pairing: teenage dirtbag martin edwards x nerd reader
warnings: college au, banter, second chance, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, miscommunication, arguments, fluff, kiss, multiple mentions of Lngshot members ( i don’t view the members like this in real life, it’s jus for the the story), a lot of swearing.
note: chat this might be my best fic yet ngl, but i love a good miscommunication trope 😛, the amount of times i wrote the word ‘martin’ drove me crazy icl 💔
Synopsis: Years of drift had turned you and Martin into strangers. Now being in college, he was the dirtbag guitarist in a rising band, and you were the quiet girl buried in her books. You figured your friendship was over—until he discovered you were the secret pen behind his rival band's greatest hits. Suddenly, Martin is miraculously crawling back?
You remember it as clear as day.
Martin’s voice, which was much higher than yours back then, squealing excitedly about how he was going to become the lead guitarist in the biggest rock band to ever exist. After school, he’d always invite you over to play Guitar Hero with him and his other best friend, Juhoon.
“This game blows,” little Juhoon would spit, sliding the guitar strap off and setting the toy down impatiently. “I’m not even having fun.”
“Don’t be like that in front of Y/N, Juhoon!” Martin would stammer, embarrassed by how his friend was overreacting in front of you.
It was always cute how easy it was for him to get flustered whenever you were near.
“Just… just let her play the guitar, then.”
Juhoon would roll his eyes, annoyed by how easily smitten Martin was, and handed you the plastic neck. “Fine. When your mom buys the drum kit, that’s when I’ll play.”
And the minute his mum bought the drums, and the microphone next, it was over for the three of you. You and Juhoon were at Martin’s house every day, practically joined at the hip. You would take the mic, Martin would take the guitar, and Juhoon would go crazy on the drums.
Their passion for music was exhilarating, and it naturally rubbed off on you. Although your younger self didn’t understand the significance of music at the time, all you knew was that it felt and sounded good.
It was loud, jumpy, and extremely fucking catchy.
It was ultimately you, Martin and Juhoon.
One day in high school, Martin was sitting at the edge of your bed again, idly picking out the chords of a secondhand Strat to a random tune of a song he likes. You were at your desk, writing in your notebook and humming quietly to yourself.
“You know,” Martin had spoken up suddenly, “you’ve got a pretty voice.”
You smiled, your eyes never leaving the page. “I know. You tell me this every time.”
“Oh?” Martin hummed, stopping his picking and setting the guitar down. “Arrogant much?”
You only chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, when you remind me every single day, I start to believe it.”
Martin shifted on the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He watched the smooth movement of your pen and the way you’d chew on your lip every time you wrote an interesting line, one you would never share with the class.
“You’re always filling those pages,” he pointed out, nodding toward the notebook. “Is it more of your poetry? Or just… thoughts?”
You shrugged, a bit shy about it. “A bit of both, I guess. Just whatever’s in my head.”
Martin let out a low hum. You expected him to pick his Stratocaster back up and start strumming again, but he didn’t. His brown eyes brightened with an idea as he scooted closer.
“You’ve got the voice, and you’ve clearly got the rhymes. Why don’t you try writing some songs?”
You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. Martin was always quick with a compliment, but he had never suggested something like this before.
“What?” he frowned slightly, though his eyes were still bright. “I’m being serious. You could totally pump out some great songs.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one writing the greatest hits for my band.”
“Your upcoming band?” you finally swiveled in your chair to look at him, a brow arched in amusement. “You mean the one that’s currently just you and Juhoon?”
“Hey! The right guitarist and bassist will come to us soon enough,” he countered. “Just you watch.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, turning back to your desk to hide the heat in your cheeks. “No, Martin. I don’t have the talent for that. I’m not exactly musically inclined like you and Juhoon.”
Martin shrugged casually, pressing on. “You never know if you don’t try.”
You knew exactly where this was going.
After years of friendship, you knew Martin was obsessed with people reaching their ‘full potential.’ He was a person who craved creativity and expression; you were someone who craved comfort and familiarity.
As much as you loved to read and write and sing, you knew you’d never find a stable career on talent alone.
“I’m fine right here,” you muttered, picking up your pen and trying to find your place in your notebook. “Writing poems is one thing. Putting them to music and letting people hear them is a different thing entirely.”
You hoped he’d sense your discomfort and drop it, but he didn’t.
“That’s the problem,” Martin said, dropping his playful tone with a sigh. “You always choose to be comfortable. You’re always hiding behind these books… or burying yourself in homework. You need to actually put yourself out there for once.”
You felt a prickle of annoyance under your skin. Rather than sounding like a best friend, he started sounding like a father. You laughed awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension building up inside you.
“Okay, okay, I get it. Professor Edwards has spoken. Can we stop now?”
“Come on, listen to me for once,” Martin pressured, his persistence only fueling your irritation. “You’re going to spend your whole life studying things other people did instead of doing something for yourself. Don’t you want more than just…” he gestured to the stacks of books and papers cluttering your room, “…this?”
You always knew Martin meant well, but you hated how easily he could make your world feel small.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Martin.”
“You’re incredibly talented!” Martin let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just looking out for you, Y/N. I hate to see all that talent wasted on something meaningless-”
“Meaningless?” you scoffed, finally spinning your chair around and standing up to face him. “Are you kidding? I work hard to secure my future! I do it because I want to. You don’t ever hear me talking about how… about how…”
You paused, clenching your fists at your sides before you said something you’d regret. But Martin kept biting. He stood up, and with the massive growthspurt he had in high school, it was his turn to look down at you.
Making you feel small yet again.
“About what?” he challenged.
You clenched your jaw, thinking you’d get away without screwing it all up, but as you lifted your eyes to meet his—condescending and belitting—the words slipped out anyway.
“About how you’re chasing an unrealistic fantasy!” you snapped cruelly. “I’m working for a future, Martin. A real one. While you and Juhoon are just… playing around in a garage, making noise and calling it a career!”
The eyes that had been narrowing down at you widened in shock, and his shoulders dropped the minute your words began to echo back in the room. In all your years of knowing him, you had never seen him look like that, and the realization that you were the cause made you desperate to turn back time, but it was all too late.
“This is what you’ve thought?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “All this time… while you were over at my place, or me sitting here on your bed, listening to me play… you thought it was just noise?”
You had attacked the one thing he loved most.
What kind of friend were you?
“Martin…” your voice cracked. You reached out, your fingers hovering near his sleeve, but he took a sudden step back. “I — I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just kept pushing me… and I-”
“No,” Martin scoffed, stepping completely out of your reach. He picked up his Stratocaster, leaving nothing but a dent on your bedsheets where the guitar had rested. “I think you meant exactly what you said.”
He didn’t look at you again as he headed for the door.
Then the door shut coldly.
Years had passed, and that was the last time you had ever truly spoken to Martin.
You had tried reaching out through texts and emails, you would even shown up at his house and waited outside his classrooms, but he never extended a hand back. He would give you a quick, dismissive side glance before walking the other way. You even tried talking to Juhoon, but he would only scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and make some excuse for him.
