in rituals. “I promise.”

And with that, you both slipped out into the dark together.

The back door creaked lower than usual. The air in the yard was sharp and smelled of late summer dust. You kept your shoes soft against the steps and moved like someone trying to vanish. Keonho followed close enough that his sleeve brushed yours sometimes, that contact kept you steady.

The basement door was as it always was, locked, but your father had a habit of leaving the second latch unsecured when he was distracted. You were clumsy with nerves and fingers, but the latch gave, and the door eased open with a breathy groan. The lab’s light pooled like a low-secret ocean at the bottom of the stairs.

It was always overwhelming, glass and metal and the glow of monitors that painted the room in sickly blues and greens. Jars lined a shelf like trophies bugs, insects, some with their limbs folded as if sleeping. There were notebooks stacked like small monuments to obsession. The smell of formaldehyde and something else, thinner and metallic, hung in the air, making the back of your throat taste like pennies.

“Keep to the edges,” you whispered, immediately regretting sounding bossy. It came out sharp. He flinched but complied, skirting the room with big, fascinated eyes. “Do not touch anything.”

He hummed a small, distracted yes. You moved with purpose, scanning the desk, riffling through folders with hands that trembled. Your father’s handwriting filled the pages — meticulous notes, digital readouts scribbled in urgent pen strokes. At first you found only weather logs and supply orders. Then, under a stack of photographs, your breath snagged.

A file labelled in a hand you knew well: SUBJECT: K — CONFIDENTIAL.

Your fingers hovered. Proof. Your heart hit the ribs of your chest like a caged animal. You opened it with the careful reverence of someone handling a living thing and found pages that smelled of bleach and old paper, case notes, medical scans, a cursory timeline of an accident, a list of genes highlighted in red. There were diagrams of spiders vector diagrams, injection paths, notes on augmentation.

Your hands were cold. You read the small, perfect handwriting, the way your father rationalized cruelty into progress. “Accelerate integration,” one note said. “Behavioural conditioning recommended. Candidate is docile, ideal for implantation.”

You felt your world fold inward like a closing book. Keonho was paper-thin in your memory, a figure cut out and positioned in the center of a plan. Your vision tunnelled until everything was the file and the words perfect candidate, accident expedited.

You’d barely closed the folder when Keonho’s breath caught behind you.

“Look,” he whispered.

You turned, headlamp of panic flashing, to find him at the shelf of jars. He was like a moth to a flame, eyes fixed on a particular container that you hadn’t noticed before — a glass cylinder with a spider coiled inside, its carapace gleaming with an iridescent, almost unnatural shimmer. The creature’s legs moved with tiny, precise pulses, and the container had warning labels printed in blocky red that your father, perverse in his humour, had ignored.

“Don’t—” you started, too late.

He reached out anyway.

You hated the way you watched him open the jar. Your ribcage clenched and time slowed to the point where you could count the exact second his fingers brushed the glass rim, could see the minuscule crack a hairline fault you’d missed widen. The spider’s front legs touched the air, as if tasting the outside world for the first time.

“Keonho!” you lunged, too late, the sound a raw thing thrown from your throat.

There was a sting, sharp and bright, and he cried out like something inside him had broken. He jerked back, clutching his hand to his chest, eyes wide with a mixture of pain and confusion. A dark bead of blood welled where the spider had bitten, and it looked obscene and tiny and impossible to the panic building in your bones.

“How could you,” you hissed through gritted teeth as if scolding might reverse the damage. Your voice was brittle with anger and fear. “I told you not to touch— why would you— why would you even—”

He ignored you because he couldn’t. Sound was breaking through him like glass. He stumbled, palms pressed to his wound. His breath came in short, rough pants.

“It… it’s burning.”

Adrenaline sharp as acid took over. You grabbed his wrist to tug him to the sink, water sloshing icy over his palm, but his fingers spasmed and he hissed. The skin around the puncture flushed faster than it should, reddening and swelling like something alive under the surface.

“Stay still,” you said, though your voice shook. You searched for bandages with shaking hands, cursing at yourself for being slow, for being stupid enough to bring him here. You were a thousand different people at once — protective fury, a small, screaming child, a detective who had just found a blueprint for betrayal.

“I didn’t know,” you snapped, but it sounded thin and helpless. “You promised. You promised you wouldn’t touch anything.”

His jaw clenched, pain and shame warred on his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I just… I wanted to see. I thought—”

“Idiot,” you said, the word too sharp. It tore out of you like a blade. The instant it left your mouth you hated it, hated the cruelty of it, hated that the word existed between you and him. He recoiled as if struck, eyes stinging with surprise and hurt.

He didn’t cry. He trembled. Sweat beaded on his lip. The swelling around the bite grew, a slight black ring formed at the puncture point, something you recognized from old nature books but had never believed would ever belong to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, voice small as a coin.

“Because you promised,” you said, and that was all. You scrubbed at your palms uselessly, angry at yourself for failing him in the most stupid, avoidable way. You had meant to be his saviour. Instead you had walked him into danger.

He whimpered once, the sound a small boat with a cracked sail. He tried to stand and toppled backward onto a chair. His skin had gone clammy, and his breath hitched you could see the shallow pulls, the way he was getting pale.

“Stay with me,” you ordered, because ordering things felt like control. You shoved a hand into your pocket for your phone, fingers trembling. Reception was thin in the basement, the battery read low. Panic made your mind a fractured mirror — you thought, don’t call your mother, don’t call father, don’t, because what if they came and took him? What if this was exactly what your father had meant by “candidate”? The word echoed in your head with ugly clarity.

You stared at him, at the thin dark outline of the bite, at the way his eyes kept darting to the jars like he expected more spiders to crawl out. You should have done the reasonable thing. You should have dialed, let professionals handle the poison. But another thought, ugly and animal, pushed itself forward, if your father saw him at a hospital, if medical records linked this to something in your house, what would that mean? What would he do?

Keonho’s skin flushed brighter, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. You wrapped your arms around him on impulse, the way you had a thousand times when he came back from punishments. He clung to you like a drowning thing. You felt his heartbeat thudding fast, uneven, as if each beat wanted to slip out of his ribs.

“It’s okay,” you lied, because the only lie you had that sounded like hope was the easiest to speak. “It’ll be okay.”

He stared at you, distrust and aching hope braided so tight it hurt. “Promise?”

You wanted to promise so badly you could taste it. Instead you asked the only honest question you could, “Do you remember anything about the bite? Any numbness? Any taste? Did you feel strange before—”

He shook his head, eyes wide and luminous. “It was just a pinch. Then— then it burned.” He trembled again. “My hand’s hot.”

You ripped open the drawer for gauze. Your hands were clumsy and too loud. You wrapped his hand and held it, breath pressed to his forehead. You wanted to be both small and enormous small enough to keep him safe in a pinch, enormous enough to tear your father’s mind out of his chest and burn it.

You wanted to tell him everything you’d heard tonight. But fear curled up and swallowed the words. If you told him, what would you become? A daughter betraying her father. A traitor to your entire life. A child who had always had one foot in your parents’ world.

He coughed once, a small, choking sound, and you flinched. The skin around the bite started to discolour, mottled as if bruises were blooming below the surface. He looked younger suddenly, like someone twelve again, like the boy who had come into your life with rain in his hair.

“Please,” Keonho whispered, eyes glued to yours. “Please don’t tell him.”

Panic sharpened into a hard-edged resolve. You had promised you’d protect him. You would keep that promise, even if it meant lying.

“Okay,” you said, the word a blade and a salve. “Okay. I won’t tell him.” Your voice trembled, but the decision was made. You would do it your way. You would keep him, hide him, nurse him in secret until you both could figure a plan. You would be a little thief of safety and a liar for love.

You pulled him into a tighter hold, feeling the tremor in his body under your arms. You tried to coax a laugh, a memory, anything to distract him. You told him a stupid story about two cats you once imagined breaking into the lab and filing the spiders’ teeth down. He managed a watery smile. For a brief, ridiculous moment, you were back on the roof, staring at the stars. You imagined the bite as a bad dream that would dissolve under morning light.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the hollow of your throat. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly.

You didn’t believe him. You would never believe him. But the lie soothed him, and for now, that was all you had.

