#k-films

ONE YEAR AGO. FIRST YEAR OF UNI — about you ✫ the 1975 [wc. 17,082]

the acceptance emails arrived on a friday night. your families were gathered around the dinner table at martin’s house, half-finished plates pushed aside while your mothers argued over whether homemade kimchi tasted better after three days or five. 

your friends spammed the group chat every thirty seconds with increasingly unhelpful encouragements.

juhoon: if either of you fail, im actually disowning you both

james: yn would survive

james: martin would become one of those tortured

underground soundcloud musicians living off ramen

martin: fuck you

yn: he already lives off ramen so he’s halfway there actually

wonhee: OPEN THE FUCKING EMAILS OFMG????

your laptop was open in front of you like it personally wanted to ruin your life. martin sat beside you on the floor, his knee pressed against yours while his fingers tapped anxiously against a soda can. he looked calmer than you, but only because he’d mastered the art of looking relaxed while internally panicking.

“why does the portal look so ominous?” you whispered.

“because universities enjoy psychological warfare,” he muttered back.

your father leaned over the couch dramatically. “just open it already.”

“easy for you to say,” you groaned. “you’re not the one whose uncertain future is sitting behind a loading screen.”

martin snorted softly beside you. “dramatic ass.”

“you literally threw up before your audition evaluation,” you reminded him. 

“that was different.”

“you threw up on juhoon’s shoes.”

“okay, and? they were ugly shoes.”

“they were his new vans!”

“exactly.”

“open the emails!” your mothers yelled simultaneously from the dining table. you flinched so hard you accidentally clicked the email. for one horrible second, neither of you breathed.

‘congratulations.’

your eyes widened so quickly it hurt. martin made a strangled noise beside you. “holy shit.”

“holy shit,” you echoed breathlessly.

fashion major and music production major. same university. same campus in busan.

“we got in?” you shouted.

“we got in!” martin repeated louder.

suddenly everybody was yelling. your mom started crying instantly, like you’d won a nobel prize. martin’s mother cried harder. your fathers high-fived so aggressively that one of the glasses on the table between them nearly tipped over. wonhee spam-called you five times in a row while juhoon sent fifteen voice messages screaming incoherently.

martin grabbed your face with both hands so suddenly you barely processed it before he pulled you into him in the tightest hug imaginable.“we actually did it,” he laughed breathlessly into your neck.

you smiled instantly, because he sounded really happy. you hugged him back just as tightly. “we’re moving to busan,” you whispered disbelievingly.

“together.”

“together.”

the word settled dangerously deep inside your chest, and you hated how much you loved that word when it came from him.

soon, moving day arrived far too quickly for your liking.

seoul station looked unbearably and annoyingly crowded at six in the morning, filled with rushing people dragging luggage behind them while train announcements echoed overhead every few minutes. you stood beside martin near the platform entrance looking half-dead with a drink from a nearby cafe in one hand, and your suitcase threatening to collapse beside you.

“why do you own these many clothes?” martin complained while dragging two of your suitcases at once.

“fashion major,” you replied immediately. “it’s academic dedication.”

“you packed six jackets.”

“what if i need options?”

“you’re insane.”

“yet you carried them anyway,” you grinned sleepily.

he rolled his eyes, but adjusted his grip on your luggage without complaining further. your parents hovered nearby acting like you were being shipped off to war instead of university.

“call me every night,” your mom sniffled dramatically.

“don’t eat convenience store food every day,” martin’s father warned.

“don’t get married in busan without telling us first,” your father added.

you and martin looked at each other instantly before bursting into laughter.

“we’re skipping taxes, remember? we’ll be fine!” you called back.

martin nearly choked laughing while your mothers groaned in unison, muttering something about how ‘these kids will never change’.

eventually, after approximately five hundred warnings and emotional speeches later, you boarded the train together. the moment your seats came into view, you immediately claimed the window seat.

“i get motion sickness,” martin argued.

“skill issue. i want to look at the beautiful world outside.”

“yn.”

“martin,” you smiled threateningly. 

he stared at you flatly for a second before sighing dramatically and sitting beside you anyway. “if i throw up on you, that’s on you. literally.”

“you’re the least threatening person alive, bro.”

“i microwaved crayons once.”

“and nearly died.”