It wasn’t entirely your fault, anyway. Right?
Martin had pushed you, and you had finally stood up for yourself. He owed you an apology just as much as you owed him one. But after all those failed attempts to resolve things, you decided to leave the ball in his court.
Now that you’re in college, the ball is still in his court.
You missed Martin dearly.
He was your only true friend growing up, and now that you’d fallen apart, there was an empty space in your heart reserved just for him.
You thought by now you’d finally gotten over the broken friendship, but how could you? You both went to the same college, and his band’s gig posters were plastered on every wall on campus.
“CORTIS” was splayed across the top in a spray painted design. Underneath was a grainy photo of the band; even through the blurry print, you could pick out Martin right in the center, screaming into the microphone. His hair was blond and spiky at the top, and to top it all of the line of his chiseled jaw.
He looked incredible, and it only made your heart ache for him more.
Below the photo, a message was scrawled in a bold font that was clearly written by Keonho.
Leave your heart at the door and come rock with us at Hybe Dive this Friday. Doors open at 9, good fucking music at 10.
“You going?” a familiar voice asked from your left.
You lifted your head, clutching your book to your chest at the sight of him. Juhoon stood there with a stack of papers in his hands—more posters for the band, you assumed.
“Oh,” you breathed, forcing the kind of polite smile you’d give any other stranger. Because that’s what Juhoon was to you now. A total stranger.
“No. It’s… uh, it’s not my place,” you said lightly, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “I’m sure you guys will sound great. You always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
You ducked your head, ready to end the awkward encounter, but Juhoon spoke up before you could walk away completely.
“He would want you there, you know.”
You froze, but you didn’t turn around completely. You knew exactly who he was referring to, but you couldn’t let yourself believe it. If Martin really wanted you at his shows, why hadn’t he ever reached back out?
You could only look over your shoulder and give Juhoon a sad, tight smile—a silent thank you for the pitiful attempt at making you feel better, though it only made you feel worse.
It was an hour before their set at Hybe Dive, and the bar was already packed—more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The small band originally scheduled to open had canceled at the last minute, and a new group had stepped in to take their place.
“Christ,” James muttered, peeking past the curtains with his bass strapped to her side. “It’s a full house.” He turned to Martin with a grin. “Bet you didn’t expect that tonight, Edwards.”
Martin crossed his arms, his jaw tensing as he held back a snarky reply. He certainly hadn’t expected their rivals, LNGSHOT, to be the ones opening for them. His pride was too strong to admit his confusion; why was a band with more hits than CORTIS performing as an opener?
He was starting to think Kwon Ohyul—the lead singer and guitarist—was doing it just to mess with them.
Seonghyeon , sensing Martin’s irritation, clapped a comforting hand on Martin's shoulder. “You good, man?”
Juhoon was watching silently. He knew his best friend well enough not to even ask.
Whatever Martin was feeling, Juhoon was likely feeling it, too. But Martin was the bandleader—the last thing he needed to do was lose his cool in front of the others.
“Just fine,” Martin finally replied.
He uncrossed his arms and pried his eyes away from the curtain, where Ohyul and his crew were setting up on the stage that was supposed to be theirs.
“We’re just going to have to play better than they do,” Martin told the group. “If half these people came for LNGSHOT, then we’re going to be the reason they stay.”
“I know all of you guys are stoked to hear CORTIS,” Ohyul’s voice rang through the microphone, pulling Martin’s attention back to the gap in the curtain where keonho and james stood.
“But my gang and I have a couple of songs we want to run through for you first—” before Ohyul could even finish the sentence, the crowd erupted into a roar that did nothing to soothe the irritation building in the pit of Martin’s stomach.
Ohyul grinned smugly, his designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh stage lights. Martin scoffed under his breath. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors?
“Covers for now. We want to keep it simple for you guys before the real show starts,” Ohyul said, putting a condescending emphasis on the word real. “moonwalking, saucing—” The crowd cheered. “Facetime, Moya —” Groups of girls screamed Woojin’s name at the top of their lungs. “And of course, Never let go—”
The entire dive bar started to shake from the volume of people cheering and stomping their feet.
The opening chords of Moonwalking began to rip through Hybe Dive, and the crowd went feral immediately. It was loud and as much as Martin hated to admit it, they sounded incredible. Louis moved with an experienced precision that didn’t seem possible for someone who looked like he belonged at a high school prom and nowhere near a dive bar.
“I don’t get it,” Martin mumbled grumpily, his arms locked tight over his chest. “How does a kid like Louis end up with that crowd? He’s a prodigy. Why is he hanging out with losers like Ryul and Woojin?”
The audience was eating it up.
Every single person in the shitty dive bar was tucked firmly under Ohyul’s thumb. It wasn’t just that they sounded great, it was the principle of it. Why was someone like Kwon Ohyul—who had enough of his mommy and daddy’s money to buy the venue—playing an opening set of covers right before theirs?
Juhoon stood just behind Martin, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of his best friend. As he watched Louis, he chewed on his gum, his jaw clenching as he listened to every hit of the snare.
“He’s alright,” Juhoon mumbled. “Still not as good as me, though.”
The rest of the setlist finally was nearing its end, and as they finished Never let go, the crowd kept roaring for more. Martin clicked his tongue and turned back to the rest of the group, grabbing the neck of his guitar.
“They’re wrapping up,” he said. “Come on. We’re up next-”
“But before we let you go—we’ve got one more!”
Martin snapped his head back toward the stage. Ohyul was still standing dead center, the feedback from the speakers catching his loud, snarky voice and throwing it across the room.
Martin’s hand tightened on the neck of his guitar. Are you fucking kidding me?
They were already over their time.
“We’ve got a song for you guys—a special one! Because it hasn’t even been released yet,” Ohyul smiled, peering cockishly through his sunglasses as the crowd began to cheer again. “And we’re going to be performing it for the very first time here tonight—with you guys!”
The dive bar went ballistic. Martin was already losing his cool after finding out LNGSHOT was performing, and now with Ohyul and his goons going way past their scheduled showtime to debut a brand new song—Martin felt like his head was going to explode.
“A new song?” Seonghyeon ’s brows furrowed, giving Martin a look.
Ryul started with the rapid fire snare snapping, building up to a crescendo that was incredible to hear, which only built the hype of the crowd even more.
Woojin’s melody guitar was haunting, and the moment Ohyul stepped up to the microphone and sang the opening verse to the crowd, Martin knew he was screwed.
The beginning verse, the chorus—it was all incredible. If it wasn’t Louis’s drumming or Ohyul’s voice that sold the song, then it was Woojin’s bass solo that would sell them out. It’s rare for a song to be a hit based on a bassline, but when you have a catchy tune like that, you’re going to get pretty fucking far.
It was, without a question, the best song Martin had ever heard.
It was the kind of song that changed a band’s career overnight—the kind of song he’d been trying to write his entire life.
