>⩊<

The shrill sound of your alarm pulled you out of sleep far more violently than you would have liked.

With a groan, you rolled onto your back, one arm lazily searching for your phone somewhere among the tangled sheets. Your hair was a mess, strands sticking to your cheeks and forehead, and your eyes still carried the heaviness of sleep, puffy and reluctant to open completely.

Mornings had never been your thing.

You could survive on four hours of sleep if necessary, but waking up? That was an entirely different battle.

As usual, the first thing you did was reach for your phone, thumb moving almost instinctively to silence the alarm before it could ring a second time.

A notification banner sat just beneath it.

Martin Good morning. Bought coffee. Don't make me drink both.

You frowned slightly, still too sleepy to process anything beyond the fact that someone expected social interaction from you before nine in the morning. Then your eyes drifted toward the time displayed at the top of the screen. 8:12.

Odd.

You opened the conversation.

Not because you thought much of it.

Mostly because your brain needed a few extra minutes to catch up with reality.

Your thumb scrolled upward.

Yesterday.

A photo of an iced americano.

8:12

The day before.

A picture of a very judgmental-looking cat sitting outside a convenience store.

8:12

Three days ago.

"I found those peach gummies you like."

8:12

Four days ago.

"Did you survive your meeting?"

8:12

Five days ago.

"You said mornings suck, so here's a song recommendation to make them suck less."

8:12

You blinked. Then blinked again. Like maybe the numbers would rearrange themselves if you stared long enough, which, they didn’t. Because you weren’t still dreaming, you were pretty awake at this point. But it was stranger-ly something weird, because Martin had learned your routine. Not in a strange way. Just... Martin way.

The same way he had started carrying peach gummies in his coat pocket after you casually mentioned they reminded you of summers spent at your grandmother's house.

The same way he once texted you to bring an umbrella because you had complained exactly once about getting caught in the rain and spending the entire day feeling miserable.

He noticed things: tiny, insignificant things. Most of people would forget within minutes, and perhaps that was the problem.

Because after spending ten years being one fan among millions, being remembered by Martin Park felt infinitely more terrifying than being noticed by him.

You hated men. You really did.

But apparently, you hated men significantly less when they memorized your coffee order and texted you every morning at exactly 8:12.

The screen remained illuminated in your hands as you stared at his message for a few seconds longer, still cocooned beneath your blanket and not entirely convinced you had actually woken up. You scoffed softly to yourself before your thumbs finally moved across the keyboard.

You: You're twenty-seven years old. Drink both.

Three dots appeared almost immediately and you could almost picture him sitting somewhere with that annoyingly amused expression, thumb hovering over the screen while trying to come up with the most insufferable response possible.

Martin: I thought we established that you hated men.

You snorted.

You: I do. That's exactly why I don't care if one suffers.

His answer arrived before you even had time to lock your phone.

Martin: Wow. Ten years of supporting my career just for me to discover you're my biggest anti.

You smiled despite yourself, lowering the phone onto your lap for a moment.

A month ago, the idea of casually texting Martin Park from CORTIS while still wearing an oversized shirt and looking like a sleep paralysis demon would have sounded absurd. A month ago, you had nearly thrown yourself into traffic because he smirked at you. Now, somehow, you were arguing over coffee before brushing your teeth.

Life was strange. But hey, we ain’t complaining.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard again.

You: To be fair, I supported your career because seventeen-year-old Martin seemed sweet. Twenty-seven-year-old Martin discovered sarcasm and became unbearable.

You could practically hear him laughing. And why is that pissing you off as much as your stomach twisted?

Martin: Seventeen-year-old Martin was annoying too. You were simply blinded by admiration.

You: Excuse me??? I was blinded by your inability to shut up about music recommendations.

Martin: And yet here you are.

You: I can’t with you right now.

Martin: You keep saying that, like every single morning, but then you text me back at lunch.

You stared at the message for a second longer than necessary.

Because that was the thing about Martin.