You wrapped him in a blanket you stole from your room and carried him awkwardly up the stairs, every shadow on the landing a verdict. You could hear someone moving upstairs in the sleep-dulled house the creak of a floorboard, the distant hum of the refrigerator and you imagined your father’s measured voice booming from the kitchen, We have a problem.

If you carried him out into the world, you would have to answer questions. If you kept him, you would be complicit in secrecy. Either way, you were standing on the edge of something that would not let you step back.

On the landing, you paused. Your hands were shaking so badly you dropped a bandage and it fell to the floor between you. Keonho’s breath hitched at the sound.

“We’ll hide it,” you whispered, and your whisper had the authority of someone who had made a choice and could not take it back. You would nurse him. You would keep him out of doctors’ records. You would keep the secret in your chest and wear the guilt like armor.

He nodded against you, too weak to protest. In the dim light, your shadow and his were a single thing on the wall two shapes tangled in a promise.

You couldn’t imagine, not yet, how much the choice would cost. You couldn’t imagine how the bite would change him, how your father would call it progress or a loss, how the lab would hum with plans you had only just barely begun to understand.

For now, you carried him up the stairs, through the house that had taught you how to look at someone like a problem to be solved. For the first time, you felt the tremor run the other way, you were the one who would not let him be solved. You would keep him. You would fight. You would hide.

And when you tucked him into his bed, palm wrapped around his smaller one like a vice, he looked at you with a tired, stubborn sincerity and whispered, “Thank you.”

You sat by his bed until dawn, fingers folded around his like you were binding him to the world. You watched the slow rhythm of his breath, leaning in to catch any change because knowledge had become your weapon and your curse.

It was only the beginning. The bite had bitten deeper than skin. It had bitten the fragile balance that kept your life where it was. The secret was a living thing now, and it had teeth.

You promised yourself you’d find the truth and you’d bring it to light. You promised Keonho you would fix him. You promised that you’d never tell him you’d heard the words that started the whole rotten plan.

But promises are small things when compared to the machine of your father’s genius. The lab hummed in the daylight as if nothing had happened. The spider slept in its jar, a tiny, dangerous thing. You had bitten off one of the threads of your life, and it was unravelling faster than you could sew it.

In the thick, quiet grey before morning fully held the world, you held his hand and vowed to yourself, to him, to a future that had no name yet that you would not let him be taken. Not by design. Not by accident. Not by anyone.

You didn’t know how to fight what was coming. You only knew one thing with the ferocity of young stubbornness, you would not let go.

It started the morning after the spider bite.

Keonho tried to laugh it off at first — brushing at the swelling on his hand, mumbling something about “clumsy me” when you fussed over it. But within hours, his skin turned clammy, his breath shallow, a fever burning high under his flushed cheeks.

By nightfall, he was trembling so violently in his bed that you sat pressed against him, wiping sweat from his forehead, your own heart racing with dread.

“Don’t… don’t tell them,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes glassy. “They’ll just—”

“Shh.” You hushed him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “I won’t. Just rest.”

But as he dozed in and out of delirium, something gnawed at you. Something bigger than just a fever.

The bite had been wrong. The way the spider had lunged, the way it glowed faintly under the lab’s fluorescent lights. And more than that — the words you’d overheard days earlier, your father’s hushed voice in the study, “The boy is perfect. Strong enough. Resilient enough. Just like his parents before the accident…”

You hadn’t told Keonho. Couldn’t. Not yet. But the words clawed at you now as his fever burned higher.

That night, when the house finally quieted, you slipped from Keonho’s room. His shallow breathing followed you down the hallway, a tether pulling at your chest.

The basement lab was colder than you expected, steel and glass reflecting the dim yellow light of the overheads. You crept between shelves lined with specimen jars, centrifuge machines humming faintly, stacks of binders piled haphazardly.

You headed straight for your father’s desk.

The first drawer was locked. The second, too. But the third gave way under steady pressure. You froze as the contents spilled forward, thick files, a lab notebook with a cracked spine, and loose photographs.

You spread them across the desk, heart pounding.

The first file was labeled in bold,

PROJECT ARA-09: ARACHNID NEUROTOXIN HYBRIDIZATION

You skimmed the jargon, words leaping out at you like blades:

Latrodectus mactans venom sequence mapped, CRISPR-Cas9 modifications successful

Glandular overexpression achieved in subject ARA-09 specimen

Estimated LD50 exceeds baseline mammalian tolerance

Human trial candidate identified: K.H.

Your throat went dry. K.H. Keonho.

Your father had been breeding spiders — not ordinary ones, but engineered killers, their venom rewritten with precision gene-editing to bypass normal limits. And worse, he’d already chosen his “human trial candidate.”

The second folder chilled you even more. It wasn’t scientific it was personal.

Incident Report: Case #17-031

Date: [Redacted]

Subject: Termination of Assets [L.N. & M.N.]

You scanned the page, stomach twisting.

Vehicular accident staged at coordinates [REDACTED]. Toxin delivery administered via compromised brake fluid reservoir. Casualties immediate. Secondary target retrieved (male child, age 6). Psychological profile: malleable, dependent, resilient under duress. Suitable candidate for long-term conditioning.

The names hit you like stones. L.N. & M.N. — Keonho’s parents. The “accident” wasn’t an accident at all. It was your father’s doing. Their deaths were calculated, orchestrated.

And Keonho? He wasn’t just some unlucky orphan taken in out of pity. He was chosen. Handpicked.

The word “candidate” bled through the page, burning into your mind.

You forced yourself to keep reading, hands shaking as you flipped to the lab notebook. Your father’s handwriting sprawled across the pages, clinical and cold.

Day 43: Hybrid venom extraction successful. Strain demonstrates neurotoxic properties mimicking latrotoxin but with enhanced synaptic binding affinity. Excitatory neurotransmitter release prolonged beyond lethal threshold.

Day 57: Subject K.H. observed in routine household tasks. Physical resilience and healing response notable. Unaware of conditioning. Psychological tether to [redacted: “Y/N”] complicates isolation strategy.

Day 70: Predicted compatibility high. Proceeding toward exposure phase. Spider #12 marked for trial.

Your breath stuttered. Spider #12.

You saw it so clearly now — the jar Keonho had touched, the spider that bit him. It wasn’t chance. It wasn’t random curiosity. It was part of your father’s design.

You sat beside Keonho until he drifted into uneasy sleep, his hand twitching occasionally, sweat soaking the pillow.

And then you just… sat. Watching him. Feeling the weight of every word you’d read pressing against your chest.

Your father had killed his parents. He had raised Keonho like livestock, grooming him for this moment. The bite wasn’t an accident — it was the beginning.

And Keonho didn’t know. He was still looking at you with trust, still leaning into your touch like you were the only safe thing in his life.

You swallowed hard, fingers brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

“I’ll carry this for you,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t need to know. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.”

His lips parted slightly in sleep, his face softened, and for a fleeting second you could almost believe he was just a boy — your boy — safe in his bed.

But you knew better. You’d seen the truth.

And you would burn with it, alone.

The truth didn’t stay quiet in your chest for long. It burned. It clawed. Every time you looked at Keonho’s pale, fever-slicked face, every time his hand twitched in his sleep, every time he whispered your name with blind trust… you thought of the files, the staged accident, the word candidate.

And you snapped.

It was past midnight when you stormed into the study. The door slammed so hard against the wall that your father jerked upright from his papers, his pen clattering to the floor. His eyes narrowed when he saw you.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded, voice edged with authority.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your voice came out sharp, almost breaking. Your hands shook as you slammed the files onto his desk, papers spilling like spilled blood. “I know everything, Dad. All of it.”

He didn’t move. His gaze flicked to the files, then back to you, calm, calculating. “And what is it you think you know?”

“Stop pretending!” you shouted, shoving the top document toward him. “Project ARA-09. The experiments. The spiders. Keonho—” His name cracked on your tongue. “You’ve been raising him like some… some test subject. He’s not your son, he’s not even human to you. Just a body to poison. A tool.”

Your father’s jaw tightened. “Keep your voice down.”

“No!” Your voice broke into a scream. “You killed his parents! You staged that accident, you poisoned them just to take him for yourself—”

The words echoed in the room, jagged and raw.

Something flickered in your father’s eyes — not guilt, not shame, but a dark sort of pride. “So you really did go digging.”

Your chest heaved. “How could you? How could you look at him — a little boy who lost everything — and decide to use him like this?”

