emery

he hated that the mugs didn’t match.

when seonghyeon first brought his boxes over, stacking them neatly by the door of your cramped third-floor apartment, he had stopped dead in front of your open kitchen cabinet.

“they’re all different,” he said, pulling out a chipped blue tourist mug from a city you’d never visited.

“they all hold coffee,” you told him, barely looking up from your phone.

“not the point.”

“it literally is.”

the next day, there were four identical cream-colored mugs sitting neatly on the shelf. they were heavy, smooth, and expensive enough that you scolded him for spending the money. but he just smiled, that slow, lopsided thing that always made your chest feel tight, and filled one up to the brim for you.

☆

you hated mornings; he lived for them.

every single day, he’d slide out of bed before your alarm could even think about going off. you’d bury your face under the heavy duvet, groaning at the sudden shift in weight beside you, but he’d just chuckle, a low, gravelly sound thick with sleep.

he’d tie his long hair back with whatever stray hair tie of yours he’d managed to steal from the nightstand, padding down the hallway in his bare feet.

he didn’t even like coffee, he thought it tasted like burnt earth, but he made it anyway. because you loved it.

twenty minutes later, he’d return, pressing a soft, cool kiss to your bare shoulder. “angel.”

“mmm…”

“coffee.”

“five more minutes.”

“you said that ten minutes ago.”

“i’ll say it again.”

he’d sigh, that dramatic, fond sound he always made, and place the warm mug on your nightstand. then he’d crawl right back under the blankets, wrapping his long limbs around you like an anchor, pulling you back into the warmth until you were both running hopelessly late.

☆

the apartment slowly became a beautiful, tangled mess of the two of you.

his oversized hoodies migrated into your closet, smelling of cedarwood and your shared laundry detergent. your expensive skincare started crowding his shaving cream by the bathroom sink. 

and then, there were the sticky notes. it started as a way to remember groceries. 

buy eggs. and chocolate! LOTS of chocolate!!!!!!

don’t forget rehearsal <3

but then it turned into a game.

he’d hide neon yellow squares with i love you scrawled in his messy handwriting in the cruelest, funniest places—you’d open your laptop in the middle of a serious lecture and find one stuck to the screen. you’d pour a bowl of cereal and see it staring at you from the bottom of the box. 

once, you walked three blocks with a scratchy feeling in your left shoe, only to pull it off and find a crumpled note that read: you’re really cute when you’re annoyed.

☆ 

you knew every version of his habits, just like he knew yours.

you knew that when he was deeply anxious, his hand would automatically go to the back of his neck, rubbing the skin until it turned red. when he was thinking about a problem, he’d bite the inside of his cheek.

and when he was upset, he didn't scream or slam doors. he just got quiet. not a cold, angry quiet. just… heavy. like he was carrying something too big to share.

☆

“you’ve been quiet today,” you remarked one rainy tuesday, leaning your chin on his shoulder while he stared out the window.

“just tired,” he murmured, turning his head to press his lips to your temple.

“you’re lying.”

he’d just laugh, a little hollowly, the sound getting lost in the patter of rain against the glass. “had a rough day at work. don’t worry about it.”

you wrapped your arms tighter around his waist, burying your face in his back. you didn’t know it then… you didn’t know that he wasn’t tired from work. you didn’t know he was just standing there, looking at you, and silently grieving a person who was still sitting right in front of him.

☆ 

there was a small, irregular dent in the hallway wall right outside the bathroom.

neither of you ever repaired it, even when the landlord came by for inspections. you’d cover it with a poorly placed coat rack.

it had happened during your second winter together—an old, cheesy playlist was blasting from the living room speakers, and both of you were sliding around the hardwood floors in thick wool socks. he had grabbed your hand, spinning you around with entirely too much momentum, and attempted to dip you dramatically.

instead, his foot slipped and you both went airborne.

your shoulders collided with the drywall, leaving a perfect, shallow crater. you had laid there on the floor for ten minutes, tangled in each other’s limbs, laughing so hard that your stomachs ached and tears streamed down your faces.

“you know, we should fix that,” he had said months later, tracing the edge of the dent with his thumb.

“mhm.”

“we’re never fixing that, are we?”

“nope.”

it was your favorite mistake.

☆

then came the morning the air felt freezing. you blinked your eyes open, the bedroom unusually bright. the sun was already high, cutting sharp lines through the blinds. your alarm hadn’t gone off.

you turned your head. the other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold. but the nightstand had a cream-colored mug on it. a faint wisp of steam was still rising from the dark liquid.

“you’re spoiling me,” you murmured into the quiet room, stretching your arms above your head. no answer.

you sat up, the silence in the apartment suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. it wasn’t the warm, sleepy silence of a lazy sunday. it was empty.

“seong?”

nothing.

you pushed the covers off and walked out into the hallway. the kitchen counter was spotless. the living room was perfectly still. you glanced at the entryway—his keys weren’t on the brass hook.

a strange, fluttering panic started to rise in your throat, entirely irrational. 

you opened the hallway closet to grab a jacket. his heavy winter coat wasn’t there. only yours, hanging lonely on the rack.

you ran back to the bedroom, throwing open the closet doors. the left side—his side—was completely bare. the hangers were empty, rattling against each other from the draft. you pulled open the dresser drawers. no hoodies. no sweatpants. no silver watch left on the vanity.