Even through text, he somehow managed to sound like he was leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, smirking in that stupidly self-satisfied way that made you want to both laugh and commit minor crimes.

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you immediately.

Martin:. Also, hurry up. Your coffee is getting cold.

Your brows furrowed.

You: Wait. What do you mean my coffee?

Martin: You always complain when I buy myself coffee and don't bring one for you. So I bought your usual.

No, because there were several things wrong with that sentence.

First of all, since when had your coffee become your usual? Second, when exactly had he memorized it? Third—and perhaps most importantly—Where exactly was this coffee?

You sat up straighter, blanket pooling around your waist as your still half-asleep brain desperately tried to catch up.

You typed.

You: Martin. Where.

You frowned.

You: Martin.

Still nothing.

You: Martin Park if you don't answer me right now I swear—

Three sharp knocks echoed through your apartment.

You froze, because what the actually fuck? Then silence, but then another knock, you were seriously getting scared at this point.

“y/nie? are you there?” Martin was at the door, and your panic starts to spiral.

Because there was no way.

No way Martin Park had casually shown up at your apartment building at eight in the morning carrying coffee as if this was something people simply did. You slowly got out of bed, feet touching the cold floor, heart beginning to beat much faster than it had any right to. You padded toward the entrance, still wearing your oversized sleep shirt, hair resembling something between a bird's nest and an electrical accident.

With a deep breath, you unlocked the door.

And there he was.

Leaning slightly against the wall beside your apartment, two coffees balanced in one hand and a small paper bag dangling from the other.

He looked annoyingly put together.

Dark jeans. Simple hoodie. Hair only slightly messy, as if he'd made an effort not to look like he'd just rolled out of bed.

Meanwhile, you looked like sleep itself had physically attacked you.

Martin's eyes flickered over your appearance. Martin's smile widened ever so slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that familiar way that still managed to make your stomach do embarrassing things.

"Good morning sleepyhead."

"Martin."

"Yes?"

"It's eight in the morning."

"It is."

"You're at my door."

"I am."

"You bought me coffee."

"I did."

"You know where I live."

There was a pause.

Martin tilted his head slightly, looking genuinely confused by your accusation.

"You invited me over two weeks ago."

"...Right."

"And I helped you carry furniture."

"...Right."

"And you made me assemble a bookshelf."

You groaned immediately, dragging both hands over your face. "...Right."

The memory came rushing back far too vividly.

You had spent an entire afternoon complaining about moving into a new apartment, mentioning in passing that the bookshelf you'd ordered had arrived in approximately six hundred and forty-seven separate pieces.

Martin had shown up under the pretense of "just keeping you company."

Fifteen minutes later, he had been sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, instruction manual spread open between his knees, surrounded by wooden panels, screws and tiny Allen keys.

At some point, he had looked up from the disaster in front of him, eyebrows knitted together in concentration.

"Are you sure you bought a bookshelf?"

"Yes?"

"Because I think they accidentally sent you materials to build a small village.” You remembered laughing so hard you nearly dropped the takeaway you had ordered.

You also remembered him muttering under his breath every time he had to unscrew something because someone—you—had apparently attached an entire side panel upside down. And he was hot, unremarkably hot that made you really bothered.

He had complained the whole evening but he had never stopped assembling it, and by midnight, your bookshelf stood proudly against the wall.

Martin lifted one of the coffee cups a little higher, as if presenting evidence to support his argument. "You owe me coffee."

You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning against the doorframe and the view made Martin snorted softly. The sound was warm, sleepy around the edges, as though he hadn't been awake much longer than you had. You glanced down at the coffee in his hand, at the paper bag you suspected contained breakfast. At the way he had apparently memorized your routine enough to know you wouldn't leave your apartment before eight-thirty. At the fact that he remembered your order. At the bookshelf standing in your living room. At the version of yourself from ten years ago who would have combusted on the spot knowing this was her future. Then you sighed dramatically.

You reached forward, finally taking the cup from his hand.

"I don't hate you."