Everyone under the roof knew it. Hell, even his own band behind him knew they couldn’t compete with that. The only way someone could successfully follow an opening like this was if they were Bowie performing right after Queen at Live Aid in '85.
“Fucking hell,” James breathed next to him, watching them with a frustrated frown. “They’re good.”
By the time the song ended, Martin was already feeling deeply discouraged. The crowd was loud, Martin couldn’t even hear his own thoughts cursing Ohyul out.
Ohyul caught his breath, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face as he smiled into the mic. He waited for the cheering to die down just enough to be heard, that smug, infuriating grin plastered on his chin.
“Wow,” he drawed. “Didn’t expect you guys to enjoy it that much—but who the hell am I kidding? Who wouldn’t like that song?”
Martin gritted his teeth. That smug asshole.
“But we can’t take all the credit for that masterpiece. We had a little help from a brilliant new talent—a dear friend of mine who’s going to be running this town before long.”
Ohyul pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the edge of the stage.
“She couldn’t be here tonight, but I still want to shout her out with the credit she deserves. Let’s hear it for the writer behind the music!”
And the moment Ohyul said your name, the world and all its sounds came to a sudden halt.
Martin no longer heard the screaming of the crowd or Ohyul’s aggravating voice.
All he could hear was the echo of that name.
You had started writing songs? Since when?
And out of all the artists you could’ve written for, you’d been writing for his biggest rivals?
“Martin!” Keonho’s voice cut sharply against Martin’s thoughts. “Come on. Get your head in the game, man. We’re live in-”
“Juhoon,” Steve turned to his friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you not hear what Ohyul just said? He said her name-”
“I know,” Juhoon interrupted, his face tense as he frowned. “I heard him, which fucking blows, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now.” He motioned past the curtains to where LNGSHOT was clearing their gear. “Right now, we have a show to perform. And we need our leader up stage and center with a clear head.”
Martin clenched his jaw. He had everything but a clear head. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—likely the exact same things Juhoon was already thinking.
But his best friend was right. They had a show to put on.
“You’re right,” Martin finally sighed, nodding to himself to try and amp his energy up. “Let’s go.”
It was the start of a new week, and since this morning, you’ve had an uneasy feeling in your gut.
Maybe it was the stress of all the upcoming assignments and exams that were lined up for you, but those usual anxieties have always felt familiar. This feeling was different.
You were alone in the quiet library, keeping your head down as you buried yourself in a stack of textbooks. Occasionally, you’d lift your gaze to check the clock hanging in the center of the room—but what you didn’t expect to find waiting for you was a pair of familiar brown eyes.
Catching his eyes across campus wasn’t unusual, yet it always made your heart skip a beat—as if it were trying to reach out to him. You looked away, as you always did, and by now he’d usually look away too or already be gone, off doing his own thing. That was the end of it.
But as you glanced up again, expecting to see the empty space where he had just been standing, your heart let out another slow and painful thump.
Martin wasn’t gone. And he wasn’t looking away.
You looked away again, waited a good five seconds this time, then dared to look back up.
He was walking straight for your table, his stride purposeful with his worn messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. You felt your breath hitch as your heart began thumping nervously.
Maybe he’s just looking for a book, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe there’s a textbook he needs for a lecture right behind me.
Your grip on your pencil tightened, and you scribbled something at the edge of the paper to make yourself look productive, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to pass. Instead, the shadow of his frame eclipsed the light hanging over your table.
Martin stopped directly in front of you, his presence taking over your every sense.
“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, not even bothering to use an inside voice for the library.
It was the first time he had spoken to you directly in years, and this was the first thing he had to say? Not a simple “hello,” or “it’s been a while,” or even a “how are you?”
With his not-so-quiet voice filling the silence of the library, students who were already mildly agitated by his sudden eruption began snapping their heads toward him.
You shifted awkwardly in your seat, still avoiding eye contact. You could feel the heat of the embarrassment crawling up your neck from the collective stares of the students—and from him.
“Not now, Martin,” you whispered.
Martin didn’t move a muscle. If anything, he seemed to plant his feet firmer against the carpet.
“No,” he said, his voice still loud enough to grate on the nerves of the surrounding students. “I think we should really talk.”
You couldn’t risk seeing whatever expression was on his face—whether it was guilt, pity, or that stubborn righteousness he always carried. You just flipped a page of your notes, the paper crinkling loudly.
“I’m busy studying, Martin,” you muttered dismissively. “Some other time.”
The wooden chair in front of you was pulled back suddenly, scraping against the carpet, and the empty space was abruptly filled by Martin’s tall presence. He sat down across from you, dropping his messenger bag onto the desk with a heavy thud to catch your attention. He didn’t pull out a single book or a laptop. He just sat there, looking like a no-good dirtbag completely out of place in a library filled with students actually trying to get work done.
“Okay. Fine.” He rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in one hand. “I’ll wait, then.”
The sheer audacity of Martin Edwards made your skin prickle.
You tried to be the bigger person by ignoring him entirely, focusing on the work in front of you—but how could you when you could feel his gaze piercing through you the entire time?
Curious, you lifted your head to give him a wary glance, and he caught it immediately, flashing a smile.
That ‘all-good,’ charming stupid smile of his.
With an exhausted sigh, you quickly shoved your chair back to get up and make yourself busy. Martin’s eyes followed you, one brow raised curiously.
“Need to find a reference book,” you mumbled, walking off toward the tower of bookshelves before giving him a chance to respond.
You heard the groan of Martin’s chair as he pushed himself up to chase after you. You turned a corner, then another, putting rows of dusty encyclopedias between you. All you needed was a second to breathe—a second to stop your hands from shaking. Finding yourself in an empty aisle, you thought you had finally lost him. With a relieved sigh, you began browsing the shelves for a book you actually needed for an assignment.
You reached for a thick, leather-bound volume on the top shelf, straining on your tippy toes until your calves ached. Just as your fingertips brushed the spine, a large hand reached over your shoulder, hooking the book and pulling it down to help you.
You let out a relieved sigh, dropping back onto your heels. “Thanks-”
But when you turned to take it, Martin was standing right in front of you, holding the book high above his head and well out of your reach.
“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, having the decency to be at least a little bit quieter this time.
“Martin,” you sighed, reaching up for the book. “I’m really not looking forward to talking right now-”
“I don’t care,” he cut in with that look he always got when he was being stubborn.
He leaned over you, pinning you against the shelf as the book dangled in his hand. The height difference only reminded you of the night he’d looked down at you in your own bedroom—making you feel small all over again.
“I’m not giving you this book back until you talk to me.”
You scoffed in disbelief, a bitter smile straining at his audacity. “Are you being serious right now?”
When you realized he was, you shook your head and tried to push past him. “Fine. Keep it, then-”
Martin stepped to the side, blocking your exit. He pinned one arm to the shelf, his forearm cutting off your path and blocking your view.
“I heard the set that LNGSHOT played at Hybe Dive,” he said, his voice dropping. “I heard the song. Your song.”
You felt your heart drop.