“no, no, no,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

you stumbled out to the living room, your eyes darting to the photo wall. the grid of black frames you had spent hours leveling together. you stopped breathing.

you were standing alone in every single frame—you at the beach, smiling broadly at an empty shoreline; you at a cafe, holding up a forkful of cake toward a camera that captured nobody; you standing by the dent in the hallway wall, laughing hysterically at nothing at all.

there was no seonghyeon. there had never been a seonghyeon in the prints. it was just you, posing with a ghost. your hands started shaking so violently you had to grip the edge of the drywall to keep from falling.

you stumbled into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, trying to wake yourself up from whatever nightmare this was. but when you wiped your eyes and looked up, you saw it.

a neon yellow sticky note, taped neatly to the bottom corner of the mirror.

the handwriting wasn’t yours. it was his.

good morning, angel. if you’re reading this... today’s one of the days you forgot me again. it’s okay, though. the doctors said it would happen. read the notebook in the bedside drawer. i’ll wait.

—s.

your legs gave out. you crawled back into the bedroom, pulling open the nightstand drawer with weak, trembling fingers. underneath a stack of old mail sat a thick, leather-bound notebook.

you opened the cover. the first page was dated three years ago.

if you don’t remember me today, my name is eom seonghyeon. i’m your boyfriend. we’ve been together for six years. you have early-onset alzheimer’s. some mornings you wake up remembering everything. some mornings… i’m just a stranger in your bed.

—s.

the world collapsed in on itself. you looked back at the wall of photos—it’s the cruelest part of the routine he built for you.

on your good days, when you remembered him perfectly, he would take photos of you. he loved capturing your laugh, the way you looked when you were happy, or just you standing in the apartment you shared. but he purposefully didn’t put himself in the frames on the wall.

because he knew what happened on your bad days—if you woke up with a completely blank mind, looking at a stranger in your bed, and then went out to the living room only to see photos of yourself hugging a man you didn’t recognize, it threw you into a violent, terrifying panic. you’d feel trapped, paranoid, and unsafe in your own home.

so, to protect your sanity on the days you forgot, he curated the apartment to look like it belonged only to you. he took down every photo of himself. he made sure the wall only showed you—looking happy, safe, and entirely at peace.

he hid the photos of the two of you together inside that notebook, buried in the nightstand, waiting for the moments you were strong enough to look for them. he erased himself from your sight just to keep you from being afraid.

suddenly, the memories rushed back, but they were warped, recontextualised with a sickening clarity.

the repeated conversations. the moments you’d wake up in the middle of the night, terrified, asking the man beside you who he was and how he got into your apartment. the way he would gently, patiently introduce himself all over again, showing you his driver’s license, showing you the matching mugs, never once raising his voice.

he had been rebuilding your entire shared life from scratch, every single morning, one agonising memory at a time.

you flipped the page, tears blurring the ink.

today you cried because you thought i deserved someone who could remember me. you apologised thirty-two times until you fell asleep. 

angel… i don’t stay because you remember me. i stay because you’re still you.

—s.

you flipped further, the pages turning into a blur of dates, sticky notes pasted onto the paper, small polaroids of the two of you actually together—the ones he kept hidden from the walls so you wouldn’t get confused on your bad days.

and then, you hit the final page. it was dated two months ago. the handwriting was shakier than the rest.

my cancer came back. i didn’t tell you because every day you still knew my name felt too precious to spend being scared. i didn’t want your remaining memories of me to be filled with hospital gowns and machines, you know? if you’re reading this… i probably couldn’t wait any longer. my body gave out.

i’m sorry i won’t be there to make coffee one day. but i know you’ll still check the nightstand. so i asked the hospice nurse to come by early and leave one there for you that day. just one last time.

love you. always. 

—your seonghyeon

you looked back at the nightstand. the coffee was still warm. it had been made by a nurse who barely knew your name, following a strict set of instructions left behind by a dead man. because the only person who loved you enough to learn exactly how many seconds to pour the milk was gone.

he had spent his final years keeping you whole while his own body was quietly falling apart, and even when he was completely out of time, he had still managed to remember enough for the both of you.

did you love him? did you miss him?

you stared at the cream-colored mug, your mind a blank, terrifying slate, crying for a man you couldn’t even fully picture anymore.

then, the front door clicked open. the sound was too loud in the dead silence of the apartment, making you flinch. heavy, hesitant footsteps padded down the hallway, stopping right at the bedroom doorway.

“hey,” a voice whispered.

you looked up through a thick blur of tears. it was keonho, seonghyeon’s younger brother. you knew his face—your fractured brain held onto that much—but his eyes were red, his shoulders completely slumped under a dark jacket.

keonho took one look at you sitting on the floor, the leather-bound notebook clutched to your chest, and the single cream-colored mug cooling on the nightstand.

he didn’t ask what was wrong. he didn’t have to. he connected the dots the second he saw the pages open in your lap.

“oh,” keonho choked out, his voice cracking instantly. “you read it.”

he dropped his keys on the dresser and crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right into the dust beside you. he didn’t care about space or boundaries; he just pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight, crushing hug that felt like a desperate attempt to hold your breaking pieces together.

“he’s gone, isn’t he?” you sobbed against his shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. you couldn’t even visualise seonghyeon’s smile clearly right now, but the hollow space in your chest was agonising. “keonho, please. where is he?”

he squeezed his eyes shut, a hot tear spilling over his cheek onto your hair.