His grin widened immediately, like he just won the lottery, “Oh? Now that we established peace, can I come in?"

Your eyes gets smaller as you take a sip of the coffee he bought, caramel macchiato with some half and half, really sugary. "Why?"

"Because I bought breakfast too."

"And?” Chin up, almost trying to look up and down at him, even though his height make this... looks miserable.

"And because I spent four hours assembling that bookshelf, I would like to sit near my son."

"YOUR SON?” You almost choke on the drink.

"The bookshelf."

"You named my bookshelf?"

"I raised him."

"You screwed in six panels."

"I raised him."

Eventually, you stepped aside.

As soon as you see him smile you point a finger against his chest, "I simply decided I didn't want my neighbors seeing me bully a man holding breakfast."

Martin hummed as he stepped inside, toeing off his shoes near the entrance before making his way toward the kitchen as if he had lived there for years instead of only visiting a handful of times.

"My son is doing well," he observed.

You groaned. "I'm selling it."

His gasp makes you giggle, almost like a face that doesn’t need a voice.

Then he turned around and paused, because you had completely forgotten what you looked like; hair still messy, we established that, sleep shirt wrinkled beyond salvation, eyes swollen from sleep, face bare.

And for some reason, that made you more nervous than anything else.

"What?" you asked.

Martin tilted his head. "You know... you look cute."

He grinned.

You hated that grin, almost as much as you hated the warmth spreading across your cheeks, because you wanted to kiss it off his face so bad.

Then he walked closer.

Not enough to invade your space. Just enough for you to notice the faint scent of his shampoo. Just enough for your heart to betray you.

And then— He reached up.

Your entire body stiffened. Only for his fingers to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face. "So defensive," he murmured.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out, probably looked pathetic as hell.

Martin chuckled.

Then, before you could prepare yourself— He leaned down slightly and pressed a quick kiss against your temple. Gone almost as soon as it happened. You stared at him, a small gasp escaping your lips, followed by a scandalized little "Ya!" that lacked any real conviction. It was supposed to sound offended. It was supposed to establish boundaries, remind him that he couldn't simply walk into your apartment at eight in the morning, armed with coffee and breakfast, and decide to short-circuit your entire nervous system.

Unfortunately, Martin only grinned.

In fact, he seemed delighted by your reaction.

You watched his expression soften around the edges, amusement melting into something warmer, something almost unbearably fond. His shoulders shook slightly as he laughed under his breath, shaking his head as though he couldn't quite believe you still reacted like this after weeks of enduring his teasing.

"What?" you asked suspiciously, taking a cautious step backward.

"It means," he started, taking a step closer, "that you're cute."

You groaned immediately. You opened your mouth, ready to defend yourself, only for your words to disappear the moment his hands found your cheeks.

His palms rested against your face as though they belonged there, thumbs brushing lightly against skin that was undoubtedly growing warmer by the second. He tilted his head, studying your expression for a moment, eyes moving between your widened gaze and the pout that had unconsciously formed on your lips.

"There it is," he murmured. “You’re making that face, the one that makes me want to bite you."

You sputtered. "Excuse me?!"

Martin laughed, and before you could protest any further, he leaned in again: a kiss landed on your forehead, then one on your cheek, then the other, another near the corner of your eye. One on your nose. One dangerously close to your jaw. Each peck was quick, affectionate, almost absent-minded, as if he couldn't help himself. As if seeing you flustered and sleepy and standing there in an oversized shirt had awakened some deeply buried instinct inside him that simply screamed adorable.

"Martin!"

"Mhm."

"Stop!"

"No."

"People don't do this!"

"I do.” He chuckled against your skin, pulling back just enough to admire his handiwork.

Your cheeks were flushed and your hair was still an absolute mess, eyes had that glassy look they always got when your brain was trying desperately to reboot itself.

He smiled triumphantly. "You know," he said, finally letting go of your face, "you're surprisingly easy to bully."

"I've changed my mind," you announced.

His thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, "About what?"