In all the times Martin had performed, it had never once occurred to you that his band would cross paths with LNGSHOT And what did he mean, playing at Hybe Dive? You’d secretly supported CORTIS from the sidelines—a bittersweet loyalty to Martin and Juhoon—but even you knew that Ohyul’s band wouldn't usually bother with a shitty dive bar.
You tried to keep your face blank, but your shaky voice betrayed you.
“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered.
Martin didn’t buy it for a second. It had been years since he’d spoken to you, sure, but he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were lying.
He stepped closer, the tips of his shoes nearly touching your shoes. He was so close now that you were certain if he stood still long enough, he’d be able to hear your heart beat.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“Get out of my way, Martin,” you tried to move past him once more, your voice tight. “I need to study.”
But Martin stepped in front of you again, closing you in. He let out a deep exhale, as if he were carefully pondering every word, terrified of screwing this up even more than he already had.
“Look, I know you and I got off on the wrong foot years ago,” he said gently, his gaze softening as he caught your eye. “And I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I just...” He paused, looking hesitant, before forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “But you’re making music now? That’s… that’s incredible.”
You bit your lip, feeling nervous.
“I’m really happy for you,” he said softly—so soft it sounded solemn. “I always knew you had a secret talent for that sort of thing—that song they played sounded amazing. The fact that you’re actually pursuing it… that’s really special.”
He took another shaky breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.
You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. You had spent all this time bracing yourself for the “I told you so,” or the condescending “Why didn’t you listen to me?” that you were sure he’d eventually throw in your face.
The strain in Martin’s voice gave you a glimpse into what he was truly feeling—and it resonated so sharply with your own heart, it hurt. It was a mirror of your own grief for the friendship, along with a hollow longing for each other’s presence again.
The vulnerability in his eyes made your shoulders ease just slightly, your tone softening.
“Thank you,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was something I’d actually get into, but…”
Under Martin’s gaze, it was easy to trail off and feel sheepish. You wanted to open up to him, to thank him for finding your new talent, but a small, deep part of you wasn’t ready to let your walls down just yet. He had broken no-contact for the first time in years, and it was only after discovering you were writing songs for LNGSHOT.
There had to be something more to this than a simple “I’m happy for you.”
But still, your heart missed him—and in this moment, your heart won.
“What is it that you wanted to talk about?” you questioned softly.
Martin looked down at you, his thumb tracing the edge of the book’s spine. There was so much he wanted to demand— a thousand questions clawing at his throat. He wanted to know why you were writing for Ohyul, of all people. He wanted to know when you’d started, and if you were doing it just to spite him after he’d encouraged you to write songs in the past.
And a part of him, the selfish part that still felt like he owned a piece of your heart, wanted to ask if you’d ever write a song for him.
But the longer he looked at you, the clawing in his throat stopped and the words died.
You were looking up at him with such wide eyed, innocent trust. It was the look he remembered from high school; those were the very eyes he had wanted to protect and never see sad again. It was the very face he’d wanted to smother in kisses the moment he realized he loved you.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin this fragile moment of peace by making it about himself.
Martin bit his lip, his jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from yours. He let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than a sigh.
“I’m just proud of you,” he said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “That’s all.”
You stood there, stunned, because that wasn’t what you had expected at all.
Before you could press him, Martin simply lowered the book and pressed it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the book and interlock your fingers with his.
“I’ll see you around,” he murmured.
He turned on his heel and walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and disappearing without looking back.
Later that day, Martin found himself sitting in his living room with Juhoon over. It seemed like it was just yesterday the three of you were here, playing Guitar Hero together.
“So,” Juhoon said, handing Martin a fizzy drink before plopping onto the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”
Martin brought the open bottle to his lips, staring blankly at the TV screen. “With what?”
Juhoon smacked his lips. “You know what.”
Martin knew exactly what he was talking about, yet his mind was still stuck on you. After the gig at Hybe Dive, he’d told Juhoon he was going to talk to you in hopes of convincing you to write for CORTIS instead—but God, what kind of person was he? To show up in your life after years of one-sided silence and demand something like that?
He felt like the lowest of the low for even considering it.
“Come on,” Juhoon nudged his shoulder, impatient. “Well? What did she say? Did you apologize to her and then ask her like we discussed?”
Martin ran a hand through his hair. He knew Juhoon wouldn’t let him live this down. Just to get him off his back, he let out a sigh and lied.
“She… she said yes,” Martin swallowed, looking down at the condensation building up on his Cola bottle. “She’ll write some songs for us.”
Juhoon blinked, not expecting those words to come so smoothly out of his friend’s mouth.
“She said yes?” he repeated, huffing out a breath of disbelief before his grin widened. “Well, would you look at that? Your girl’s still got a soft spot for you.”
That one sentence made Martin feel ten times worse.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I guess she does.”
He took a long, slow swallow of his bottle. He had always been a terrible liar, his face usually gave him away before he even finished a sentence, but Juhoon was so blinded by the hope of having brand new music that he hadn’t even noticed the way Martin’s hand was shaking.
The guilt was already starting to eat at him. He hadn’t even apologized for abandoning you for all those years. He’d never apologized for belittling your dreams or making you feel small.
Worse, he had just used your name to buy himself some peace with his band.
“This is great news, bro,” Juhoon cheered, swinging a drink back with a grin. “Who knows—maybe we’ll all start hanging out again, just like back then.”
Martin chewed at his bottom lip, his thumb mindlessly swiping over the condensation on the bottle. Every word Juhoon said felt like another shovel of dirt on the hole he was digging for himself.
He knew he had to make it up to you, but the problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.
As the week went on, Martin found himself drawn to the library more and more each day.
He would linger near the bookshelves, trying to catch even a quick glimpse of you. He knew the library—in all its quiet and the scent of old paper and ink—had always been your favorite place. It was the only place he felt he could still find a trace of you.
He tried his best to look busy, picking up random books he had zero interest in and flipping through the pages just to kill time, hoping you’d walk by.
The students nearby, actually hunched over their midterms, gave him judgmental stares. A guy like Martin Edwards—the notorious lead singer of a screaming band, known for his spiky blond hair and wearing ripped clothes—looked like nothing but trouble in a place meant for focus.
He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. He was too busy scanning every passing face, his heart jumping every time the library doors creaked open, but slumping when it wasn’t you walking through them.
Just as he was about to give up and leave, the doors pushed open once more and in you came—looking as overworked as ever, hauling a bag on your back that was nearly bigger than you were.
You made your way to an empty desk, settling in. You spread your literature and notebooks across the surface until your work had claimed nearly every square inch of the tabletop.
Martin had to bite back a smile. Despite the years of silence between you, you were still the same raging geek he remembered. He shook off his grin and walked over, stopping in front of your desk just as he had the day before.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, catching your attention. He gestured vaguely to the open chair. “I need to study for an exam and this…” He looked around at the dozen or so empty spaces nearby, then right back at you. “…is the only table available.”
But before you could even think about denying him, Martin pulled the chair out and sat down right in front of you.