“he died yesterday afternoon,” he whispered, his chest heaving as he finally let himself break down. “at the hospital. he went really quietly. his last couple of days… he was so weak, but he kept making me promise over and over that the nurse would bring the coffee this morning. he made me swear it.”

you buried your face into keonho’s shoulder, the two of you shaking, crying so hard the small bedroom felt suffocating. you were grieving a ghost you couldn’t fully see, and keonho was grieving the brother who had loved others more than his own life.

“i’m sorry,” you sobbed, the guilt suffocating you. “i’m so sorry i forgot him. i forgot him while he was dying.”

“don’t say that, please,” keonho wept, rocking you back and forth on the hard floor. “don’t say that. he knew. he always knew it wasn’t your fault. he loved you so much.”

the room grew cold as the morning stretched on, the mug on the table turning completely icy, but neither of you moved. you just held onto each other in the wreckage of a story that had ended a day too soon.

© hyuneskkami ❦

the wind at that height hadn’t even felt like air anymore. it was just this solid, freezing wall of pressure screaming out of the dark, slamming into your chest and trying to rip your fingers right off the iron rungs. every time a gust hit, the entire steel lattice of the transmission tower gave a low, vibrating groan that you felt vibrate deep inside your chest. it was the kind of sound that reminded you exactly how thin the line was between a historic climb and a plummet into nothingness.

below your dangling boots, the empire state building didn’t look like a building anymore; it was a massive, tiered mountain of limestone and art deco stone dropping away into a dizzying abyss of midtown traffic. the streets were just thin, bleeding veins of neon yellow taxi roofs and white headlights, completely silent from a quarter-mile up. everything was quiet up there except for the roar of the atmosphere and the sharp, rhythmic clank of your carabiners hitting the cold metal.

your knuckles were aching, white-hot inside your grip gloves as you took the last three vertical steps up the restricted antenna. your heart was slamming a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs, the sheer rush of adrenaline making the metallic taste of fear wash over your tongue.

“watch the cross-beam to your left, love. it’s slick with dew. don’t trust it entirely yet.” martin’s voice was a little muffled by the black fabric of his face mask, but it grounded you instantly. he was already up on the tiny, exposed summit platform, balancing on a ledge no wider than a skateboard with an easy, terrifying grace that still made your stomach drop, even after five years of climbing together. his dark eyes were incredibly bright behind his mask, crinkling at the corners because he was smiling. 

he always got this wild, ecstatic look when he was close to the stars and far away from the law.

he bent down, extending a hand. his grip was solid, warm, and entirely unbothered by the sheer drop right behind him. with one fluid, practiced pull, he hoisted you up onto the narrow grating beside him. you immediately pressed your back against the central mast, taking a ragged breath. the view was endless—the horizon curved away in a haze of dark purple and gold, the chrysler building’s silver spire gleaming a few blocks over like a sharp tooth. but right below the observation deck, you could already see the tiny, frantic flashing of blue and red police cruisers pulling onto the avenue.

“we woke them up,” you breathed out, your voice shaking slightly from the exertion. “look at the street. they’re already sealing the lower exits.”

martin didn’t even look down. he just reached out, his gloved fingers brushing a strand of wind-whipped hair away from your eyes. “let them come. they have to climb eighty-six floors of stairs first. we have time.”

“we have maybe five minutes before security breaches the upper hatch, mars,” you said, a breathless, nervous laugh escaping you. “come on, let’s get the banner down before they cut the power to the deck lights.”

together, you unbuckled the heavy, cylindrical canvas pack from your shoulders. working in perfect, unspoken sync—a choreography born from dozens of cranes in dubai and rooftops in seoul—you looped the heavy-duty zip ties through the iron eyelets of the banner and secured them to the primary girders.

“on three,” martin said, his eyes locked on yours. “one. two. three.”

you let it drop. the heavy canvas unraveled with a massive, whip-like crack that echoed over the open air, falling perfectly straight down the side of the spire. the bold, white painted letters against the black background caught the bright floodlights of the building, blazing out into the manhattan night for miles: when the power of love beats the love of power, the world knows peace.

“it looks perfect,” you whispered, watching it sway against the steel. “god, mars, it looks so beautiful.”

“yeah,” martin murmured, his voice suddenly dropping into that quiet, heavy register he only used when the cameras were off and it was just the two of you against gravity. “it really does.”

you turned your head to tell him to grab the backup rigging so you could start the fast rappel down to the mechanical levels before the ground team cornered you, but he wasn’t moving toward the ropes. instead, he stepped right into the center of the tiny platform, completely letting go of the safety railing.

“baby, what are you doing? hold onto something, the crosswind is picking up,” you warned, reaching out to grab the strap of his harness.

“yn, listen to me for a second,” he said, stepping closer until his knees were brushing yours on the narrow grate. the wind screamed around you, tearing at his jacket, but his eyes were completely steady.

“martin, seriously, we need to go—”

“i don’t want to go down yet,” he interrupted quietly. “look around. there’s nobody else up here. there’s no noise from the ground, no internet, no bail bondsmen, no police. just us.”

and then, without an ounce of hurry, with the entire skyline of new york stretching out behind his shoulders like a wall of diamonds, he sank down onto one knee on the freezing metal grating. your breath completely caught in your throat. your fingers froze on your climbing harness.

from a mile away, the sharp, chopping thuds of a news helicopter began to echo through the air. a massive, blinding searchlight cut through the darkness, washing over the tower and painting the two of you in a stark, brilliant white light. the media was there, the cameras were rolling, but martin didn’t even blink against the glare.

he reached into his zippered chest pocket and pulled out a small, silver ring. it was tied to his wrist with a thin loop of paracord, because he was reckless, but he’d never risk losing this.