"You're not suspiciously easy to like."

Martin raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Your mother used to say that you changed interests as often as seasons changed. And she wasn't wrong.

You loved intensely, wholeheartedly, and then moved on. It wasn't something you felt guilty about. It was simply how you grew up.

But K-pop had been different.

Maybe because it wasn't static. Groups debuted at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. They stumbled through interviews, celebrated birthdays, graduated from school, complained about exams, talked about curfews and strict parents.

And you were doing the exact same things.

You weren't watching characters trapped in stories that would never change. You were watching teenagers become adults and somehow, they watched you become one too.

Then there was the music.

There had always been music.

You had measured your life in songs: a playlist for middle school, another for rainy bus rides. One for sleepless nights. One for heartbreaks that felt world-ending at sixteen and embarrassingly small at twenty-two.

Music had a terrible habit of preserving versions of yourself you thought you'd outgrown, because losing yourself among shelves of albums had always felt safer than realizing how difficult growing up truly was.

You hated that.

Losing the ability to stay awake all night and still feel fresh the next morning. Waking up absurdly early for an exam only to spend the rest of the afternoon exhausted, needing to lie down for hours. Looking in the mirror and noticing features that hadn't been there before. Watching your friends slowly build careers, relationships and plans for the future while you still felt like a teenager pretending to understand what being an adult was supposed to mean.

Growing older felt strangely similar to grief. Not because you missed being younger, but because every year seemed to take something away from you while giving you responsibilities you never asked for.

You missed having enough free time to dedicate yourself entirely to something, to love it without worrying about deadlines, bills, job applications or whether your back would hurt from sitting in the same chair for too long.

And yet, despite everything, Martin remained.

Not in the obsessive way your friends used to joke about, nor in the way your mother expected another phase to eventually fade away. He simply stayed, tucked away somewhere between old playlists and archived photographs, becoming less of a celebrity and more of a timestamp.

At nineteen, he was the seventeen-year-old rookie whose livestreams accompanied your late-night study sessions. At twenty-two, he was the face that occasionally appeared on your timeline when you had forgotten CORTIS had a comeback scheduled. At twenty-five, he was the idol you absentmindedly defended whenever someone online claimed 5th-generation groups lacked personality. At twenty-seven, he was still there, smiling through a screen that separated millions of people from knowing him and yet somehow made him feel closer than half the people you had met in university.

You couldn't pinpoint the exact moment your crush disappeared. Maybe it never really did. Maybe it simply matured alongside you, changing shape as years passed. You no longer fantasized about meeting him backstage or being pulled onto stage during a concert. You didn't imagine yourself dating him, marrying him, or becoming part of his world.

You simply hoped he was happy.

That he slept enough despite his schedules.

That he still laughed as easily as he did at seventeen.

That fame hadn't stolen the parts of himself that had made a nineteen-year-old girl from the other side of the world feel a little less terrified of growing up.

And eventually, life happened.

You graduated. Found a job. Packed your belongings into suitcases that seemed far too small to contain ten years worth of memories. Then, almost without realizing it, you moved to Seoul—not because of K-pop, not because of CORTIS, and certainly not because of Martin.

You moved because you wanted to — also your job asked you to.

And if someone had told that nineteen-year-old girl that ten years later she would be twenty-nine, living in Seoul and standing in the middle of a crowded street, staring at Martin Park waiting for the traffic light to turn green, she probably would have laughed.

Or cried.

Maybe both.

The light had already turned red by the time you reached the crosswalk. People gathered around you, impatient to continue with their day. Someone adjusted their tie while checking the time on their phone. A woman dragged a child closer to her side before he could wander onto the road. A cyclist squeezed through the crowd with a muttered apology.

Seoul never really stopped moving.

Cars rushed past in streaks of silver and black. Conversations blended together into indistinct murmurs. Somewhere nearby, a delivery scooter sped by, leaving behind the smell of gasoline and summer heat.

And then your eyes landed on him.

At first, your brain refused to cooperate.

because, no.