“Because he was perfect,” your father said simply. Coldly. Like it was the most logical thing in the world. “You don’t understand what resilience like his means. He survived what others wouldn’t. He’s strong. Stronger than you’ll ever realize. That kind of potential is wasted if you don’t harness it.”

“He’s not potential,” you snapped. “He’s a person. He’s—he’s Keonho. My Keonho. And you destroyed his whole life before it even began.”

For a moment, silence filled the study, heavy and suffocating. Your father leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “And what exactly do you plan to do with this knowledge, Y/N? March out there and tell him? Do you think he’ll thank you for confirming his parents were nothing more than pawns in a deal that went bad? That his entire existence here has been orchestrated?”

Your throat tightened. “I plan to stop you.”

His laugh was sharp, humourless. “Stop me? You? You’re a child clinging to sentiment. You think feeding him scraps in secret and whispering promises in the dark will save him? You’ve only delayed the inevitable.”

Rage surged. You grabbed another stack of papers, hurling them at him. “You’re a murderer! You’re a monster! You killed his parents, you made him suffer, you—”

“You read what you weren’t meant to read,” your father interrupted, his tone slicing through your fury. “But don’t pretend your hands are clean. You knew. You kept quiet.”

“I was trying to protect him!”

“By lying to him?”

The words struck deep. For the first time, your anger faltered. You had no answer.

And in that crack of silence, you didn’t notice the sound at the door.

Keonho leaned weakly against the wall, his body still trembling from fever. He had followed the shouting, drawn by the sharp edges of your voice, the breaking of something sacred.

He had heard enough.

You killed his parents. You staged that accident.

He’s not your son, he’s just a body to poison.

I was trying to protect him.

By lying to him?

The words looped in his head, each one heavier than the last. His vision swam, but he couldn’t look away from you standing there, facing your father, clutching those papers like weapons.

You knew.

You’d known, and you’d said nothing.

He didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t wait to. He stumbled back into the shadows before you could see him, before the truth in his eyes could give him away.

Back inside the study, you were shaking, your chest aching with fury. “This ends now,” you whispered, though your voice had lost its strength.

Your father’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly, as if you were the one to pity. “You’ll understand one day. Everything I’ve done has been for progress. For power. He’s not your responsibility, Y/N. He’s my experiment.”

“Don’t you dare call him that,” you spat.

But your hands trembled as you gathered the papers, clutching them to your chest. You left before your voice cracked again, before your father could see the tears threatening your eyes.

When you slipped back into Keonho’s room, he was in bed, still and silent. His face turned toward the wall, his breathing steady but shallow. Relief flooded you, thinking he had slept through everything.

You sat quietly on the edge of the mattress, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “I’ll fix this,” you whispered. “I’ll find a way to make it right. I swear.”

He didn’t stir. Didn’t turn toward you.

You kissed his temple softly, your chest breaking with the weight of what you’d said, of what you hadn’t.

“I’ll protect you,” you promised.

But in the quiet of the room, with your back turned, his eyes opened.

No warmth. No trust. Just the hollow ache of betrayal gnawing at him from within.

You didn’t see the way he stared at the ceiling, your words echoing like knives, You knew. You kept quiet.

The trust you’d built together since childhood splintered in silence.

And you never even knew he’d heard.

The house was still. The kind of silence that pressed heavy against the walls, broken only by the faint hum of the air vent. You stirred from restless sleep, something gnawing at the edges of your chest. A wrongness. An ache that told you to move, to look, to search.

Your feet padded softly against the cold wooden floor, carrying you down the hall. The light under Keonho’s door was dim, flickering faintly — a lamp, not the overhead. You frowned. He should’ve been asleep. He needed rest, not more nights of wandering wakefulness.

You pushed the door open quietly.

And froze.

Keonho was hunched at the edge of his bed, fingers trembling as he zipped up a worn backpack. His face was pale, sheen of sweat glistening at his temple, hair sticking messily against his skin. His body swayed faintly, weak, yet every line of him was taut with determination.

“Keonho?” Your voice cracked on his name.

His head snapped up. For a fleeting second, his dark eyes widened — caught — then shuttered quickly, hard and cold. “Go back to bed.”

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” His tone was clipped, brittle like glass. He shoved another shirt into the bag, not even folding it.

Your chest tightened. “You can’t. You’re sick, you—your fever hasn’t broken, your body—”

“I’ll live.”

“No, you won’t!” You moved forward, trying to tug the bag from his hands, but he jerked it back, stumbling a little. The weight was too much for him, yet he clung to it like a lifeline. “Keonho, stop this. Please. Talk to me.”

His laugh was bitter, sharp. “Talk to you? That’s funny. You want me to talk after all this time you’ve been lying to me?”

The words landed like a punch. “What?”

“I heard you,” he snapped. His voice shook with fury, but there was a deeper crack beneath it — something raw, something bleeding. “The fight with your father. Everything. The accident. My parents. All those files.” His hand clenched around the strap of the bag. “You knew.”

Your heart dropped. “Keonho…”

“No!” His shout was ragged, splitting in his throat. “Don’t say my name like that, like you care. All this time I thought you were different, that you were on my side, that maybe you were the only thing in this house that was mine. But you knew the truth and you kept it from me.”

Tears stung your eyes. “I was trying to protect you.”

He laughed again, hollow. “Protect me? By lying? By sitting there and feeding me scraps while your family treated me like dirt? You were just like them. Smiling at me, whispering promises, but the whole time you knew I was nothing more than their project.”

“That’s not true!” You reached for him, desperate, but he recoiled like your touch burned.

“Don’t.” His voice broke. His eyes, usually soft when they met yours, were blazing now — not with hatred, but with a pain so deep it made your chest ache. “Don’t touch me. Don’t act like you didn’t look at me and see pity.”

“I never pitied you,” you whispered, your throat raw.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” His words cracked. “Why did you let me believe they just… died? Why did you let me think I still had something left in this world, when the truth was that I was stolen?”

Your lips trembled. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t want to lose you—”

“You already did.”

The silence after that was deafening.

Your hands shook, tears slipping freely down your face as you tried again, voice pleading. “Keonho, please. I swear, I didn’t mean for this. I wanted to tell you, I just—I needed the right time. I didn’t want you to hurt—”

“I’ve been hurting my whole life,” he whispered, and the way his voice cracked made your chest split open. He shoved the bag over his shoulder, nearly stumbling under the weight, but he caught himself. His eyes met yours one last time, and they weren’t the boy’s eyes you’d grown up with. They were shattered glass, reflecting a thousand cracks you couldn’t piece together.

“Stay out of my way.”

You stepped in front of the door, desperate. “You can’t leave. Please. If you walk out like this, I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said flatly. Then, with a sharp movement, he shoved past you. His shoulder collided with yours hard enough to stagger you, and before you could grab him, the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything. Your fingers brushed the wood of the door, but you couldn’t bring yourself to open it. Couldn’t bring yourself to run after him, to drag him back by force.

Because his last words still hung in the air, heavy and final.

You already did.

The house remained silent. Your parents never stirred.

Only you, alone in the darkness, tears streaming as the weight of his absence settled over you.

And outside, Keonho disappeared into the night — fever burning, body failing, but his resolve unshakable. The boy who had once been your closest friend was gone, swallowed by the same shadows that had raised him.

Keonho was sure he was in love with you. How could he not? You were so admirable. You topped the entire school in every competition you joined; people would know they already lost once they heard you were joining. But there are still those who try to compete with you — like Keonho.

Though Keonho was younger, he still managed to catch up with you in swimming. You're older by a few months, but you're still in the same year as Keonho, so you're always battling with him for a spot on the school swimming team. The number of times you've had to be okay with it made your blood boil. Unfortunately, you had to share your spot on the team with him, and you couldn't hate it even more.

Unbeknownst to you, Keonho only ever did it to get your attention. You've barely spoken to each other, and Keonho has made it his life's mission to give himself more chances to bask in your presence. You were his idol, even if you gave him dirty looks for breathing the same air as you.

Keonho knew how much winning meant to you, so he didn't dare compete with you in other aspects — though he wouldn't have managed to anyway — especially not in academics. You were the star student that the school flaunted with pride. Not only were you always top of your class, but you were also elected as student body president and have represented the school in numerous events. All while Keonho sat back and watched, feeling extremely proud of you.