“i’ve looked at a lot of cities from a lot of heights, yn,” he said, his voice carrying clearly over the roar of the wind and the approaching chopper. “but every single time i’m up here, the only thing that keeps me from looking down is looking at you. i don’t want the ground if you’re not on it with me. i don’t want to do any of this if i’m not holding your hand. marry me, yn yln?”

the absolute, beautiful insanity of it hit you all at once. the sirens were wailing on the pavement below, a thousand people were probably staring up at your banner from times square, a news helicopter was hovering fifty yards away capturing your every move, and the boy who had held your life in his hands on top of the world was looking up at you like you were the only thing worth seeing.

“yes,” you choked out, tears instantly stinging the corners of your eyes, blurring the millions of city lights into beautiful, glowing circles. “yes, martin edwards, of course. fuck yes.”

you pulled your black fabric mask down past your chin, your lips trembling from the cold and the sheer shock of it. martin let out a loud, triumphant laugh that got swallowed by the wind, stood up on the shaking platform, and quickly slid the silver band onto your shivering finger.

before you could even look down at it, he hooked his arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest. the kiss was everything all at once—it tasted like cold, metallic high-altitude air, salt from your tears, and pure, unfiltered adrenaline. his lips were cold but his mouth was warm, urgent and deep, his gloved hand burying itself into the back of your hair to hold you steady against the wind. you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying yourself in the familiar scent of his nylon jacket and laundry detergent, completely forgetting about the freezing air, the hundred-story drop, and the law. the helicopter circled closer, its spotlight illuminating the exact moment the world’s most wanted urban explorers decided on forever on a needle in the sky.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming in short, ragged white plumes that disappeared into the dark.

“we are so getting arrested,” you whispered against his lips, a massive smile breaking across your face.

“worth it,” he beamed, his dark eyes sparkling.

twenty minutes later, the romance of the sky met the cold reality of the ground. the security teams finally breached the upper deck, and after a tense but peaceful surrender, you were both led out through the building’s main marble lobby.

the transition from the silent, freezing apex of the city to the suffocating heat of the ground floor was jarring. the main marble lobby was a chaotic blur of shouting reporters, popping camera flashes, and a wall of NYPD officers. your wrists were bound tightly behind your back with heavy white zip-ties that bit into your skin every time you moved. your face was bare to the media, your hair a wild, windblown nest, and a stern-faced detective was muttering your rights into your ear as he maneuvered you toward the revolving doors.

“keep moving, don’t look at the cameras,” the officer grunted, pushing you toward a waiting cruiser. but just before they guided you into the separate back seats, martin caught your eye through the sea of flashing police lights and shouting journalists. he was being held by two big officers, his jacket scuffed and his gear confiscated, but he still had that lazy, unbothered smirk on his face. he gave you a slow, deliberate wink through the crowd. 

you couldn’t move your arms, but as the officers pushed you into the back of the car, you pressed your hands against the rear window, letting the cold streetlights catch the silver ring on your finger.

by morning, the image of your hands against the glass was everywhere, but it was the massive canvas banner left fluttering against the spire of the empire state building that dominated the news cycle, forcing a sudden, heavy philosophy onto the front pages of the internet.

the media instantly tied your stunt to the old, resonant undocumented words of jimi hendrix: when the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.

in the sterile, fluorescent-lit precinct where you and martin were held for arraignment, the contrast between those two forces was blinding. on one side of the metal bars was the love of power—represented by the heavy keys clinking at the guards’ belts, the rigid bureaucracy of the state, the high-security systems you bypassed, and the corporate ownership of a skyline that locked the sky away behind ticket counters and bulletproof glass. it was a system designed to control, to dominate, and to keep the world tethered to the concrete.

but on the other side of the bars was what you had left up on that spire. martin looked at you from across the holding cell, his eyes tired but entirely at peace, tracing the outline of the cheap silver ring on your finger through the iron mesh. your climb hadn’t been about conquering the building; it was about choosing a space completely free from the weight of the ground, a radical declaration that love didn’t need permission, borders, or safety nets to exist.

as the journalists outside debated whether your climb was a beautiful piece of performance art or a reckless breach of security, you realised that peace wasn’t the absence of trouble. it was the quiet certainty you had felt at the very top of the world, suspended in the freezing air, knowing that no matter how hard the system tried to assert its control, it would never match the gravity of two people holding on to each other in the dark.

© hyuneskkami ❦

For a star like Martin Edwards, that was a tall order. Lead singer of his band, his face plastered across every magazine, his voice the anthem of a generation. He'd never publicly acknowledged a relationship, never shown interest in anyone. The endless fangirls bordering on stalkers made him paranoid—he'd rather be alone than risk letting a stranger in. He'd built his career on being untouchable, the kind of guy who left girls crying in their bedrooms, not the other way around.

Paris Fashion Week wasn't his scene at all. He'd almost skipped it, told his manager to shove the invitation somewhere unpleasant, but something pulled him there, a restless itch he couldn't explain, a feeling that he'd miss something important if he didn't go.

He came decked in black: scuffed combat boots, leather trousers that hugged his thighs, a faded CORTIS tour tee from two years ago. He looked bored, slouched in his front-row seat like he'd rather be anywhere else, fingers drumming against his knee as models glided by in designer gowns and sky-high heels. The music was too polished, the lights too bright, the whole affair too clean for his taste. He was about to get up and leave when you emerged.