It couldn't be.

Not because seeing celebrities in Seoul was impossible—people talked about spotting actors and idols all the time—but because your mind still insisted on associating Martin with stages, camera lenses and livestream thumbnails.

Not with waiting at a crosswalk on a random Tuesday afternoon.

Not with his hands tucked inside the pockets of a dark coat.

Not with earbuds hanging loosely around his neck.

Not with the slight slouch in his posture, as if ten years of rehearsals and schedules had finally settled into his shoulders.

Twenty-seven looked different on him.

Less boyish. Sharper.

The softness around his cheeks had disappeared years ago, replaced by features that had matured quietly while you were busy graduating, changing jobs and trying to convince yourself that adulthood eventually became easier.

But somehow, he still looked like Martin.

The seventeen-year-old boy who used to laugh at his own jokes during livestreams before the other members could even react. The teenager who once spent twenty minutes talking about a song recommendation because he loved music too much to keep his thoughts to himself. The boy who smiled too easily.

And apparently, age hadn't managed to take that away from him.

You noticed it when someone bumped into his shoulder while passing by.

He stepped aside immediately, bowing his head slightly in apology despite not being at fault, and offered a small smile that made something inside your chest ache in recognition. Because you knew that smile.

God.

You knew that smile.

You had watched it through grainy livestreams at nineteen. You had seen it while crying over university assignments at twenty-one. You had absentmindedly smiled back at your phone screen because of it at twenty-four.

And now it was there.

Existing under the same sky as you.

Close enough that, if the traffic light changed, you could reach out and touch his sleeve.

The thought alone made your stomach twist.

You wondered what your nineteen-year-old self would do. Probably cry, Probably call your best friend immediately. Probably ask for a picture. But at twenty-nine, all you could do was stand there and stare.

Because wanting Martin from behind a screen had always felt safe. There had been comfort in knowing that he belonged to a world that would never collide with yours. You could admire him and root for him, carry him with you through every version of yourself.

But this— this was dangerous.

Because he was no longer someone preserved inside old playlists and archived videos, he was a man standing twenty feet away and for the first time in ten years, you allowed yourself to wonder what it would feel like to be loved by someone like Martin Park.

Crazy, right?

You knew the version of himself he had chosen to share, but everything else remained a mystery and maybe that was why your stomach twisted at the mere thought of approaching him.

You had never wanted to be one of those fans.

The kind who forgot that idols were people before they were performers. The kind who convinced themselves they deserved access to parts of someone they had never been invited into.

Even standing too close to him felt wrong.

Like stepping over an invisible line you had spent ten years carefully respecting.

Still... You couldn't deny that you had wondered.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a way that involved marriage, children or ridiculous fantasies about being the exception among millions of fans. What kind of person was Martin Park when cameras weren't rolling?

Did he still talk endlessly about songs he liked?

Did he get embarrassed after saying something awkward?

Was he the type to text first?

Did he prefer quiet cafés over crowded restaurants?

Did he have a small circle of friends he trusted with everything?

Would he complain about work over drinks?

Would he laugh with his entire body the same way he did at seventeen?

Sometimes, usually late at night when nostalgia hit harder than it should have, you found yourself thinking something almost embarrassing: in another life, maybe you could have known him.

Maybe not as lovers. Maybe not even as close friends. But acquaintances. People who happened to attend the same university. Coworkers grabbing coffee during lunch breaks. Neighbors exchanging awkward smiles in an elevator. Friends of friends meeting at birthday parties. People who knew each other's favorite songs. People who sent memes at two in the morning. People who simply existed in the same orbit. And wasn't that absurd?

A beeping sound echoed through the intersection. The pedestrian light had turned green. And suddenly, Seoul remembered it had places to be.

Shocking, right?

People surged forward around you, brushing against your shoulders as they crossed. Someone's shopping bag hit your arm. A man muttered an apology after stepping on your shoe. Another person bumped into your back hard enough to make you stumble half a step forward.

You barely noticed.