Today was another day of Keonho getting the chance to talk to you. February 14th — Valentine's Day and his birthday. He prayed all night you'd greet him, but all those hopes got crushed when you only walked past him in the hall, leaving the poor boy hanging.

"Noona!" He called, jogging to catch up with your fast strides, a fresh Bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand. Keonho towered over you, but even his long legs couldn't match your speed. "Y/n noona! Wait up!"

You sighed, masking your frustration before turning around to face the boy. “Yes, Ahn?” There it was, his last name. You refused to call him by his first name, no matter how many times he asked (once, he asked once before dropping it after you got mad).

“You walk fast,” he blurted out, breathless after trying to match your insanely fast pace.

“Because I’ve got somewhere to be,” you replied without missing a beat, trying your best not to snap at him. Your morning didn’t start as good as you’d hoped it would, but you weren’t one to snap at people because of it, not if you could help it.

“But class doesn’t start until 8:00...” He trailed off, you stared, the silence lingered.

Keonho cleared his throat, knowing you were holding yourself back from getting mad at him. He knows you too well by now. “This is for you, noona!” He offered up the beautiful bouquet enthusiastically, a wide smile spread on his face like it was him being handed flowers.

The bouquet was beautiful. It was decorated with your favorite flowers, with other complementary flowers that highlighted your favorites. You couldn’t help your breath from hitching, but you remain composed.

“What for?” You asked, meeting Keonho’s sparkling eyes.

“Valentine’s day!” He beamed, holding out the bouquet closer to you, nonverbally urging you to take it. He hesitantly added after a beat of silence, “and it’s... It’s also my birthday.”

You eyed the boy before you, then the flowers he was holding, your clouded mind starting to turn on you.

Your brain decided it was the perfect time to replay every single time Keonho bested you in swimming, the cocky (endearing) smile he’d give you right after, with a stupid (sweet) “good job, noona!” All the times the coaches had to explain to you why they chose Ahn Keonho instead of you for the swim meet. The time you were nearly kicked off the team because they could only keep one, and they’d be keeping Ahn Keonho.

The soft, endeared feeling that was starting to bubble up inside you immediately evaporated, disappearing into the void of your hatred for Ahn Keonho.

“Why are you giving them to me?” You asked, the kind tone in your voice replayed by that monotonous one Keonho was used to hearing, but still intimidated by.

“Well... Because I— I just wanted to give them to you.” He spluttered, looking down as he felt his confidence faltering. “Please take them. You can— You can do whatever you want with them.” Keonho begged, just wanting, needing you to take the flowers. He had saved up over 4 months of school allowance to get you these.

You tilted your head, raising a brow. “So I can throw them?”

“What? Noona, please don’t.” Keonho’s head snapped up, shaking his head desperately. He retracted his arm, holding the bouquet out to you, almost cradling it to his chest like it was a baby.

“You said I could do whatever with it.” You retorted, amused that he immediately got defensive, though you made no move to actually take the bouquet from him.

Keonho gaped, “That doesn’t mean you can throw it, noona—”

You cut him off, “Don’t say things you don’t mean then.”

Keonho stared at you, disbelief written all over his face. You swore you could see tears starting to form in his eyes. He shoved the bouquet into your arms before running off, leaving you alone in the hallway, bouquet held to your chest, and a weird feeling in your gut. Regret, you think it was. You couldn’t tell. It was gone as quickly as it came.

Days have passed, and Keonho has avoided you like the plague. He didn’t appear in swim training when he knew you’d be around, causing you to get all the swim meet opportunities instead of the team’s golden boy. The thought made you feel enraged, yet guilty at the same time. You knew deep down Keonho did deserve those opportunities; he’s a good swimmer (a very good one, but you’d rather die than admit that). Keonho also did a very good job at disappearing when he sensed you were near. He sat at the very back of each class you shared together. He’d turn around when he heard the familiar click of your footsteps when walking in the corridor, and he even started bringing in his own lunch and forcing his friends to eat with him in the school courtyard.

Sure, you felt bad, but you weren’t planning to do anything about it.

Not until one of the coaches approached you and asked about Keonho.

“What’s going on with Keonho?” The coach asked, stopping you before you could leave practice. “He keeps asking to change training schedules. Do you know anything about this?” You could tell the coach was genuinely worried; everyone’s noticed the flip in personality by now.

“I don’t know anything about it.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. You knew it had something to do with you, but you don’t know exactly why Keonho’s gone M.I.A. one second, then comes back as if nothing happened.

The coach said your name, a hint of disappointment in his tone. He wasn’t stupid; he knew Keonho was avoiding something, avoiding someone, and he knew it was you. Keonho only ever came to training when you weren’t around and was always out of reach whenever you were around.

“I don’t know exactly what went on between you two, but I need you to fix it, okay?” He continued, making eye contact with you so you’d realize how serious he was about this.

“Why me?” You asked, baffled. “What makes you think I had anything to do with—”

The coach gave you a look, something that said both ‘don’t lie to me’ and ‘I don’t have time for this’. “Fix it.”

You were about to argue, but the coach beat you to it. “Or you’re both off the team.”

You couldn’t do anything but not, hands shaky as you readied to leave the pool.

You waited antsy by the front of your classroom, knowing you shared a class with Keonho for first period. You rehearsed possible things you could say to him, wanting nothing more than to snap at him and blame him for everything. You fidgeted with the sling of your ID, forcing yourself to remain in place instead of pacing around like a madman. Then you froze, hearing the familiar laugh of his beloved friend Seonghyeon. You saw them before they saw you, so you quickly stood in front of their way before Keonho could run away.

Both boys froze when they saw you, Keonho looking especially spooked. No one said anything until you broke the silence, hooded eyes meeting Keonho’s surprised ones. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Keonho blinked, taking a minute to process your words before looking down and nodding. “Su— Sure.” He signalled for Seonghyeon to go ahead, the boy not passing by you without a glare.

“What’s wrong with you?” You spoke when Seonghyeon was out of earshot, Keonho looking up to meet your eyes. He looked confused, and a bit... Irritated?

“What? Noona—” He started, wanting to understand what you were getting at.

“You’re going to get us both kicked out of the team if you keep ditching training randomly. Why don’t you just quit at this point?” You initiated, keeping your voice level in order to avoid causing a scene.

Keonho flinched, wanting to argue, to defend himself so badly, but the hurt one over. He looked so down, staring at you with dejection in his eyes. “Is that all you care about? Your spot on the team?”

You waned. “I care about yours too, which is why I want to fix—”

“Don’t lie to yourself, noona. We both know you wouldn’t be talking to me right now if it were only my spot getting threatened.” He cut you off.

The silence that followed deafened you both. You knew the coach was serious about getting you off the team, and you didn’t want that, so you swallowed your pride.

“What will it take for you to come back?” You pressed, looking desperate for once. Keonho shook his head. “You’re still thinking about yourself.”

“Keonho, you’ll lose your spot if you don’t do anything—”

“I know that!” He interrupted achingly. Keonho realized he raised his voice at you, so he repeated it in a softer way. “I know that, noona.” In the midst of your argument, Keonho only realizes now that you called him by his name, his first name. But he doesn’t celebrate, he can’t. It still hurts.

“You could have rejected me nicely, noona.” He added hopelessly.

“It’s really my fault you’re acting this way?” You asked, unable to believe you affected him that much. “And what do you mean by reject? I didn’t—”

“You didn’t know I liked you? Wasn’t I clear enough?” Keonho scoffed.

“No, you weren’t. I don’t assume, Keonho. I won’t know unless you tell me.” You clarified.

Keonho nodded, accepting how things are turning out. “Now you know.”

“I never rejected you; I didn’t even know you felt that way for me.” You looked Keonho in the eyes, wanting him to feel your sincerity.

Keonho didn’t know what to say; he didn’t want to get his hopes up again, but he couldn’t stop his heart from fluttering either.

“Noona...”

“I don’t know how I truly feel about you yet, I don’t know if it’s just hate or— or jealousy because you keep getting the things I want.” You hadn’t been this honest with yourself in a long time, and it felt pretty good. Keonho only listened, a small smile on his face.

“Just... Just come to training, okay?” You request, eyes pleading.

“I will,” Keonho answered, entering the classroom with you once the bell rang.