You walked the runway like you owned it, wearing stunning floor-length gown in champagne silk that caught every light, a slit that went dangerously high, heels so sharp they could kill a man. You didn't smile, didn't wave, instead you moved like you were born for this, shoulders back, chin high, utterly untouchable.

His jaw went slack and his drumming fingers stilled. For the first time in years, Martin Edwards was speechless. His mind was hollow, entirely empty of any rational thought that would have been screaming at him to snap out of it before his reputation of being untouchable is completely destroyed. Instead there was one simple line repeating like a mantra.

He needed you. He needed you more than he'd ever needed anything.

You didn't look at him once. Your gaze swept over the front row like they were furniture, as though he was just another piece of decor, and that only made it worse.

At the end of the runway, you turned. For a split second, your eyes met his. You lifted one eyebrow by just a fraction—a flicker of curiosity, a silent question—before your expression smoothed back to perfect neutrality and you were gone, disappearing behind the velvet curtains.

He didn't even remember the rest of the show. He sat there like a statue, his mind replaying that single moment in an endless loop.

What he didn't know was that it had all been photographed. By morning, his slack-jawed, lovesick stare was splashed across every tabloid and newspaper in the country.

"ROCKSTAR RAVENOUS! Martin Edwards' Heart Snatched by Parisian Mystery Muse!" Screamed the front page of The Sun, complete with a grainy photo of his stunned face. "WHO IS THE SIREN IN HEELS?" Demanded the Daily Mail. Even the fashion magazines got in on it: Vogue ran a two-page spread speculating about the mysterious model who'd made the ‘Prince of Darkness’ lose his cool, complete with freeze-frames of that one eyebrow raise.

Martin sat in his hotel room the next evening staring at his own exposed face on every newsstand. The mask he'd worn for years—the untouchable, brooding rockstar—was gone. Everyone had seen him unravel in real time.

A slow grin spread across his face as he scanned the endless pages.

Good. Now you’d know exactly who was coming for you.

Two weeks later, you arrived back in New York following the event, doing everything in your power to try to forget the weird rockstar who stared at you like you'd personally ruined his life. You were in your penthouse apartment, a copy of Paper magazine with his lovesick face plastered across it on your marble coffee table. Your agent had been calling nonstop, thrilled about the publicity, already scheming about how to leverage it for your next campaign. 

Your phone suddenly began ringing and you almost ignored it entirely, tired of the constant need for people to speak to you, but something pushed you to pick up.

"Hello?"

A low voice, rough and amused, crackled through the receiver. "That was a hell of a walk. Almost made me forget my own name."

You instantly froze. You knew that voice—you’d heard it enough times on the radio, on MTV, blasting from cars in traffic. The voice of a generation, the voice of every teenage girl's bedroom wall.

"Martin Edwards," you said flatly, sinking onto your velvet chaise. "How the hell did you get my number?"

"You're a model," he replied, like that explainef everything. "I'm a rockstar. I have people."

"You have stalkers, you mean."

He laughed a genuine, surprised sound, not the polished chuckle he typically gives interviews. "Yeah, maybe. But I'm not a stalker, I'm just..." He paused and you bit your lip slightly, unsure on why the silence made you nervous. "Determined."

You should have hung up and slammed the phone down and called your doorman to make sure no one gets past the lobby. You knew exactly what this was: a rockstar with a new fixation, chasing the next shiny thing, bored of groupies and looking for a challenge.

"Listen, rockstar," you said, your voice dropping to something cold and sharp. "I don't do groupies, I don't do fans, and I definitely don't do men who think they can just call me up because they saw me on a runway."

Silence came from his end. Then, quietly: "I don't want a fan. I want you."

"You don't know me."

"Then let me."

You chewed your lip, staring at your reflection in the dark window of your apartment—the skyline glittered before you, the city that never sleeps hummed twenty floors below. You've dated musicians before and it's always a disaster: the cheating, the lies, the constant parade of women throwing themselves at them. Martin Edwards was the biggest of them all. A tabloid regular; a walking red flag in scuffed boots and leather.

Though there was a rawness in his voice that caught you off guard and made you pause.

"I'm busy," you answeref, though the slight smile you were attempting to suppress suggested differently.

"Friday. 8pm. I'll send a car."

"I didn't say yes."

"You didn't say no."

You hung up before he could say anything else, but you made sure to write his number down on a scrap of paper incase he ever called again. Just in case.

Friday night arrived and you put on a silk black slip dress with barely there straps. The stretch of fabric falling just above your knee and you added strappy heels that made your legs look endless, folowed by a delicate necklace before you styled your hair loose and glossy.

You looked in the mirror and reminded yourself that you didn’t care what rockstar Martin Edwards thought of you, he was the same as every other male musician that latched onto women for a few weeks before getting bored.

You smoothed down the dress one last time, adjusting the thin straps on your shoulders before grabbing a small clutch, slipping your phone inside and taking a breath.

The town car waited outside your building, sleek and black, a driver holding the door open like this was completely normal. You slid into the leather backseat and watched the city blur past as he drove you downtown.

The jazz bar was hidden in the Village, tucked away behind an unmarked door you would have walked right past if the driver hadn't pointed it out. Inside, it was all exposed brick and dim amber light, a saxophone player in the corner crooning something slow and sad. The place was intimate, almost empty, a few couples scattered at tables alongside a bartender polishing glasses.

And there he was.

Martin Edwards sat in a corner booth, dressed down in a simple black sweater and dark jeans, his hair pushed back from his face. His fingers tapped against the tabletop in a restless rhythm, and when he saw you approach, he stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his drink.