Because Martin was moving.

Of course he was.

He wasn't standing there waiting for fate to happen.

He wasn't pausing his life because a woman he had never met happened to recognize him after ten years.

He was simply going home. Or meeting friends. Or stopping by a convenience store to buy dinner. Maybe he had rehearsal tomorrow morning. Maybe he was heading back to his apartment after spending the afternoon in a café. Maybe he was texting one of the members, asking if they wanted takeout.

You didn't know.

And strangely enough, you liked that.

You liked not knowing.

You liked that Martin Park still belonged to himself.

Still had pieces of his life that weren't dissected online or shared through fancalls and behind-the-scenes videos.

But God, watching him walk toward your side of the street felt unfair.

He wasn't even walking toward you, of course not.

You just happened to be standing in the direction his evening was taking him, and yet, every step made your stomach twist tighter.

And despite everything you had told yourself over the years—that celebrities were strangers, that admiration wasn't love, that growing up meant learning to let people remain fantasies— you yearned. Just a little. A tiny bit.

You had spent ten years wondering what kind of man Martin Park was.

And apparently, the answer was devastatingly normal.

He crossed streets. Like a normal man. He wore coats. Again, normal.

He listened to music through wired earphones like some sort of endangered species. Which was the only un-normal thing because, who does that anymore?

And he smelled nice.

Which was deeply unfortunate.

Because you had dedicated a significant portion of your twenties to claiming men were terrible.

Not evil, just... annoying, inconsiderate, emotionally constipated. Capable of turning a perfectly good conversation into a competition, which reminded you at your relatives that during every single Christmas Day it was a competition of who’s having the worst time in their life. Annoying, that’s the word you like.

You had sworn off dating apps after twenty-six. You rolled your eyes whenever your coworkers talked about their boyfriends. You frequently informed your friends that if another man called himself an "alpha male," you would commit a felony.

And yet, here you were, heart racing because an attractive man was walking in your general direction.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

The worst part?

He wasn't even doing anything, he wasn't smiling at you. Not even looking at you. He wasn't flirting. He was literally just existing.

But Martin— looked like someone who held doors open without thinking, like someone who remembered people's coffee orders, like someone who apologized to furniture after bumping into it. And unfortunately, that was exactly your type.

You hated that. You hated men. But perhaps more importantly— You hated that Martin Park seemed suspiciously easy to like.

You were so busy internally berating yourself for finding a man attractive simply because he seemed capable of basic human decency that you didn't notice your employee badge slipping out of your bag. You only realized something was missing when you heard footsteps stop behind you.

"Excuse me?” The voice was deeper than you remembered. Or maybe you had simply spent ten years hearing it through phone speakers and concert recordings.

You turned around and there he was, much, much closer.

Close enough that you could distinguish the tiny mole near his jawline that makeup artists used to cover during promotions. Close enough that you noticed faint dark circles under his eyes, remnants of schedules that apparently hadn't gotten any kinder with age.

In his hand was your badge.

He held it out politely, offering a small smile.

"I think this is yours."

Apparently, the only thing you were capable of producing was: "Oh."

Brilliant.

A decade of preparation.

Reduced to a single vowel.

You took the badge from his hand a little too quickly, almost bowing out of instinct, "Thank you."

"No problem."

And that should have been it, that should have been the end of the interaction, just a polite exchange. A really funny story to tell your friends, where you came out as silly as you are usually, maybe even delusional for thinking more but that’s a story for another day. Proof that Martin Park was, in fact, exactly as considerate as he appeared to be.

Instead, your mouth betrayed you, because you love to make a monkey of yourself.

"You still smile the same way."

Silence. Immediate, horrifying silence. Your eyes widened. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

And suddenly you wanted to throw yourself into oncoming traffic. You definitely should.

"Oh my God," you muttered, covering your face for half a second. "I'm sorry. That sounded incredibly weird."