Keonho did come back to training, punctual and consistent with his performance. The coach gave you an approving nod once training ended. It was different this time. You didn’t feel bitter whenever Keonho was praised for his swimming; in fact, you felt proud.

You were now noticing how every time Keonho was praised, he would look to you, a proud, hopeful smile on his face, to see if you noticed, if you approved. Before, you never returned his gaze, but now? You smiled in return, and Keonho couldn’t be happier.

“Noona!” A voice called from behind you, prompting you to turn around and face it. Keonho.

“Are you maybe free later? After training?” He inquired, hands clasped over the hem of his shirt.

Your brows furrowed. “Training just finished.”

“Right! Now, I meant now.” Keonho cleared his throat, waiting for your answer patiently.

“Yeah, I’m free, why?” You were curious, Keonho never really interacted with you like this before.

Keonho took a deep breath, mentally hyping himself up. Don’t mess this up, Ahn.

“Would you want to... uhm... get dinner with me? Now? Like, we, uh, leave together and go somewhere we like—”

“Sure.” You answered, feeling giddy inside when a prominent blush bloomed on Keonho’s face.

“Really?” Keonho felt the need to make sure, unable to believe that this was actually real and happening.

“Yeah, really.” You nodded.

You and Keonho ate at a Korean BBQ place near the school. You were there for nearly 2 hours, eating and laughing together, sharing similar experiences that happened throughout your lives.

He offered to walk you home after finding out you lived 2 blocks away from each other.

“When did you realize you liked me?” You wanted to know, having this gut feeling you liked him back.

Keonho smirked, turning around to walk backwards, facing you. “I knew from the start.”

“You did?”

He nodded. Then came the question you truly wanted to ask.

“What does it feel like?” You looked away from him, averting your gaze from him towards the pavement.

Keonho’s heart was pounding; he was so nervous he could feel each beat pulsing through his veins. Anymore, and he might start feeling his blood as it maneuvered throughout his body from his chest.

“Intense,” he gulped, almost having to force the words out. “You just...” He paused. “You just know, really.” Keonho slowed his steps, matching your pace.

“You feel things around them even though they’re not doing anything. You notice them even when you don’t mean to. They stand out to you. No matter what.” With each word he spoke, he felt more confident in what he was saying. He truly felt this way towards you, and he wanted you to know that since you asked.

“I feel like... No, I know that I like you.” You confessed, halting your steps and taking hold of his hand so he’d stop walking too. You needed him to know.

“What?” Keonho was dumbfounded. You liked him back?

“I’m sorry, I’m realizing it only now, but I know I’ve been harboring these feelings for you, but just compressed them down because of my pride.” You let go of his hand, fiddling with a button on your shirt.

Keonho merely listened, watching each expression you made carefully. Great, his heart was totally going to explode.

“Honestly, I’m still a bit confused. I want you to know that. But I know I'm feeling something other than... dislike for you.” You admit, letting out a breath when Keonho laughs. You’ve never seen him this happy before.

“Noona.” He called, tilting his head when you hummed in approval. “Can I try something?”

Keonho moved his face closer to yours when you reluctantly nodded, eyes flitting to yours, silently asking for permission. He gently pressed his lips to yours when you shut your eyes, giving him the go signal.

Your hand gently rested on his chest, not knowing whether to push him away or pull him in. Keonho smiled into the kiss, leaning into it deeper, one of his hands reaching up to hold yours, clutching it to his chest.

After nearly a minute of kissing, Keonho moves to pull away, but you grab his shirt with your other hand before he can move away, deepening the kiss even more. Keonho laughs, letting you kiss him more.

He grabs your hands and gently pushes you away, resting his forehead on yours as you take deep breaths. “You seem to like this a lot, noona.” Keonho teases, placing a lingering kiss on your forehead.

“Only when it’s with you.”

What a way to end the night.

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ lettie's note: woah, this one was a bit long... i enjoyed writing it tho! i hope u enjoyed reading ^^

MARTIN EDWARDS

Martin walked you home, like he always did after your secret dates. No one could ever know—an idol caught in a scandal just weeks after debut wasn’t something either of you could risk. Still, he slipped his jacket over your shoulders when you shivered, even though he was the one who hated the cold.

The street was hushed, save for your soft voice singing along to one of his songs—the one he had written. His eyes softened at the sound, memorizing every note as if it were only for him. When you reached your doorstep, you turned to him with the smile that always undid him. “Bye,” you whispered, your hand reaching for the door.

But his fingers curled around your wrist, holding you back. “I… won’t you give me a good night kiss?” he asked, voice low, almost trembling. Your eyes widened, heat rushing to your cheeks. “A what?” you stammered. In a breath, he caged you against the door, leaning in with all the hesitant boldness of a K-drama lead. “A kiss… for walking you home. And… giving you a good time.”

He didn’t move further, frozen in his own nerves—so you did. Tugging him down by his collar, your lips barely brushed his. Just a fleeting kiss, but enough to leave him shaking while you slipped inside, leaving him on your doorstep with his heart racing out of control.

KIM JUHOON

It was a quiet evening, the kind where words weren’t really necessary. Juhoon was sprawled on the bed beside you, sketching in his notebook—half filled with lyrics, the other half with random doodles—while you were lost in your novel. Almost out of habit, you leaned over to peek. “What are you—” you began, but your words cut short the second you realized he was sketching a couple kissing. A laugh bubbled out of you, and you playfully smacked his shoulder.

“S-so what?? You read about that stuff too!” he stammered, pointing accusingly at the book in your hands.

“And? I don’t draw it, though,” you teased between giggles.

He glanced at you, lips twitching, and before you could catch on, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours. Quick. Clumsy. Enough to freeze your laughter mid-giggle. He pulled back almost immediately, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “Finally stopped giggling,” he muttered, his ears turning red as he fiddled with his pen.

Meanwhile, your heart was pounding against your ribs, cheeks burning as you sat there in stunned silence—trying to process that Juhoon had just stolen your very first kiss with a doodle as his excuse.

EOM SEONGHYEON

Seonghyeon had taken you to the rooftop just to see the city lights, the skyline glowing beneath the stars. He pointed upward, tracing constellations he clearly didn’t know, spinning silly stories out of thin air that made you laugh until your sides ached. “And that—” he started, but the words fell off. You noticed the way he grew quiet, no longer looking at the sky but at you. His hand brushed against yours, tentative, while his eyes lingered on your lips as you spoke.

“What?” you asked softly, your pulse quickening, the realization sinking in—this might be the moment you’d lose your first kiss to your boyfriend. “You’re brighter than all of that,” he whispered, voice barely carrying over the night air. Before you could respond, he leaned in, lips hovering just a breath away. “Can I?” he asked, shy and uncertain.

“You can,” you blurted, impatient yet just as nervous, your eyes fluttering closed. And then you felt it—the soft press of his lips against yours, tentative at first, then melting into a rhythm that felt like it belonged only to the two of you. The city glittered around you, but nothing outshone the warmth of that kiss.

AHN KEONHO

Keonho insisted on walking through the rain without an umbrella, claiming it was more fun this way. You didn’t want to seem mean by carrying one yourself, so you followed along, both of you ending up soaked. Your school uniforms clung to your bodies, the fabric heavy against your skin as you tried not to slip on the wet pavement. But you did. You stumbled, nearly crashing to the ground if not for Keonho’s arm wrapping firmly around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You shivered as the rain pelted down harder, goosebumps rising along your skin.

“Careful there,” he murmured, steadying you. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. He might have left it at that—if not for the way your fingers tightened in his shirt, lips parting as you raised a brow at him. The message was clear.

“If you say so,” he replied casually, though his smirk betrayed him. His mouth found yours, hot against the cold rain, messy and impatient. His hands dragged you closer, tongue teasing against your lips until you pushed at his chest, breathless. Both of you giggled, cheeks flushed despite the chill, before leaning back in—this time slower, surer, the rain trickling down your faces as you kissed again and again, completely drenched and completely lost in each other.

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Your father’s hand was heavy on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Keonho,” he said, his voice flat, clipped, the tone he always used in the lab when talking about chemicals and failed results. “He’ll be staying with us.”

You’d been excited. The thought of another child in the house made your heart flutter. Someone to play with, someone who wasn’t made of stern frowns and cold rules. You tugged on your father’s sleeve and whispered, “Is he my new friend?”