“exactly.”

the train began moving slowly after that, seoul gradually blurring into passing buildings outside the windows. you stared outside quietly for a moment… busan. university. a completely different life. and you had martin right by your side. 

in the seat beside yours, he leaned back with his hood pulled over his messy hair slightly, eyes half-lidded from the exhaustion of carrying your suitcases and having to wake up early that morning.

“you nervous?” he asked softly.

you thought about it honestly before nodding. “…a little.”

he looked at you immediately. and then, naturally, like it was instinct, his hand found yours between your seats. just for a second; just enough to give you a reassuring squeeze before pulling away again, but your stupid heart nearly exploded anyway.

“we’ll be okay,” he said quietly. you believed him immediately because he had such a way with words, that you always ended up believing him.

busan felt louder and saltier than seoul somehow. the air smelled faintly like the ocean mixed with traffic and hot food from nearby street vendors. your university campus was enormous, spread across hills that overlooked the harbor. students dragged suitcases through pathways while orientation banners hung between buildings.

“who designed this campus?” you complained while dragging your suitcase uphill. “the devil?”

martin laughed breathlessly beside you. “you’ve complained ten times in the last five minutes.”

“because my shoulders are collapsing into themselves. even james didn’t run me into the ground so hard during practice in high school,” you complained. 

eventually, you both reached the dormitory buildings.

the music majors’ dorms sat directly opposite the arts and fashion majors’ dorms, connected by one long hallway in the newer shared wing.

you stared at the room numbers in disbelief. “no way,” you said slowly.

martin looked between the doors twice before laughing. “you’re kidding.”

room 520.

room 521.

right beside each other.

“that feels spiritually concerning,” you muttered.

“our parents are gonna think this is fate.”

“our mothers are gonna start planning grandchildren immediately.”

“horrifying sentence. never say that again.”

you grinned tiredly while fishing your dorm keycard that you were given on entry, from your pocket. the doors opened almost simultaneously.

your dorm rooms were painfully small, but cozy in a way that felt exciting instead of sad—single beds shoved against walls, tiny desks near wide windows overlooking parts of the city below, unpacked boxes stacked everywhere. you immediately flopped face-first onto your mattress.

“…i live here now,” you mumbled into the sheets.

martin leaned against your doorway with his arms crossed loosely. “you sound like your puppy died.”

“i think my spine dissolved during that train ride.”

he smiled softly for a second before glancing toward your unpacked boxes. “need help?”

“with what? emotional recovery?”

“unpacking, idiot.”

you lifted your head slightly to look at him. “…maybe.”

three hours later, your room somehow looked worse—clothes covered half the floor. one of your desk drawers refused to close properly. martin sat cross-legged near your bed untangling fairy lights while you aggressively fought with hangers.

“why the fuck is all this taking so long?” you complained.

“because you packed your closet like a wild animal.”

“fashion is a difficult art form.”

“this isn’t fashion anymore,” he held up one of your tangled necklaces. “this is archaeological excavation.”

before you could defend yourself, your stomach growled violently. martin looked up immediately. “…beautiful timing. very cinematic.”

“shut up.”

you walked out of your room together, heading downstairs. before either of you could decide where to eat, an older street vendor outside the dorm area spotted you both immediately. his eyes lit up.

“ahhh! young couple!” he grinned, waving you over excitedly. “special discount for pretty students today!” you blinked. martin blinked harder.

“…we’re not—” he started immediately.

“fifty percent off,” the vendor added casually. you froze. slowly, you turned toward martin. he already looked horrified because he knew that expression on your face.

“yn,” he warned quietly.

you grabbed his sleeve instantly. “play along.”

“what?”

“we’re about to become broke university students drowning in debt,” you hissed. “this is survival.”

“you can’t just fake-date for dumplings.”

“watch me. i’m saving us from poverty.”

before he could argue further, you kicked his shin lightly. he looked deeply betrayed. “ow?!”

“babe,” you said through gritted teeth with the fakest smile imaginable. “stop embarrassing me in front of the nice man.”

martin stared at you like you’d become possessed.

the vendor laughed loudly. “ahhh, young love!”

“i hate you,” martin muttered under his breath, so only you could hear.

“no, you don’t,” you replied automatically, smiling. his expression shifted for one dangerous second because that sentence had followed you both your entire lives. you hated how your heart still reacted to it.

the vendor handed over your dwaeji gukbap afterward with a delighted smile and a ridiculous amount of extra side dishes.