He pulled a worn, spiral bound notebook from his bag, the edges fraying and the cover covered in stickers and faded sharpie doodles. As he flipped through the pages, you caught flashes of messy lyrics and sketches.
Your heart ached a little.
You always remembered how much Martin loved to draw.
“I’m pretty bad when it comes to the whole studying thing,” he admitted, keeping his focus on a cluttered page. “I get distracted. My mind wanders.”
He lifted his head to look at you, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink.
“And since you’re… you know, actually good at all of that,” he gestured vaguely toward your organized textbooks and highlighters, “I figured maybe if I sat here, I’d be more motivated. Seeing you work might rub off on me.”
It was a blatant excuse, and you both knew it.
The library was nearly empty. There were at least three other tables that wouldn’t have involved him invading your personal space. But the fact that he’d found you again— that he’d taken this specific opportunity to be near you—made your heart ache for him.
With Martin in your presence, you always found yourself letting your heart win.
“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning forward just an inch, his tatted arm resting on the edge of the desk. “I figured I could use a good influence. It’s been a while since I had one of those.”
You shook your head, keeping your eyes down, focused on your own notebook. “Easy for you to say.”
Martin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Just feels like I’m getting the bad end of the bargain,” you said, looking at him through your lashes. “With you being a bad influence and all...”
Martin blinked, taken off guard by your words.
The taunt felt nostalgic—a sweet reminder of how you used to tease him for being a bad influence back when you were growing up, even though you still stuck by his side every single day.
He couldn’t help but smile. Despite the years and the silence between you, teasing you back still felt as familiar as breathing.
“So, me merely existing is the bad end of the bargain?” Martin grinned. “It could be a lot worse, you know. I could have my guitar right now, playing Wonderwall again while you’re trying to study.”
“Oh, God,” you cringed. “That was the worst.” (note: never diss wonderwall , that’s the peakest song ever)
“The worst?” Martin playfully scoffed, looking mildly offended. “That was your favorite song!”
You chuckled. He was still the same old Martin you remembered—so easily wound up whenever you made a comment about his music. “Only because I found your singing out of tune endearing.”
“Out of tune?” Martin repeated in disbelief, his eyes widening. “After all those years of me singing that to you... you thought I was out of tune?”
At his dramatic reaction, you couldn’t help it— a laugh escaped you, loud enough to fill the silence of the library. Your hand flew to your mouth as students and staff snapped their heads toward the noise with annoyed glares. One of them pressed a finger to their lips and let out a sharp ssshhh!
Martin was smiling so hard his cheeks actually started to hurt.
Your laugh—soft and smooth as it had always been—sent a familiar flutter through his chest. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and the sound made him want to stick by your side like glue.
“You might’ve thought that then,” he teased, “but I sound a lot better now.”
You didn’t doubt it for a second— you’d heard his growth firsthand from the sidelines. “Oh, yeah?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yeah,” he grinned proudly. “You’re just gonna have to see for yourself one day.”
You giggled again, finding it charming that he was completely oblivious to the fact that you actively listened to his music secretly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Martin’s expression shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something much fonder. Watching the way your face scrunched up as you chuckled made his heart weak, and he blurted out the next thought before he could stop himself.
Your laughter slowly faded, and Martin mentally cursed himself.
Did I just screw this up?
But then you reached for your pencil, fidgeting with it as you avoided eye contact. The warmth flooding your face told him everything he needed to know. It was every tell tale sign that you were flustered, and relief washed over him when he realized he hadn’t ruined it.
“We should… study,” you mumbled, busying yourself by shifting through your pages.
Martin’s smile returned, softer this time. He uncrossed his arms and adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back in.
Since that day, you found yourself at the same table every afternoon with Martin sitting right across from you.
As the days passed, you started looking forward to these ‘study dates’—even making an effort to look more presentable. It reminded you of back in high school when Martin hit a sudden growth spurt, your tiny childhood crush had exploded into something much bigger, and you’d started wearing skirts and dresses to school just to impress him.
But just like back then, Martin didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he was doing his best to ignore it.
He told you that his scores had greatly improved since you started studying together, but you called bullshit. Every time you were together, you spent most of your time exchanging glances and cracking jokes, trying not to laugh or make noise.
“You know, Juhoon’s been hell-bent on writing a song about this one girl on campus,” Martin spoke quietly, jotting something down in his notebook. “Some angsty love song that’ll probably get us in trouble when we perform on game day.”
Having spent so much time on the sidelines, you were the observant type—it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out that Juhoon had the hots for the most popular girl in school.
“That’s really cute,” you murmured, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched Martin’s pen move. “He must really like her if he’s willing to put it all into a song.”
Martin’s jaw clenched just slightly, the guilt gnawing at him again. He forced a stiff nod and looked back down at his notebook.
“It’s not cute. It’s a distraction,” Martin explained quietly. “His mind has been elsewhere lately when he should be focusing on the band. We have a reputation to keep up, and he’s…” Martin chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how contradictory he sounded. “…busy pining.”
You couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed laugh. “Hey, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”
Martin looked up, his smirk returning as he caught your expression. He leaned forward, that familiar teasing light back in his eyes. “How so?”
“Because,” you said, leaning in and holding his stare, “instead of being with the band and practicing, you’ve been here. Every single afternoon. With me.”
The library felt deafeningly quiet after your words. His eyes dropped to your lips—which you’d applied a generous amount of gloss to, and how could he not notice?— for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.
“Yeah, well…” he said, gesturing vaguely to the books between you. “I’m also studying, remember? So… not entirely a distraction. I’m being productive.”
“Right,” you teased, your eyes still locked on his. “Very productive.”
The silence between you grew tense with everything neither of you was brave enough to say.
You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips again, and for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw him about to lean in.
But he leaned back quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as if he were suddenly parched.
You felt like you desperately needed an escape route—anything to free yourself from the tension before you said or did something you would regret.
“I… I need to find a book for my, uh, lit assignment,” you stammered, standing abruptly and smoothing the skirt of your dress. “Excuse me.”
With your face burning, you fled into the maze of the stacks, desperate to put some distance between yourself and Martin. Finding sanctuary behind a random empty section, you pressed your forehead against one of the wooden ledges and let out a long, shaky breath.
You couldn’t believe that after years of silence, you were back to sitting across from Martin every day, secretly pining for him.
And you couldn’t help but wonder if he was feeling the same way.
You paced the empty aisle, biting your thumb nail as thoughts raced through your mind.
Hey, Martin. How about instead of studying at the library, you come back to my place and we study in my room like we did in high school?
No. That sounded too desperate.
Hey, Martin. After our study session, you want to grab lunch?
Hey, Martin. When we’re done here, how about you play 'Wonderwall' for me again and prove me wrong?
“You okay?” Martin asked suddenly.
You jumped, having not even realized he’d approached you until he was standing right in front of you. “Oh! Sorry. I—uh… I was just trying to find a book-”
You quickly reached for the shelf next to you, yanking one out to prove your point.