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

It wasn't the polite chuckle people offered out of obligation, nor the practiced laugh you had heard during interviews and variety shows. It was softer, quieter, accompanied by the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes that had somehow survived an entire decade of cameras, schedules and public appearances.

"It's okay," he said, a smile still lingering on his lips. "I've definitely heard weirder things."

"Oh, I doubt it."

"No?"

"No," you deadpanned, finally lowering your hand from your face. "I've just spent ten years proving to myself that I can be a perfectly functional adult woman and apparently all it takes is one interaction with an attractive man to ruin that."

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You stared at him and he stared right back at you. "Forget I said attractive," you added immediately. "Actually, forget I said any of this. I think I need to go home and reconsider every life choice I've ever made."

To your surprise, his smile widened.

"You know," he said, shifting his weight slightly, "most people ask for a picture."

You huffed out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, well... I don't think I could survive having photographic evidence of this encounter."

For a few seconds, Martin simply looked at you. Not in an uncomfortable way, nor with the detached politeness celebrities often adopted when interacting with strangers. There was genuine amusement there, lingering in his expression as though he was trying to piece together what kind of person stood in front of him.

You, meanwhile, wished the pavement beneath your feet would split open.

The employee badge rested securely in your hand now, fingers wrapped around the plastic so tightly that the edges dug into your skin hurting you. Around you, people continued their evenings as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Couples walked past carrying shopping bags, office workers loosened their ties while scrolling through their phones, and somewhere nearby someone laughed loudly enough to momentarily pull you back to reality.

Reality, unfortunately, involved Martin Park standing less than a meter away from you. Then you noticed it; the subtle lift at the corner of his mouth, a smile threatening to become something else.

You had seen that expression before. Usually directed at his members during variety content, moments before he said something that would make everyone collectively groan.

Apparently, you were today's victim.

Martin shifted his stance slightly, one shoulder dropping as he relaxed. He crossed his arms over his chest almost absentmindedly, tilting his head just enough for a few strands of hair to fall closer to his eyes. "So..." he began, dragging out the word while studying your face, dragging out the word just enough to make your stomach sink.

"You think I'm attractive?"

Your brain stopped functioning, not metaphorically, literally. You blinked at him. Then blinked again.

And all you could think about was how quickly a person could throw themselves into oncoming traffic.

"Uh?” — "'Uh?'"

"Yeah, uh."

He raised an eyebrow, "'Uh' isn't really an answer."

"It absolutely is,” you bark back.

Martin laughed again.

"You know, ten years in this industry and I don't think anyone has ever reacted quite like this."

You huff out a laugh, your cheeks turning pink because as much as you don’t want to he’s bothering you — heavily. "Oh, I am so sorry my existential crisis isn't flattering enough for you."

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

Martin tilt his chin out lightly, almost pointing down at you because of the height difference, "I asked a question."

"You weaponized a compliment!"

"I acknowledged a compliment."

"Oh my God.” You looked up at the sky as if searching for divine intervention.

Of course he was feeling himself right now. Why wouldn't he?

He had spent ten years being told he was handsome by millions of people, the difference was that millions of people usually said it with confidence. Not while looking one sentence away from filing a restraining order against themselves.

Martin's smile softened a little, a mutter coming down from your throat, “Martin!"

"You've been calling me Martin in your head for ten years."

You physically recoiled, because you don’t recall telling him that, "How do you know it's been ten years?"

Martin tilted his head again, a soft chuckle that makes your stomach tingles, "You literally said you've spent ten years trying to become a functional adult woman."

"...Right."

"And unless you've been attending university since you were nine, I assumed there was a timeline involved."

"Oh."

A pause. "I still think you weaponized my compliment."

"I still think you called me attractive."

A groan filled the air between you two, "I hate men."

Martin laughed so hard he actually had to look away for a second.

"Noted."

"I mean it."

"And yet here we are."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Unfortunately?"

You sighed dramatically.

"Unfortunately, you seem suspiciously easy to like."

For the first time since approaching you, Martin didn't have a teasing answer ready.

He simply looked at you.

And somehow—