“take care of your girlfriend!” he told martin seriously. martin nearly inhaled wrong. you kicked him again before he could deny it.

“he will,” you answered brightly.

eventually, you both sat outside the dorm building near the campus, eating discounted busan food, while the evening sunlight reflected gold against the distant harbor.

“you’re actually evil,” martin informed you between bites.

“and yet,” you pointed your chopsticks at him accusingly, “you’re eating the fake-couple discount food.”

“…it is really good.”

“exactly.”

he laughed softly after that, shaking his head while the sea breeze moved through his hair. you looked at him quietly for a second too long. busan looked good on him already… dangerously good. the sunlight softened the edges of his face while he sat beside you in an oversized hoodie and tired eyes and that same familiar expression you’d spent your whole life memorising without meaning to. and suddenly, horribly, your chest hurt again because nothing had changed—new city. new university. new beginning. same boy. same unbearable love.

he glanced toward you mid-bite. “why are you staring at me now?” your heart nearly stopped.

“you’ve got sauce on your face,” you lied instantly, scoffing.

his eyes widened slightly. “where?”

you leaned forward automatically before thinking properly, thumb brushing lightly against the corner of his mouth. everything went still as your breath caught, and he froze too. the harbor sounds blurred softly around you. crashing waves, zooming cars, distant voices—none of it mattered in that moment, because he was looking at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe for one terrifying second. then you pulled away too quickly.

“…there,” you muttered.

he blinked quickly, throat bobbing once. “oh.”

you looked down at your food immediately because eye contact felt life-threatening. beside you, he stayed unusually quiet afterward, and neither of you noticed the street vendor smiling knowingly from across the road.

somehow, martin’s room took only nineteen minutes to unpack. you stood in the middle of room 520 with your hands on your hips while he finished shoving the last few hoodies into his closet.

“…i hate you,” you said flatly.

martin looked up from where he sat cross-legged beside an almost-empty suitcase. “because i’m efficient?”

“because you own, like, four shirts.”

“they’re good shirts.”

“they’re all just solid colours.”

“exactly,” he nodded seriously. “versatile.”

you stared at his closet in disbelief—three oversized zip-up hoodies, three black shirts, two white ones, four coloured shirts with literally no design on them, cargos folded with suspicious neatness, and one leather jacket hanging carefully near the corner. that was literally it.

“martin edwards park,” you said slowly, “this is psychotic behavior.”

“i’m a music major. we dress like divorced indie dads.”

“you’re nearly twenty.”

“artistically divorced.”

you snorted despite yourself before turning toward the rest of his room. unfortunately, his room looked annoyingly cool already. his desk sat near the window with speakers stacked carefully beside his laptop. vinyl records leaned against the wall near the shelf. a silver pair of headphones rested around the neck of a desk lamp like decoration. even his bed somehow looked aesthetic.

you hated men.

“your room looks like a pinterest board,” you accused.

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“still taking it as one.”

you wandered toward the small rack beside his desk where a few accessories already hung neatly—chains, rings, a pair of wired earphones, beanies, his stupid black skull necklace.

“you packed accessories before basic survival necessities?” you turned toward him in disbelief.

he shrugged once. “priorities.”

“you brought one towel.”

“and?”

“you live like a cryptid.”

“you own ten lip glosses.”

“those are emotionally important.”

“my chains are emotionally important too.”

you narrowed your eyes at him before opening another drawer—more rings, more chains, suspicious amounts of silver jewelry for someone who owned only six-ish shirts. “oh my god,” you laughed. “you’re actually one of those boys.”

“what boys?” his nose scrunched in genuine curiosity.

“the ‘i wear one outfit every day but accessorise differently, so people think i’m fashionable’ boys.”

he gasped dramatically. “slander. take that back, yn!”

“martin, your entire wardrobe is literally if dark academia had a child with an underground soundcloud producer, and then they got divorced.”

“and your wardrobe looks like a futuristic bratz doll exploded.”

“…that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

he laughed quietly while standing up from the floor. today, he wore oversized faded black jeans with silver chains hanging from the belt loops, a washed-out light grey thermal shirt layered beneath a loose zip hoodie, and rings decorating nearly every finger. his hair fell messily over his eyes because he refused to cut it again. he looked unfairly pretty and annoyingly cool. you hated how well he fit beside you aesthetically now. because you matched; you always matched.