Martin blinked at the cover, his surprised expression slowly melting into a grin.
“A beginner’s guide on how to yodel,” he read aloud. “Interesting assignment for a literature class.”
Your eyes went wide, and your face felt as hot as a furnace. You quickly flipped the book around to glance at the cover yourself, mentally cursing your own stupidity.
“Shit,” you hissed under your breath.
Martin chuckled as he stepped closer, plucking the book from your fingers and gently sliding it back into the empty space on the shelf.
“Seriously,” he prodded softly, his eyes finding yours. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you dismissed quickly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you began fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
He followed your movement, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted. It immediately pulled him back to high school—to those nights spent lying close together on the grass in his backyard, counting stars while you nervously picked at the threads of the picnic blanket.
He reached out, his hand catching yours and catching you off guard. He moved slowly, interlocking his fingers with yours as if he were savoring the sensation, making up for every second of the years he'd lost holding your hand in his.
“Then why are you fidgeting?”
“There has to be something on your mind,” he murmured.
His free hand came up, his fingers light as he caressed your jawline as if he was afraid to even touch your skin. With his thumb, he gently hooked your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on my mind.”
Martin tilted his head, his expression softening as he saw right through the lie. “Is that so?”
His thumb smoothed over the glossy shine of your bottom lip, “can I ?”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your mind was too busy trying to steady your racing heartbeat to form actual words. So u slowly nodded instead.
Slowly, his lips met yours, and he kissed her.
It was gentle, uncertain at first.
Like both of them were testing whether it was real. Then it deepened slightly, not rushed, not desperate.
For a moment after the kiss, neither of them moved. Martin pulled back first, slowly, like he was afraid moving too quickly might break whatever had just happened.
His forehead almost brushed hers again as he exhaled. Y/N stayed frozen for half a second longer than she meant to.
Her heart was loud. Too loud.
Martin let out a short, breathless laugh—soft, disbelieving.
You blinked at him. “okay?”
“I just…” He shook his head slightly, as if trying to reset his thoughts. “I wasn’t expecting that to actually happen.”
She gave him a look. “You asked me.”
“I know,” he said quickly, smiling now in a way that felt a little shaky. “I just didn’t think you’d-”
He hesitated. Then nodded. “… yeah.”
The words died in his throat at the distinct sound of footsteps went near the aisle. You both scrambled to pull away, faces flaming with adrenaline and embarrassment.
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
Since that day in the library, you and Martin had been drawn to each other like moths to a flame.
What started as quiet ‘study’ sessions evolved into sneaking away from lectures and into empty music rooms, until finally, he ended up right back where you two had first started.
Ever since that afternoon against the bookshelf, Martin had gotten more confident. He would start staring into your eyes longer than any friend ever should, and started finding any excuses to hold your hand.
To anyone else, it looked exactly like dating.
And that was the problem.
If Martin wanted a clean start with you, he wanted to do it right. But nothing about this felt… right.
Being back in your room felt like a second chance he never thought he’d get, and as much as he craved every minute with you, guilt was beginning to churn in his gut. Juhoon and the rest of the band had been breathing down his neck about the new song Martin promised you were writing for them. And as the days went on, their impatience only grew.
Jju🐢: hanging out with her again and still no song?
Jju🐢: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
Martin ignored his friend’s text, quickly switching it to silent.
You pushed back from your desk chair, trudging over to where he laid sprawled across your bed, papers and books scattered everywhere.
He smiled as you approached, swiping the papers aside to make space just for you.
“Could hardly call it that,” you sighed tiredly, throwing yourself onto the bed and letting the mattress sink. “It’s hard to focus when it’s raining outside. It makes me feel sleepy.”
Martin’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Back then, every time you were burnt out from studying, you always sought comfort in his arms.
“Need a hug?” he raised his arms up, offering you a spot against his chest. You smiled tiredly, crawling over to him so you could tuck your head under his chin. He pulled you in close, resting his cheek against the top of your head.
He was happy to know that, despite how much had changed between you lately, this stayed exactly the same.
Without thinking, he tilted his head down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and that only made you nuzzle deeper into his chest.
“What’s on your mind ?” he asked with a hand rubbing up and down your back.
“I feel so overworked,” you sighed against his chest, your voice muffled by his band tee. “I’ve got all these assignments piled up—and Ohyul won’t stop bugging me about this new song he wants me to write.”
You could feel Martin stiffen slightly at your words.
You hesitated before answering. “… Yeah.”
When Martin had first found out you were writing songs for LNGSHOT , you had been ready for the interrogation.
You were waiting for the moment he would pester you about it—asking when you’d started writing and why you’d chosen that band specifically—but he never brought it up. Even after days of hanging out again, the subject remained untouched, a big elephant in the room.
Martin stayed quiet for a long second, and this time, it was your turn to press.
You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”
His hands fidgeted with the fabric of your shirt—a nervous habit you remembered from years ago—and you couldn’t help the anxiety rising in your chest.
“Can I… can I ask you a question?” he murmured, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.
You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the worst. “Of course. Anything.”
“Did you start writing music…” his hand paused its restless roaming against your back, and he finally looked down to meet your eyes. “… because of me?”
You blinked, the question catching you completely off guard.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” you admitted softly. “I started writing after we… um—you know.” You looked back down at his chest, feeling suddenly sheepish. “After we stopped talking.”
Martin’s breath hitched, the guilt in his gut burning an even deeper hole. You continued before he could find the words to interrupt.
“Whenever I’m feeling down, the writing just comes freely,” you explained. “It’s like I have all these thoughts running through my mind and I have no idea how to say them out loud, so I put them on paper. When we stopped being friends, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to you—but… how could I, when you didn’t want to hear me out?”
You let out a soft, hollow laugh that had nothing to do with humor. The sound made Martin’s heart ache.
“I just thought,” you cut him off, your fingers tracing a pattern on his shirt, “if I never got to say it to you in person, then at least I could write about it and keep it with me forever.”
What kind of person was he? To have caused you the kind of heartbreak that hurt so badly you had to resort to writing music just to survive it?
He didn’t even want to know if you had given those specific songs to Ohyul—because, truthfully, he didn’t care. He didn’t care who you were writing for anymore, because the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that mattered, was you.
And now that he finally had you back, he was never going to let you go again.
“Hey,” he cooed gently, one warm hand coming up to tilt your chin. “Look at me.”
You looked up, and Martin felt like the lowest scum on earth at the sight of your pained expression. You looked like you were on the verge of tears just from the recollection of the memory alone, and he hated it. He hated himself for being the reason behind that look.
“I’m… fuck. I’m so sorry,” Martin whispered, his voice shaky as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “God—I can’t believe I let my own pride get in the way of us. Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”
He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it made you gasp against his chest.
“I wanted to reach out—I promise you,” he admitted, his lips pressed against your temple as he breathed every word. “Every single day, I would pick up the phone, or I’d walk halfway to your house… and then I’d stop. I was so scared of what you’d think of me—that I was just some…” he grimaced at the thought, “some no-life loser wasting his days on a Fender.”