Your father’s sharp eyes softened only because they were looking at you. “Don’t be silly. He’s not family.”

But to you, he became family anyway.

At dinner, you sat beside him, bumping your knee against his like you were sharing a secret. He didn’t look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the table, on the food he didn’t dare touch too quickly.

You pushed your extra piece of meat onto his plate when your parents weren’t looking.

He froze, his fork hovering, and finally glanced at you with panic as if he’d done something wrong. Then, barely audible, came his whisper: “…Thank you.”

His voice was too soft, like he wasn’t used to being heard.

Your parents never scolded you for spilling your drink or forgetting to say “thank you.” At most, they gave you small sighs and gentle corrections. But when Keonho’s elbow brushed a glass and water tipped across the table, your father’s palm cracked across the back of his head so hard the sound echoed in your chest.

You jumped to your feet, shouting, “It was an accident!”

But your father ignored you. Your mother’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “If he can’t learn precision,” she muttered, “he’ll never be useful.”

That word lingered in your ears long after the dishes were cleared.

You shared a room in the early years. Two beds, one window, one sanctuary. At night, the world shrank to whispers traded between you, laughter muffled under the covers.

But even here, the house weighed on him.

Your parents praised you endlessly, your neat handwriting taped on the fridge, your careful drawings stacked in folders, your voice reciting lessons with clarity. But when Keonho tried to show something a toy he fixed, a paper he worked hard on, even a shy song hummed from memory your father’s voice cut it down with a single glance. “Not good enough.”

He stopped showing them things. He started hiding the little victories the way he could climb higher in trees than anyone else, the way he could memorize entire passages in one read, the way he built tiny gadgets from scraps in the shed. Instead, he folded those victories into himself like secret treasures.

You caught him crying once, curled under his blanket, shoulders shaking. You didn’t think. You crossed the space, climbed onto his bed, and wrapped your arms around him.

“Why do they hate me?” he whispered, voice cracking.

You didn’t have an answer. So you said the only thing you could, “I don’t. I never will.”

He cried harder, but his arms wrapped around you in return.

Time passed. Your parents’ rules thickened like walls.

They never let Keonho play outside.

If you begged to go to the park, you could go but not him. Your father claimed he “wasn’t ready,” or that “the world isn’t safe for him.” Sometimes he would even say, “He’ll distract you.”

So Keonho stayed home, pressed against windowsills, watching you leave.

When cousins visited, they never knew he lived there. Your mother locked him in your room, the door bolted from the outside. “He doesn’t need friends,” she told you once when you cried and begged to let him join. “He needs discipline.”

Discipline meant chores that were harsher than yours. Discipline meant rules that only he could break. Discipline meant silence.

Your father let you sit on his knee while he explained experiments, while he drew neat diagrams in his notebooks. You felt important, chosen, special. But when Keonho asked what he was working on, the answer was a cold stare and a slammed book.

“He wouldn’t understand,” your father would say. “He doesn’t have the mind for it.”

But you knew the truth. You’d seen Keonho’s notebooks little sketches of machines, rewired toys, perfect copies of your father’s formulas written in a child’s hand. He was brilliant. He was just never meant to shine.

The older you grew, the more you noticed the contrast.

Your birthdays were filled with cakes and gifts, pictures taken in the living room with smiles your parents only wore for you. Keonho’s birthdays passed like shadows no cake, no presents, no acknowledgment except maybe an extra chore. You were the only one who remembered, sneaking him a cookie under your blanket, whispering “Happy birthday” while the world slept.

The house made him invisible, but you refused to let him fade.

Sometimes he’d rebel, in small ways.

He’d leave his chores unfinished just to sit with you a little longer. He’d hide his bruises under long sleeves, but you learned to find them anyway, pressing your tiny hands against the marks like your touch could erase them. He’d sneak into the yard when your parents were gone, running barefoot through the grass until he was caught and punished.

Each punishment carved him sharper, quieter. But each time, you were there sneaking into his bed, whispering jokes, telling him stories, holding his hand until his breath evened out.

You were his anchor.

He was your shadow.

Together, you built a world in the cracks of the one your parents controlled.

But shadows grew longer as you both aged.

Your father’s experiments expanded. He spent hours in the basement lab, muttering about “progress” and “the next phase.” You weren’t allowed inside, not unless he wanted to show off. But sometimes you heard the skittering of cages, the hiss of locked doors.

And sometimes, you caught Keonho staring at the basement door like it was waiting for him.

Your father hadn’t taken him in out of kindness. He hadn’t raised him like a son. He’d been grooming him, sculpting him, waiting.

And the spiders the ones you’d glimpsed in glass tanks with glowing abdomens and twitching legs were the proof.

The last straw came when you were twelve.

You’d been allowed to attend a school picnic. You begged your parents to let Keonho come. You begged so hard you nearly cried.

Your father’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t need friends. He has you.”

Your mother added, “Stop asking. You’re only making things worse.”

That day, while you laughed and played with classmates under the sun, Keonho sat locked in his room, watching the sky from behind glass.

When you came home, sunburnt and happy, he wouldn’t look at you.

“I wanted to be there,” he whispered when you crawled into his bed that night. His voice cracked in a way that made your chest ache. “I wanted to know what it feels like… to just be normal.”

And you realized your parents hadn’t just mistreated him.

They had stolen the world from him.

From then on, you promised yourself something: if they tried to keep him locked away forever, you would find a way to open the door.

Even if it meant breaking everything.

Because Keonho wasn’t “useful.” He wasn’t a tool. He wasn’t an experiment.

He was a boy who laughed softly at night when you told silly stories.

He was the boy who clung to you when he cried, terrified of being unloved.

He was the boy you refused to let disappear.

And even though you didn’t know it yet, your father’s obsession the spider glowing in the lab below, the experiments waiting in the dark would one day change everything.

For now, you only knew this,

You loved him.

And you would never let him face the darkness alone.

The years slipped by like pages turned too fast. One moment you were children whispering in the dark, the next you were both taller, your voices lower, your laughter carrying a different weight.

Keonho’s eyes changed first. They no longer belonged to a boy. They were sharp, cautious, older than they should’ve been. And yet when he looked at you, they softened — just a fraction, like you were the only piece of the world he could still hold without it cutting him.

You were fourteen the first time your father told him he wasn’t allowed at the dinner table anymore.

It was an ordinary night. Plates clattered softly as your mother set the table, her expression smooth, composed. You were about to call for Keonho when your father’s voice cut the air.

“He’ll eat in his room from now on.”

You blinked, stunned. “What? Why?”

Your father didn’t look up from his soup. “He’s disruptive.”

The word stung like a slap even though it wasn’t directed at you. Across the hall, Keonho stood frozen, half in shadow, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His face was blank, carefully blank, but you knew the silence beneath it was screaming.

“That’s not fair!” you burst out. “He hasn’t done anything!”

Your father’s gaze sharpened. “He doesn’t belong at this table. Don’t argue.”

And that was it. The decision was final.

Keonho disappeared into his room without a word.

You lasted all of three minutes before slamming down your spoon and storming after him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, untouched plate on the desk beside him. His shoulders were tense, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Eat,” you ordered, setting your own plate beside his.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“You’re lying.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” His voice was sharp, rough, like he wanted to push you away before he broke in front of you.

Your chest ached. Slowly, you sat beside him, nudging his arm until he finally glanced at you.

“They can’t take this from you too,” you whispered. “Don’t let them win.”

His throat worked like he was swallowing something heavy. Then, quietly, he admitted, “It’s not just the food. It’s everything. They don’t want me here, they never did. Every time I try, it’s never enough. Every time I breathe wrong, it’s wrong.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Then I’ll make it enough. I’ll fight them, I’ll scream at them, I’ll make their lives miserable if I have to. But you’re not leaving me behind. Not now. Not ever.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then his hand rose, hesitated, and finally rested lightly on top of yours.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

That night, you fed him with your own hands, tearing pieces of bread, sliding food across the plate, making him eat bite after bite until the tension in his shoulders eased.

And when he finally smiled small, tired, but real you felt like you’d stolen light back from the darkness.

The punishments grew harsher as you grew older.

If he forgot a chore, your father’s belt snapped against his back. If he spoke out of turn, your mother’s words cut like glass. If he looked too happy too alive it was crushed out of him before it could bloom.

And every time, you were there.