“stop staring at me weirdly,” he said suddenly.

your eyes widened. “i wasn’t.”

“you were.”

“prove it.”

“your eyes were literally pointed at my face. again.”

“i was zoning out because your room smells like ugliness and matcha.”

“it’s not that bad,” he said dryly.

“it so is,” you grinned.

he smiled helplessly at you before grabbing the last empty suitcase. “okay, come on. let’s go unpack your apocalypse bunker now.”

three hours later, he deeply regretted offering help. your room looked catastrophic—clothes covered nearly every visible surface, even after so many hours of trying to organise them. open suitcases spilled fabric across the floor, and jewelry tangled across your desk like tiny metal casualties of war.

martin stood frozen in the middle of the destruction holding up a tiny rhinestone baby tee between two fingers. “…what is this supposed to be?”

you looked up from your closet and shrugged. “a shirt.”

“for a small mouse?”

“it’s supposed to fit like that.”

he stared at it again. “i think i could use this as an eyepatch.”

“you have no vision.”

“i have too much vision actually. this room is hurting my eyes.”

you ignored him, scoffing, while hanging up another outfit carefully. unlike his mostly monochrome wardrobe, yours looked like a cyber-slash-neo-y2k fever dream—baby tees with glitter text, off-shoulder tops, oversized fur-lined jackets, mini skirts layered over ripped tights and flared jeans, low-rise cargos with dangling straps, track jackets in silver and gorgeous blue, platform boots, doc martens, and mary janes lined beneath your bed, arm warmers, mesh tops, decorated cross-body bags with charms hanging off the zippers. and belts. so many belts.

martin sat cross-legged beside one suitcase after a while, silently watching you pull out outfit after outfit like a magician performing increasingly concerning tricks. “why do your pants have nine unnecessary buckles?” he asked eventually.

“because they’re cute.”

“they look like they could survive a natural disaster.”

“that’s the goal.”

he held up another item. “is this even a shirt?”

“yes.”

“where’s the rest of it?”

“martin, you dress like a widowed underground bassist. don’t piss me off.”

he burst out laughing immediately. “widowed?”

“you look like your wife died mysteriously in 1990 and now you only communicate through unreleased mixtapes.”

he physically bent forward laughing this time. “that is genuinely insanely creative.”

“am i wrong?”

“...only a little.”

you grinned triumphantly before tossing another jacket onto the bed. he watched quietly while you continued unpacking. and honestly? your clothes looked cool to him—very you—messy, expressive, and dramatic in the same way your sketchbooks looked.

he picked up a black-and-pink jersey top with airbrushed graphics across the front. “wait, this one’s good-good.”

you looked over instantly. “right?” you grinned. 

“you’d look good in that.” his words slipped out naturally, but your heart still reacted violently anyway.

you turned away quickly before he noticed your expression. “…i know,” you answered weakly.

he didn’t notice the effect he had on you… or maybe he did. that was the terrifying thing sometimes—you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.

eventually, he wandered toward the clothing rack beside your desk while you fought with your favourite tangled necklaces nearby.

“why do you own so many clothes?” he asked again.

“fashion major,” you repeated automatically.

“this feels less like fashion and more like archival research.”

you gasped. “oh my god, shut your damn mouth.”

he laughed softly before pulling one jacket carefully from the rack.

a black cropped leather jacket with silver studs and spikes that you’d worked on yourself, a few nights back.

“…this one’s cool,” he said.

“don’t touch her with your greasy musician hands.”

“greasy musician—wow.”

you grinned before finally looking over at him properly, and then you paused, because he had absentmindedly thrown the jacket over his shoulder while looking through your rack. it suited him disgustingly well.

your stupid stylish best friend. “wait,” you narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “try it on.”

he blinked once. “what?”

“put it on once.”

“yn.”

“martin.”

he sighed dramatically before sliding the jacket on anyway. your heart betrayed you instantly, because damn. the cropped fit sat perfectly against his frame over the loose shirt he wore, silver jewelry glinting under the dorm lights while his hair fell into his eyes messily. he looked like he belonged on the cover of some underground fashion magazine titled ‘emotionally unavailable boys with guitars’. you hated it so much. you loved him so much.

“…wow,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

he looked down at the jacket sleeves. “it’s kinda nice.”