He let out a short, breathy laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he was still hurt.
“But hearing that you were writing music… it made me really, really happy, you know?”
You smiled sadly, searching his face. “Really?”
The two of you stared at each other for a long moment, the only sounds were your guys breathing, matching heartbeats, and the soft thump of rain droplets against your window.
He was close enough to lean down and press a kiss to your lips—close enough to finally say the words he’d been wanting to say to you for a long time.
But instead, you cleared your throat and pulled away. You sat up on the bed, wiping at your eyes as if trying to shake away the unshed tears.
“I should… I should probably get back to studying,” you said quickly, scrambling off the mattress. The bed rustled with each movement, and Martin’s phone slid off the edge, hitting the floor screen first with a thud. “Ah, sorry!”
Martin cleared his throat, sitting up and adjusting himself as he tried to find his composure. He reached down for the phone too.
But you were already halfway there, picking it up before he had the chance.
“Oh, good,” you smiled, turning it over to check the glass. “It didn’t crack-”
As you went to hand the phone back to him, the screen lit up. Right there in the center of the display, the message from Juhoon sat in plain sight, catching your eye before Martin could grab it.
Jju🐢: hanging out with her again and still no song?
Jju 🐢: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
“Still… no song?” You read the words outloud, your voice small and hollow.
You glanced up at Martin, the blood completely drained from your face. Your heart felt like it had dropped straight into your stomach, yet you managed a fragile, disbelieving smile. “Martin… what is this?”
Martin’s heart dropped. He snatched the phone from your grasp, his thumbs flying as he frantically swiped at the notifications—but it was useless. It was already too late. You had seen every word Juhoon had sent.
“I-it’s nothing, I swear!” He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he swiped away at the messages, trying to get rid of them. “jju’s just being-”
“Is this what this is, Martin?” your voice shook, rising in anger. “You were just trying to get me to write a song for you?”
You had walked straight into Martin’s trap. Every tear that threatened to spill out from being vulnerable with him just a second ago were now streaming down your cheeks in a hot, angry rush.
You felt like an absolute idiot—but then again, hadn’t you been one this entire time?
Martin scrambled off the bed, taking a desperate step toward you. He reached out, his fingers brushing your arm, but you slapped his hand away.
“I can’t… I can’t believe you,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “This entire time… I thought you actually wanted to be my friend again. I thought you actually cared about me-”
“No, please,” he begged, his own voice cracking as he looked at you with eyes full of panic. “Please—just listen to me. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all! Everything I said to you earlier, the things we did-”
“The things we did…” You shuddered, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through you that made you feel like you were going to throw up.
You had let him kiss you, hold you, and hug you among the very bookshelves where you usually found peace. You had given him all of that, thinking it was a reconnection, only to find out he had one goal and one goal only— to get a song out of you.
A hand flew to your face, fingers tangling in your hair as you paced the room in a frantic panic, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I’m an idiot… I’m such a fucking idiot…”
“Please—” Martin reached out once more, his voice a desperate rasp, and you snapped your head around to glare at him.
“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted to be with me again—that you actually missed me, missed us,” you spat. “But the second you find out I’m writing for your rivals, you… you what? Try to get close to me so you can be some one hit wonder?”
Martin flinched. Every word that came out of your mouth was a knife digging into his chest—and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He wanted to explain, to grovel and beg for a second of your time, but you wouldn’t let him.
“You have to believe me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never do anything to hurt you—not like that. Fuck. Please, Y/N . Just hear me out—”
Panic flared in Martin’s chest, his eyes going wide as he took another step, trying to bridge the gap between you. “Please, don’t do this-”
“Get out of my house, Martin!”
The world went dark for him. A constant, deafening ringing filled his ears, and the look of pure betrayal on your face made him want to die. He was so frozen, so eerily still in his shock, that he didn’t even resist when you grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the front door.
He had the strength to stay rooted to the spot, to remain completely unmoved, but he was so mentally broken that his body simply let itself get dragged by you.
It might have been the last time he’d ever feel your touch again.
He didn't even realize he was standing on the porch until the rain began to pour, soaking through his shirt in seconds. You gave him one hard, final shove. He nearly stumbled down the stairs, the sudden loss of balance forcing him to snap out of his fucked up daze just in time to catch himself.
Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, he spun around and yelled for your attention.
And to his surprise, you actually did.
You held the door open and glared at him through the downpour, but at least you were still there.
A small, stubborn part of you still wanted to hear him, even if he didn’t deserve a single second of your time. Your mind was screaming at you to shut the door, but your heart had always been a traitor for Martin.
“What?” you shouted over the rain.
Martin stood there, drenched from head to toe, while you remained perfectly dry save for the tears streaming down your face.
“I lied to Juhoon!” he shouted, squinting against the rain. “After we found out you were writing for Ohyul, I told the band you were going to write for us—just to get them off my back.”
He paused, bracing himself for the sound of the door slamming. But when it didn’t come, he pressed on, determined.
“But I promise you—I promise you with everything I have—I never wanted a song out of you. Every word I said, everything I did with you... I meant every single fucking second of it.”
He swallowed hard, the rain masking the fact that he was crying, too.
“I don’t care about the song. I don’t care what the band thinks, or the rivalry with Ohyul. I just… I walked up to you in that library because I realized all I wanted was to be in the same room as you again. I wanted to be near you when you smiled. I wanted to see the way you stick your tongue out when you're taking notes, or how your leg shakes when you’re deep in a book. I missed that. I missed everything about you.”
Your hand tightened around the doorknob.
Your mind screamed at you to shut him out, to give him a taste of the silence he had fed you years ago. But you couldn’t move.
“I’ve spent every day of the last few years hating myself for what I did to you,” he continued, his voice desperate and raspy. “And I hate myself even more for the way you're looking at me right now. If I could turn back time, if I could just apologize for being an idiot the first time around, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain, begging for the unforgivable. I’d be in there,” he pointed to the inside of your house, “on your bed, playing my guitar while you laughed at me for being out of tune.”
Rain drenched his face, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his eyes open just to look at you.
He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, his heart laid bare on his sleeve as he poured out the words he prayed you would believe.
“I love you,” he confessed, breathless and desperate. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. From the day you beat me in Guitar Hero to the morning we walked to high school together for the first time. I loved you even when you told me my music was just noise. I thought I’d finally moved on, but the second I saw you sitting in that library, I fell in love all over again.”
When you stayed quiet, your expression still shattered, he took a hesitant step back onto the porch. He extended a trembling hand toward you, a silent plea for permission, for a sign that he hadn’t lost you for good again.
“Please,” he pleaded sadly. “Please believe me. Please tell me you love me, too.”
You just stared at him, your brows furrowing as your expression shifted slightly.
For a fleeting, desperate second, Martin swore he saw a flicker of forgiveness in your eyes.
He held his breath as he waited for you to reach for him. But instead, you took a slow step back from the doorframe, your hand shaking as you began to pull the door shut.