"You came," he said, genuine surprise in his voice.

"You sent a car. It seemed rude to waste gas."

He grinned at your words. "I'll take it."

You slid into the booth across from him, crossing your legs, the slit of your dress falling open just slightly. 

"So," you said, leaning back. "What's your angle?"

"No angle."

"Bullshit."

He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't have an angle. I just saw you on that runway and couldn't stop thinking about you. That's it. That's the whole thing."

"You haven’t even asked for my name."

"I already know it's Y/N."

You tilted your head, studying him. He wasn't performing for you—not the way he performed on stage, not the way he performed in interviews. He was just here, nervous but trying.

"Okay," you said slowly. "One drink. If you bore me I'm gone."

"Deal."

You ended up staying until the bar closed. He didn't bore you. Instead he made you laugh whilst looking at you like you were the only person in the room, and when he walked you to your door at 3am, he didn't try to come in. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, memorising every detail of you with a slight smirk residing on his lips.

"Same time next week?" He asked, tilting his head just a fraction.

You should have said no and walked inside and forgotten this ever happened. Instead, you smiled. "Maybe."

Safe to say, Martin Edwards was a hard man to shake.

He had a way of appearing when you least expected him: a bouquet of peonies delivered to your apartment the morning after your first date, a handwritten note slipped under your door alongside it that revealed far more emotional depth than a rockstar of his realm should technically possess. He called you at odd hours from the road, his voice rough and tired, just to hear you say goodnight. He sent you playlists filled with unreleased songs he'd recorded himself that were burned onto discs, his voice cracking over stolen lyrics he'd rewritten just for you.

He was relentless, and worse, he was charming.

It started small with a dinner here and a walk there. He took you to dive bars and rooftop restaurants, to galleries and late-night diners. He never brought you to anything flashy, never paraded you around like a trophy. He kept you hidden, protected, his own private secret in a world that wanted to consume him.

You let him do it all because despite every instinct screaming at you to run, to protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak of dating a rockstar, Martin Edwards made it impossible to resist.

He remembered everything—your coffee order, your favourite movie, the way you liked your eggs in the morning. He learned the exact pressure of his hand on your lower back that made you shiver when he guided you through crowds. He learned the exact rhythm of your breathing when you fell asleep on his chest.

He was careful with you in a way you hadn't expected.

And slowly, without even realising it, you fell.

Within two months of knowing you Martin was already inviting you backstage to his shows, keeping you hidden and protected from the intruding crowd. It was at one of these shows when he had pulled you behind a pillar, the rest of the world becoming nonexistent as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you tightly against him, his forehead dropping to uour shoulder.

You hesitated for a moment before reaching your hand up and letting your fingers sift through his strands, the sigh of relief he let out showing you were doing the right thing. 

The two of you remained in that position much longer than what was considered normal, though neither of you cared, too swept up in the moment.

Eventually you heard him say something, his words muffled against your jacket.

“What?” You asked softly, a small smile resting on your lips. He lifted his head up, his hair standing up in multiple directions from all your ruffling, and he very much did not look like the hardcore rockstar many of his fans saw him to be.

"I said," he murmured, his voice rough, "I think I'm in trouble."

You raised an eyebrow. "What kind of trouble?"

"The kind where I can't stop thinking about you." He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear as you felt your cheeks redden just slightly at the gesture. "The kind where I don't want to be on stage unless I know you're watching. The kind where I wake up and the first thing I do is reach for you, even when you're not there."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, your gaze softening at his words. "Martin—"

"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other two months. I know you probably think I'm just some rockstar who gets bored easily and moves on to the next thing." He let out a breath, his forehead dropping back to your shoulder. "But you're not the next thing, you're the only thing for me."

You stood there, frozen, his body pressed against yours, his words echoing in your head. Two months was nothing, barely enough time to know someone properly and let alone fall for them.

But you already knew him. You knew the way he took his coffee, that he hummed when he was concentrating, even how his eyes lit up when he talked about a new song he was writing. You knew the shadows under his eyes when he hadn't slept, that his fingers tapped against every surface like he was always composing something. You knew he looked at you like you were something precious he was terrified of losing.

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were already in too deep.

"Martin," you said softly, your fingers finding their way back to his hair, threading through the dark strands. "Look at me."

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and he looked nervous. Martin Edwards, the man who commanded thousands of screaming fans night after night, looked nervous.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said quietly. "You're not going to lose me."

His breath caught. "You mean that?"

"I mean it."

He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes for something: doubt, hesitation, a lie; he found none.

He slowly moved forward and his lips brushed against yours so softly you could barely feel them, and you realised in that moment he was afraid you'd pull away.

You did nothing of the sort and instead leaned into him, your fingers curling in his hair, pulling him closer. His arms tightened around your waist, and you felt the tension drain from his body as he melted into you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps whilst his eyes remained closed.

"Y/N," he whispered, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

"I'm here," you said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

He opened his eyes, and the look in them made your heart ache. It was raw and open and completely unguarded.

"I've never—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I've never felt like this before. I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I," you admitted. "But we can figure it out together."

He smiled then, his grin reaching his eyes and making him look younger and lighter than how he appeared on the many magazines you absolutely did not keep hidden in your bedside table. "Together?"

"Together."

He kissed you again, softer this time—if that were even possible, as though he was sealing a promise. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you felt like the only person in the world.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "I'm going to be so annoying now, you know that, right? The whole band is going to hate me. I'm not going to shut up about you."