You learned to raise your voice against your parents, consequences be damned. “Stop it! He didn’t do anything!” “Why are you always blaming him?” “You don’t even see him you don’t want to!”

Sometimes it ended with you crying in your room, your parents’ voices echoing down the hall. Sometimes it ended with you sneaking bandages and ice packs into Keonho’s room, his skin hot and bruised under your hands.

“I can take it,” he would mutter, always stubborn.

“You don’t have to,” you always replied.

And every time, when you wrapped your arms around him, he sank into you like he’d been holding his breath all day and only now remembered how to exhale.

Despite everything, you grew closer.

There were moments your parents couldn’t touch stolen pockets of time where you carved a world only for yourselves.

Sneaking into the yard at midnight, lying in the grass side by side, counting stars.

Trading secrets in whispers, promises spoken like oaths.

Building silly inventions from scraps in the shed, laughing until your stomachs hurt.

You began to notice things you hadn’t before.

The way his hair fell into his eyes when he laughed. The way his voice deepened when he was tired. The way his hand lingered a little longer on yours, as if he couldn’t quite let go.

And sometimes, when he looked at you, the weight in his eyes wasn’t just sadness. It was something else something unspoken, something that made your heart stumble.

But neither of you said it. Not yet.

Your parents noticed your closeness, and they hated it.

They started separating you on purpose. Different chores, different schedules. They locked his door sometimes when guests came, pretending he didn’t exist. They scolded you when they caught you sneaking food into his room, warning that you’d “spoil him,” that you’d “ruin the discipline.”

You never stopped.

If he was hungry, you fed him. If he was lonely, you sat outside his locked door, whispering stories until you heard the faintest laugh on the other side. If he was hurt, you held him until he stopped shaking.

They could control everything else, but they couldn’t control you loving him.

The older you grew, the more you fought back.

“You treat him like he’s nothing!” you shouted once at dinner, slamming your fist on the table.

Your father’s jaw tightened. “He is nothing. He’s lucky to even have a roof over his head.”

“He’s more than you’ll ever see!” you fired back, voice cracking.

The silence after was heavy, suffocating.

Keonho left the room quietly, his steps soft, but you saw the way his hand clenched on the doorframe. You knew what it meant. Your words mattered. To him, they mattered more than anything.

Later that night, you slipped into his room. He was sitting on the bed, staring at his hands.

“You shouldn’t fight them for me,” he whispered.

“I’ll fight the whole world if I have to,” you said without hesitation.

His eyes finally met yours, and something burned there raw, desperate, almost unbearable.

“You don’t know what that means,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do.”

And maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. But what mattered was that you weren’t going to let him believe he was alone. Not then, not ever.

By sixteen, the house was a battlefield. lo

Your parents didn’t hide their contempt for him anymore. They ordered him out of family photos. They told him he’d never be “part of you.” They blamed him for things he hadn’t done, punishing him for accidents that weren’t his.

And still, you stood between him and the worst of it.

Every scar he carried, you kissed better with your hands. Every insult he endured, you countered with your loyalty. Every time he looked like he was breaking, you pulled him closer.

And he believed you. Because no matter how cruel the house became, you were the one thing they couldn’t take from him.

But the shadows of the basement lab still loomed.

Your father’s experiments were growing, the spiders restless in their cages, the notes filled with calculations.

But for now, you were both still here.

Two teenagers clinging to each other in a house that tried to tear you apart.

Two souls bound by the promise you’d made as children,

I don’t. I never will.

And in the quiet of your room, with his head resting against yours, you believed it more fiercely than ever.

He wasn’t nothing.

He wasn’t a mistake.

He wasn’t theirs.

He was Keonho.

The years didn’t soften the edges of your household. If anything, the older you and Keonho grew, the sharper everything became.

Your parents had stopped pretending he was simply a guest in your home. Now, he was a shadow, hidden behind locked doors when visitors came over, kept out of photographs, dismissed as though he was less than nothing.

And yet, in the private spaces between cruelty and silence, you and Keonho found your own world. A world where his laughter was real, where your arms were a safe place to land, where even the ugliest punishments couldn’t erase the truth that you carried him closer and closer with each year.

It often started the same way your father’s voice echoing through the house, sharp and scalding.

“Keonho! How many times have I told you—”

The slam of a book, a clatter of glass, your mother’s sigh.

You freezing in your room, knowing he’d done nothing worth the storm.

By the time you reached the hallway, Keonho would already be shrinking under their gaze, fists tight at his sides, head bowed in silent apology. You hated that posture. Hated how they’d trained him into it — the bow, the muttered “I’m sorry” that slipped out even when he wasn’t.

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” your mother hissed once, after he’d dropped a single plate during dinner. Her tone was venom, but her eyes softened when they cut to you, “Sweetheart, finish eating. You did wonderfully on your exam today.”

When they ordered him out of the dining room, told him to eat later if at all, you snapped. “He’s not a dog,” you had said, slamming your chopsticks down. “He eats with me.”

Your father’s glare burned through you, but you didn’t flinch. You followed Keonho to his room, carrying your own plate with stubborn fingers. He tried to refuse, shaking his head, muttering, “Don’t.. don’t do this.” But you sat cross-legged on the floor, patting the spot beside you until he caved.

And afterward, when the house was silent, you whispered, “I’ll always sit with you. Even if it’s the floor. Even if it’s the dark.”

His answering look a small, fragile smile tugging at the corner of his mouth felt like the brightest rebellion in the world.

The roof became your sanctuary.

You discovered it by accident, one night after another shouting match. Keonho had disappeared from his room, and panic gripped your chest until you spotted him outside, climbing the side of the old shed to reach the roof.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” you hissed once you scrambled up beside him, the shingles rough under your palms.

He shrugged, lying back against the cool surface, eyes tilted toward the night sky. “It’s quieter up here.”

From then on, the roof was yours.

Some nights you lay shoulder to shoulder, trading stories about the constellations even though neither of you knew their names. You made them up instead — a crooked cluster of stars became the broken glass dragon, a streak of light became a runaway kite.

Other nights, you simply lay there in silence, listening to his breathing steady as the weight of your presence anchored him.

“Do you think,” he asked once, his voice tentative, “that somewhere out there… people like me get treated better?”

You turned your head to face him, close enough to see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Not somewhere. Everywhere. You just ended up here.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but instead he nodded, turning back to the stars. And that night, when you slipped your hand into his under the blanket of the sky, he didn’t let go.

Your parents grew more creative in their punishments.

When he laughed too loudly at something you said, your father ordered him to scrub the floors until his hands bled raw. When he accidentally left a light on, your mother locked him outside for hours in the rain.

You found him shivering on the back steps that night, soaked to the bone, his teeth chattering. Rage boiled inside you. You dragged him inside, ignoring your mother’s warning glance, wrapping him in one of your blankets.

“You’ll get sick,” you muttered, rubbing his arms, trying to coax warmth back into him.

His voice cracked when he whispered, “Why do you care so much?”

“Because if I don’t, who will?”

He stared at you, eyes wide, and for a moment you thought he might break. Instead, he tucked his face against your shoulder, trembling. You held him until the shivers stilled.

Not every moment was sorrow. Some became memories you both clung to.

The night you smuggled a candle and whispered stories until he laughed so hard tears slipped down his cheeks.

The time you baked cookies in secret, burning half of them, and he insisted the charred ones were “better” just so you wouldn’t feel bad.

The summer evening you caught fireflies together in a jar, watching them flicker like tiny lanterns until your father’s shadow appeared in the doorway and you smashed the jar to set them free, both of you running breathless and laughing.

The afternoon you gave him your favourite book, scribbling in the margins, “So you never feel like you’re reading alone.”

Each memory carved itself into the foundation of something neither of you dared name, but both of you carried in your bones, a bond forged in defiance, in softness, in stolen joy.

You started to notice changes in your father’s lab. Strange equipment arriving in crates, glass tanks filled with insects, files stacked high on his desk. You’d sneak glances when he wasn’t looking, catching glimpses of diagrams spiders sketched with red ink circling certain glands, words like mutation and enhancement.

Sometimes you caught Keonho staring too, curiosity flickering in his gaze. But whenever your father noticed, the punishment was swift a snapped order, a hand yanking him back, a scolding about “knowing his place.”

It unsettled you, though you didn’t yet understand why.