Days passed, and for most of them, you stayed buried in bed, skipping classes and ignoring your study sessions.
You found yourself back in the same headspace you had been years ago, after the first time Martin broke your heart. Your nose was buried deep in your journal, filling pages with sloppy, incoherent words.
You wrote down anything and everything that crossed your mind, no matter how little sense it made—anything to numb the hollow ache Martin had left in your chest once more.
Martin had been blowing up your phone and showing up at your door, but every attempt at reaching out went unanswered. Ohyul was also blowing up your email, pestering you about the new song you were supposed to be releasing, but those emails sat unread, too.
Your world was a blur of gray silence. But as a college student, you couldn’t afford to waste your tuition sulking forever.
Today, you got rid of the flowy dresses you picked specifically for Martin and instead wore something that well expressed how you were feeling on the inside. You dragged yourself to campus with a heavy weight on your shoulders, up until you finally made it to the front doors of the library.
A figure near the events board caught your eye, and this time, it wasn’t Martin.
Juhoon stood there with a red marker in his hand, drawing a massive X across the CORTIS poster he’d put up only a few days ago. He must have sensed you watching, because he turned to glance at you.
“Hi, Juhoon,” you greeted him awkwardly.
He looked you up and down, taking in your miserable state, and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked guilty, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if Martin had already explained everything to him.
They were best friends, after all.
To save yourself from the mounting tension, you gestured to the poster. “What happened to your guys’ gig this weekend?”
Juhoon looked back at the crossed out flyer, a forced, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Cancelled. Martin … uh, he hasn’t been feeling well.”
So much for avoiding the awkwardness.
“I see,” was all you could manage.
Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag. Just as you were about to dismiss yourself and retreat into the familiar sanctuary of the library, Juhoon stopped you.
“Wait. I… about everything with you and Martin,” he started, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break whatever you guys had going on. I…” He looked down at his scuffed Converse and sighed, clearly struggling with the words. “I just hate seeing the two of you like this.”
You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure there was anything left to say. Instead, you just forced a tight, hollow smile and turned away.
“Take care of yourself, Juhoon.”
After a long study session that felt agonizingly lonely without Martin’s presence beside you, you began the trek back home in the dark.
Walking alone at night should have made you alert, but your mind was too clouded with thoughts of Martin to pay attention to your surroundings. Your blood ran cold when a voice—deep and unmistakably male—shouted from behind you, making every hair on your arms stand up in sudden fear.
You snapped your head over your shoulder, panic flaring until you realized it was just Martin. The sharp spike of fear began to subside, replaced instantly by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion.
You turned back around, quickening your pace to put distance between you and the man who had broken your heart.
“I don’t want to talk, Martin,” you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking inside your pockets. “I’m tired. Just... go home.”
But he didn’t. You heard the scuff of his boots against the concrete as he lunged into a run, closing the gap until he was hovering just behind you.
“Please,” he rasped, his hand catching your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I’ve gone to every building, the library, your house… just please.”
You finally turned around, seeing his face clearly for the first time in days. Under the pale moonlight, he looked like a wreck—perhaps even more so than you. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes,and his hair was a wild mess.
He seemed to be thinking the same of you; the moment his eyes met yours, his breath hitched. A soft, broken sigh escaped him as he extended his arm toward you.
In his hand, held out like a peace offering, was a slim plastic case. It was a burnt CD, the silver surface catching the dim glow of the streetlights. Across the front, in his unmistakable, messy scrawl, were three words.
Your brows furrowed as you looked at him again. “Is this a new song for CORTIS?”
“It’s not for the band,” he huffed, his lungs burning as his eyes searched yours.
He took a hesitant step closer, the CD trembling slightly in his grip as he waited for you to take it.
“ I wrote it. Every word, every line—it’s all for you.” His voice sounded fractured and worn thin.
You hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch the disc and the instinct to push him away again. But as your gaze locked with his, you knew it was a lost cause. Your heart wouldn’t let you leave him standing there like that.
As you reached for the case, your fingers grazed his for a slow second. Your warm touch sent a jolt through Martin, leaving his heart racing so violently he felt as if it were trying to escape his chest just to get closer to you.
“I don’t know what to say-”
“Don’t say anything. You don’t even have to speak to me after this,” he confessed, though he regretted the idea the minute they left his mouth. “Just… please. Listen to it.”
With a heavy heart, you let out a long sigh, refusing to meet his eyes again for fear you’d say something you’d regret.
“I’ll listen to it,” you said, your voice low and cautious. “But this doesn’t mean we’re on good terms again.”
The words stung, but Martin had expected you to shut him out completely. As badly as he wanted to pull you into his arms and beg for a real chance, he decided to take this small victory for now.
“I know,” he said, a sad, fragile smile ghosting over his lips. It was the kind of look that made your heart ache despite your better judgment. “Thank you.”
He lingered for a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. He knew he’d lost that right. Instead, he took a step back, finally giving you the space you were silently demanding.
“Just… use the good headphones,” he added with a huff. “The acoustics in the garage aren’t exactly professional grade.”
You managed a small, involuntary chuckle despite yourself. “Fine.”
The sound made Martin’s smile brighten.
“Good,” he murmured, quickly shoving his hands into his denim pockets before he did something stupid with them—like reach for your hand or pull you in for a kiss. “Good.” He repeated.
The conversation was clearly over, but Martin couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Even standing there in tense silence, just having you in his line of sight was enough to make him want to stay. But he couldn’t hold onto the moment for long, as you had already turned away, heading back toward your house without a second glance.
Steve watched you go, his voice quiet and vulnerable as you moved out of his reach once more.
Once you were back in the solitude of your bedroom, you flicked on your bedside lamp, inviting in a warm glow.
You reached under the bed and pulled out the old CD player Martin had gifted you back in middle school—a machine he’d spent his entire savings at the time just to see you smile. And as promised, you plugged in your best headphones to listen.
With shaky hands, you inserted the CD into the disk slot, and the machine whirrled softly until you heard the sharp intake of Martin’s breath.
Then, the acoustic guitar started to play.
The strumming was soft, melodic, and gentle. It was a song that would never go on CORTIS’s setlist, or even considered being played in a dingy dive bar. It was too fragile, too sacred. The arrangement felt like it belonged in a cathedral, with echoing chords that carried the same ethereal, pained yearning of a Buckley track.
Then, Martin started to sing.
You had always known he had a beautiful voice, but on stage, he usually buried it under layers of grit and distortion to match the band’s frantic energy.
Here, there was nowhere to hide. His voice was steady but heavy with so much emotion, singing in a low, resonant register that vibrated right through the headphones and into your skull and down your heart.
The song was a masterpiece of us.
It was filled with melodic shifts that he knew you loved, and lyrical metaphors that referenced books you’d always mention growing up. Who would’ve thought that someone like Martin Edwards —a notorious dirtbag in a band just as dirty as him— was capable of writing a song full of pained and yearning like this.
By the time the song ended, you hadn’t even realized you had been crying.
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