You laughed, shoving his chest lightly. "You're already annoying."

"True." He pulled you back into his arms, burying his face in your hair. "But now I'm annoying and in love."

You could only smile against his shoulder at that, closing your eyes and letting the feel of him engulf your entire being.

From then on, Martin was yours and you were his, as hard as it was when you were constantly on opposite sides of the world. The distance was brutal: weeks apart, time zones that made calls nearly impossible, schedules that never seemed to align, but Martin made it work. He called you every night, no matter where he was or what time it was. He sent you handwritten letters filled with lyrics he'd scribbled in the margins of hotel notepads. He showed up at your apartment unannounced, exhausted and rumpled, just to hold you for a few hours before catching another flight.

You did the same for him. You flew across oceans to watch him perform, sitting in the shadows of the crowd, hidden beneath caps and sunglasses, just to see him do what he loved. You called him when you couldn't sleep, when the loneliness of your hotel room became too much and everything made you think of him.

It wasn't easy—there were nights you cried, overwhelmed by the distance, the secrecy, and the weight of loving someone the world wasn't supposed to know about, and there were nights Martin called you, his voice rough and raw, confessing how much he missed you followed by how much he hated being so far away.

But you always found your way back to each other, and every time you did, it was like no time had passed at all.

The public eventually found out, and it was entirely inevitable, to be completely honest. You'd been as careful as two people in the public eye could be, but you weren't as invisible or untouchable as you had thought. Eventually the paparazzi, relentless and all-seeing, caught a glimpse of what you'd been trying so hard to protect.

It started with a photo: the two of you in a hotel lobby in London, his hand intertwined with yours, your head tilted back in laughter as he whispered something in your ear. It was grainy, taken from too far away, but it was unmistakably the two of you.

The next morning, the image was everywhere.

"ROCKSTAR'S SECRET LOVE AFFAIR EXPOSED!" was printed on every newspaper in the country. Your face was plastered across every newsstand, every television screen, every gossip column. Your agent's phone rang off the hook for hours on end; stranngers on the street recognised you, whispering behind their hands, pointing and staring like you were a spectacle.

You'd known this day would come, you’d prepared for it, even braced yourself for it, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer weight of it: the invasion, the scrutiny, the sudden loss of privacy that came with being publicly linked to Martin Edwards.

You sat atop his bed in a London hotel room, the many magazines spread out in front of you as you sifted through one, your fingers tracing the grainy image of the two of you in the lobby. Your own face stared back at you, frozen in a moment of laughter, his hand wrapped around yours. It felt strange, seeing yourself reduced to a headline and a piece of gossip for strangers to consume without a care in the world about you as an actual person.

You heard the bathroom door creak open behind you, the air shifting as Martin emerged with his pyjamas sitting loose on his frame and his hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He crossed the room in a few quiet steps, and before you could look up, his hands were on the magazine, gently pulling it from your grasp.

"Hey—" you started to protest, but he tossed it aside, not caring where it landed.

Then he climbed onto the bed, his weight settling over you as he lay on top of you, his body pressing yours into the mattress. He was warm and solid, still smelling like soap and steam, and you let out a breathless laugh as you tried to shove at his shoulders.

"Martin, you're too heavy," you complained, but you were giggling, your hands flattening against his chest. "Get off."

He didn't move. Instead, he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "No," he murmured, the word muffled. "I'm staying here forever. This is my new home."

"Your new home is crushing me."

"Good, you're not going anywhere."

You laughed again, your fingers finding their way into his damp hair, threading through the damp strands. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm in love," he corrected, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his lips just grazing your chin. His eyes were soft and searching your own. "And I'm not letting a bunch of magazines ruin that."

Your smile faded slightly, the weight of everything pressing down on you again. "Martin—"

"I know," he said quietly, cutting you off. "I know it's a lot. I know they're going to be everywhere now. I know they're going to try to tear us apart." He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But I don't care about any of it, all I care about is you."

You stared at him, your heart swelling. "You really mean that?"

"I really mean it." He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I love you, Y/N, and I'm not going to let anyone take that away from us."

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, and he let out a soft sigh of relief against your skin. The magazines lay forgotten on the floor, their headlines screaming about secrets and scandals, but neither of you paid them any attention.

In that moment, there was only the two of you.

"You're still crushing me," you murmured after a moment, a smile tugging at your lips.

He laughed, rolling off you just enough to pull you into his side, his arm wrapping around your waist. "Better?"

"Better."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt the tension in his body slowly ease. 

Eventually, the fans and press got used to seeing the two of you together.

It took time: months of grainy photos and speculative articles, of whispers and pointed fingers and strangers dissecting your every move. But slowly, inevitably, the novelty began to fade. You weren't a mystery anymore, you were just Martin Edwards' girlfriend, and he was just your boyfriend, and the two of you were simply... together.

The tabloids still covered you, of course, they always would, but the tone shifted. The invasive headlines gave way to something almost affectionate. The speculation about breakups and cheating scandals was replaced by stories about your red carpet appearances, your joint holidays, the way Martin looked at you during interviews.

"CORTIS Frontman and Model Girlfriend: The Coolest Couple in Rock?" —NME

"Martin Edwards and Y/N Y/L/N: How They Became Music's Most Stylish Pair" —Vogue

"Rockstar Romance: Why Martin and Y/N Are Relationship Goals" —Rolling Stone

You'd laugh every time you saw a new headline, shoving the magazine in Martin's face. "Did you see this? We're 'relationship goals.'"