One night, after a particularly brutal argument where your father struck him hard enough to split his lip, you found Keonho hiding in the attic. He sat against a stack of old boxes, knees drawn up, blood drying on his chin.

Without a word, you knelt beside him, dabbing his lip gently with a cloth.

“Does it hurt?” you whispered.

“Not as much as being here,” he muttered.

You froze, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. And then you did the only thing you could — cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“I’ll never leave you,” you said, fierce, unshakable. “No matter what they do, no matter how hard they try to keep us apart. You’re mine, Keonho. Always.”

Something broke in him then. His breath hitched, his eyes brimmed, and before you could stop him he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. The closeness was dizzying, his breath mingling with yours, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.

And under the flickering light of the attic bulb, you both knew, whatever your parents had tried to break, you had already mended together.

You never meant to hear it.

It was one of those nights when the house was mostly asleep, the kind where even the clock’s tick felt loud. You had gone down the hall to fetch a book for some excuse to stay up anything to stall sleep that felt too close to the thought of what your father had been muttering about in the basement all week. He was obsessed lately, more so than before. Crates had arrived at odd hours, and sometimes, over the scrape of metal and the click of his workbench, you heard words that made your skin go cold.

You were halfway down the stairs when voices drifted up from the lab, low and clipped like two surgeons discussing a case. Your feet stopped, stubborn as a held breath. You couldn’t not listen. It was only for a second, you told yourself — but seconds were plenty. You pressed yourself to the wall and let the darkness hold you.

“…clean job,” your father said, the voice you’d learned to read like a ledger. “No loose ends. The accident expedited everything. He’s the perfect candidate.”

A second voice, muffled but urgent: “Are you sure about the timing? If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t. You know how I control perception. He’ll be useful, and he’ll never suspect where the help came from.”

The world tilted. Accident. Perfect candidate. Help came from him. Your heart knocked so hard you thought your ribs would split.

You should have stormed down and dragged the truth into the open, thrown those words in your father’s face and watched him crack. You should have told Keonho everything and held him until his heartbeat calmed and his hands stopped trembling.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you listened until the footsteps faded and the basement door thudded closed. The sentence ran in your head like an ugly chorus. He was the perfect candidate. The accident was not an accident.

You sat numbly on the bottom step for a long time. Images flared in your mind — the little boy at your door, rain stuck in his hair like a permanent halo, the way your parents had praised you and punished him, the neatness with which your father had folded cruelty into supposed care. It made a kind of horrible sense now. The “rescue,” the adoption, the way your father had always looked at Keonho like a problem to solve.

You clenched your fists until your nails bit your palms. You had to know. Proof. Something you could show Keonho without telling him the whole awful truth. Maybe if you found proof, it would make what you had heard real enough to fight.

The decision made itself for you in the silence of the stairs. You would go to the lab. Tonight. Alone.

Except that when you opened your bedroom door, there he was in the doorway Keonho, bleary-eyed, hair a mess, rubbing sleep from his eyes as if he’d woken with the same starless worry lodged in his chest.

“What are you doing up?” you breathed, before you could shut your mouth.

He blinked, and the old, familiar softness crossed his face. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get some air.”

“Come with me.” You said.

He brightened in the barest way, because curiosity had always been his first true joy. You almost laughed a tour to him of the lab would be magic, jars and strange machines, the hush of secrets. He loved the hum of the lab, the way it smelled like ozone and cold coffee. It meant being near your father’s brilliant mind, close to the thing that fed his hunger for understanding.

You told him it was a tour. “You’ll like it,” you promised. “But you mustn’t touch anything. Promise?”

He nodded solemnly the way he used to when you were children, still delighting in rituals. “I promise.”

And with that, you both slipped out into the dark together.

The back door creaked lower than usual. The air in the yard was sharp and smelled of late summer dust. You kept your shoes soft against the steps and moved like someone trying to vanish. Keonho followed close enough that his sleeve brushed yours sometimes, that contact kept you steady.

The basement door was as it always was, locked, but your father had a habit of leaving the second latch unsecured when he was distracted. You were clumsy with nerves and fingers, but the latch gave, and the door eased open with a breathy groan. The lab’s light pooled like a low-secret ocean at the bottom of the stairs.

It was always overwhelming, glass and metal and the glow of monitors that painted the room in sickly blues and greens. Jars lined a shelf like trophies bugs, insects, some with their limbs folded as if sleeping. There were notebooks stacked like small monuments to obsession. The smell of formaldehyde and something else, thinner and metallic, hung in the air, making the back of your throat taste like pennies.

“Keep to the edges,” you whispered, immediately regretting sounding bossy. It came out sharp. He flinched but complied, skirting the room with big, fascinated eyes. “Do not touch anything.”

He hummed a small, distracted yes. You moved with purpose, scanning the desk, riffling through folders with hands that trembled. Your father’s handwriting filled the pages — meticulous notes, digital readouts scribbled in urgent pen strokes. At first you found only weather logs and supply orders. Then, under a stack of photographs, your breath snagged.

A file labelled in a hand you knew well: SUBJECT: K — CONFIDENTIAL.

Your fingers hovered. Proof. Your heart hit the ribs of your chest like a caged animal. You opened it with the careful reverence of someone handling a living thing and found pages that smelled of bleach and old paper, case notes, medical scans, a cursory timeline of an accident, a list of genes highlighted in red. There were diagrams of spiders vector diagrams, injection paths, notes on augmentation.

Your hands were cold. You read the small, perfect handwriting, the way your father rationalized cruelty into progress. “Accelerate integration,” one note said. “Behavioural conditioning recommended. Candidate is docile, ideal for implantation.”

You felt your world fold inward like a closing book. Keonho was paper-thin in your memory, a figure cut out and positioned in the center of a plan. Your vision tunnelled until everything was the file and the words perfect candidate, accident expedited.

You’d barely closed the folder when Keonho’s breath caught behind you.

“Look,” he whispered.

You turned, headlamp of panic flashing, to find him at the shelf of jars. He was like a moth to a flame, eyes fixed on a particular container that you hadn’t noticed before — a glass cylinder with a spider coiled inside, its carapace gleaming with an iridescent, almost unnatural shimmer. The creature’s legs moved with tiny, precise pulses, and the container had warning labels printed in blocky red that your father, perverse in his humour, had ignored.

“Don’t—” you started, too late.

He reached out anyway.

You hated the way you watched him open the jar. Your ribcage clenched and time slowed to the point where you could count the exact second his fingers brushed the glass rim, could see the minuscule crack a hairline fault you’d missed widen. The spider’s front legs touched the air, as if tasting the outside world for the first time.

“Keonho!” you lunged, too late, the sound a raw thing thrown from your throat.

There was a sting, sharp and bright, and he cried out like something inside him had broken. He jerked back, clutching his hand to his chest, eyes wide with a mixture of pain and confusion. A dark bead of blood welled where the spider had bitten, and it looked obscene and tiny and impossible to the panic building in your bones.

“How could you,” you hissed through gritted teeth as if scolding might reverse the damage. Your voice was brittle with anger and fear. “I told you not to touch— why would you— why would you even—”

He ignored you because he couldn’t. Sound was breaking through him like glass. He stumbled, palms pressed to his wound. His breath came in short, rough pants.

“It… it’s burning.”

Adrenaline sharp as acid took over. You grabbed his wrist to tug him to the sink, water sloshing icy over his palm, but his fingers spasmed and he hissed. The skin around the puncture flushed faster than it should, reddening and swelling like something alive under the surface.

“Stay still,” you said, though your voice shook. You searched for bandages with shaking hands, cursing at yourself for being slow, for being stupid enough to bring him here. You were a thousand different people at once — protective fury, a small, screaming child, a detective who had just found a blueprint for betrayal.

“I didn’t know,” you snapped, but it sounded thin and helpless. “You promised. You promised you wouldn’t touch anything.”

His jaw clenched, pain and shame warred on his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I just… I wanted to see. I thought—”

“Idiot,” you said, the word too sharp. It tore out of you like a blade. The instant it left your mouth you hated it, hated the cruelty of it, hated that the word existed between you and him. He recoiled as if struck, eyes stinging with surprise and hurt.

He didn’t cry. He trembled. Sweat beaded on his lip. The swelling around the bite grew, a slight black ring formed at the puncture point, something you recognized from old nature books but had never believed would ever belong to him.