He'd grin, pulling you into his lap. "They're not wrong."

You'd roll your eyes, but you'd be smiling. "You have such a big ego."

"You love it."

And you did. You really did.

The fans embraced you too. At first, there had been the inevitable backlash: jealous comments, cruel speculation, girls who swore you weren't good enough for him. But you weathered it, never engaging, never stooping to their level. You showed up to shows, stood quietly by his side, and let your actions speak for themselves.

Slowly, the fans came around. They saw the way Martin looked at you like you'd hung the moon, and how you supported him by showing up even when you didn't have to. They saw the small moments: him holding your hand backstage, you fixing his collar before he went on stage, the private smiles you exchanged across crowded rooms.

Soon, you weren't just Martin Edwards' girlfriend. You were the girl who'd tamed the rockstar. The one who could walk a runway in couture and still stand in the pit at one of his shows despite the rowdy crowd. The one who never looked fazed, never seemed rattled, never let the cameras get to her.

You'd become a style icon in your own right, your red carpet looks dissected and praised. You'd become a fixture at award shows, a staple of magazine covers, a name that stood on its own. And through it all, Martin was right beside you, his hand always finding yours, his eyes always seeking you out in a crowd.

The press called you the coolest couple, the most stylish pair, the relationship goals of a generation, but to you, it was simpler than that. You were just two people who'd found each other in the chaos, and had held on dearly when everything tried to pull you apart.

─ 마틴 ୨୧ ✿ you’d think that with a six-foot-three stature, martin would be impossible to dodge, but the moment he leans his tall figure down to press his lips to yours, you instinctively turn your head away to look at the wall instead. it’s not that you don’t love him, it’s just that he’s been buried in music production for thirty-six hours straight ignoring you which makes you want to tease him a little bit before getting affectionate. martin freezes instantly in that half-bent position, his arms still braced against the armrests of your chair, looking completely blindsided by the sudden rejection. he doesn't get angry, but his dramatic nature takes over as he lets out a heavy, exaggerated sigh against your neck, muttering about how the leader of cortis gets no respect at home. he stays right there, hovering over you like a giant, brooding cloud, refusing to fully pull back until you give him a proper explanation or at least a consoling pat on the back for his bruised ego.

─ 제임스 ୨୧ ✿ james doesn't make a big deal out of things, so when he tilts his chin down for a casual, sweet kiss goodbye and you smoothly turn it into a cheek graze by turning your head, he doesn't blink an eye or drop his signature calm composure. but because he notices absolutely every microscopic shift in your body language, his eyes narrow just a fraction as he pulls back to properly read your face. he stays perfectly quiet for a few seconds, merely studying the way you avoid his direct gaze, before a slow, amused smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. james just finds it entirely comical that you think you can pull a fast one on him after all this time, especially when you’re usually the one clinging to his arm during movie night. instead of forcing the issue or letting you slide out of the room, he casually reaches out to trap your waist with one hand, pulling you a little closer just to tease you about why exactly you’re acting so shy all of a sudden.

─ 주훈 ୨୧ ✿ juhoon takes affection very seriously, so the exact second you turn your face away from his approaching kiss, his entire expression drops into something incredibly piteous and genuinely dejected. it’s almost funny how quickly his usual cool aura completely evaporates, leaving him looking like a completely heartbroken puppy whose favourite person just walked right past him without a second glance. he lets his hand drop from your cheek entirely, taking a half-step back as if he needs to re-evaluate the entire state of your relationship based on that one single dodged kiss. you have to quickly explain to him that you’re just wearing fresh, expensive lip gloss that you don’t want ruined before your dinner plans, or else he’ll spend the next twenty minutes sitting on the edge of the couch in total silence, subtly overthinking everything and casting dramatic, lingering glances your way until you finally give in and give him the attention he craves.

─ 성현 ୨୧ ✿ seonghyeon is so quiet and observant that when you dodge his kiss, he doesn't even ask you why, choosing instead to let out a tiny, soft chuckle under his breath as he casually sticks his hands into his hoodie pockets. he’s so used to living in his own head that he immediately treats your sudden evasiveness like a little puzzle or a game he needs to figure out. he doesn't try to lean in a second time or push your boundaries, but he keeps his sharp, fox-like eyes locked directly onto yours with a knowing, playful glint that makes you feel entirely exposed. he’ll just stand there in the middle of the room, blocking your path out of the kitchen with a relaxed posture, quietly waiting you out because he knows you can't survive more than two minutes of his intense staring before you break and tell him exactly what’s going on.

─ 건호 ୨୧ ✿ as the youngest, keonho already handles affection with a mix of playful confidence and hidden shyness, so when you abruptly duck beneath his arm to avoid his lips, his immediate reaction is a loud, defensive protest. he completely forgets his composure and lets out a sharp whiny sound, demanding to know what exactly he did wrong to deserve being treated like a total stranger in his own space. he’ll follow you directly into the next room, complaining the entire way about how unfair it is that he spent a grueling five-hour dance practice thinking about coming home to you, only to get the absolute cold shoulder the minute he walks through the door. even if you tell him it’s because his skin is freezing from the cold night air outside, keonho will just use that as an excuse to shamelessly wrap his arms completely around your shoulders, deliberately burying his cold face into the crook of your neck until you finally stop laughing and face him properly.

© hyuneskkami ❦

‘💬’ ─ most of this is crashing out since i met the pictures limit but i think its valid 😅 #totallynotbiased