“kinda?” you repeated incredulously, eyes widening in faux annoyance.

he looked back up at you then, and froze slightly, because you were staring again. not teasingly this time; just staring. your eyes moved over him slowly before snapping away too late. his throat bobbed once.

“…why are you looking at me like that?” he asked quietly. your heart nearly exploded inside your ribcage.

“because,” you answered quickly, turning back toward your closet, “you look stupid as fuck.”

“liar,” he murmured softly behind you. your hands stopped moving immediately, just for one second, but martin noticed anyway.

silence stretched strangely. you could practically feel his eyes on your back now, warm and steady and entirely too aware. your heart beat annoyingly harder while you aggressively untangled a necklace that honestly did not need that much concentration.

“you say ‘liar’ like you’re in some netflix mafia drama,” you muttered finally, aiming for casual, but landing somewhere near emotionally unstable.

he snorted softly behind you. “what does that even mean?”

“you know exactly what i mean.”

“i really don’t.”

you turned around finally, narrowing your eyes at him while pointing accusingly toward his face. “that voice.”

“…my normal voice?”

“yeah. your suspiciously deep, weirdly calm voice.”

he blinked innocently. “sorry for having vocal cords, i guess?”

“don’t piss me off, edwards.”

“you’re acting like i transformed into batman,” he choked out.

“close enough honestly.”

he laughed quietly, shoulders shaking slightly beneath your jacket—your jacket that still looked disgustingly good on him, unfortunately. you hated how aware you were of every little thing… the rings on his fingers, the chain resting perfectly against his collarbone, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms.

god. men should be illegal.

“you’re staring again,” he pointed out casually.

“i’m literally not.”

“you literally are.”

“prove it in a court of law.”

“for the hundredth time, yn, your eyes are pointed directly at me.”

“maybe i’m looking at the wall behind you.”

“there is no wall behind me,” he looked back at the empty space.

“okay, well. maybe… spiritually there is,” you tried helplessly.

martin burst into laughter immediately. “spiritually?” he repeated. “what the hell does that even mean?”

“don’t worry about it.”

“no, explain yourself.”

“i don’t owe you explanations,” you rolled your eyes.

“you absolutely do after saying crazy shit like that,” he grinned.

you scoffed dramatically before turning back toward your closet again. “whatever. give me my jacket back.”

instead of answering, you heard him shuffle closer behind you—too close. your stupid nervous system reacted instantly.

“hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “i don’t know.”

you looked over your shoulder suspiciously. “martin.”

“it’s kinda comfortable.”

“martin.”

“and i think,” he continued calmly, adjusting the collar slightly, “i pull it off better.”

you gasped so violently it was almost theatrical. “you bitch.”

he looked extremely delighted with himself now. “language.”

“don’t ‘language’ me in my own dorm room!”

“make me.”

“oh my god,” you laughed loudly. “you move to busan for one day and actually think you’re tough.”

“i’ve always been tough,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

you stared at him flatly. “you cried during toy story 3.”

“everybody cried during toy story 3.”

“you cried during kung fu panda too.”

“…emotional depth.”

“you cried because the turtle died.”

“master oogway mattered to me!”

you physically bent over laughing.

he pointed accusingly at you immediately. “don’t laugh! you cried because your tamagotchi died in fifth grade!”

“that was different!.”

“you held a funeral.”

“because she had hopes! and dreams!”

“it was a pixel.”

“she was a mother.”

he laughed so hard he nearly stumbled backward into your desk. “oh my god,” he wheezed, clutching his stomach slightly. “you’re actually really weird.”

“you literally helped me bury it.”

“because you were crying too hard to dig properly!”

you both laughed together again after that—the kind that hurt your stomach after a while and made breathing difficult. he leaned against the side of your closet trying unsuccessfully to regain composure while you sat half-collapsed on the floor beside your bed wiping tears from under your eyes.

“i hate you,” he laughed breathlessly.

“you’re the one who attended the funeral.”

“you made a playlist.”

“because even mourning requires ambiance.”

he made the most offended noise imaginable before grabbing one of your throw pillows and throwing it directly at your face.

you gasped. “violence?!”

“self-defense.”

“i didn’t even attack!” you immediately launched the pillow back at him. unfortunately, he caught it easily.

“oh, you’re done for now,” he said calmly, standing up straight.

your eyes widened instantly. “don’t.”

“you started this.”

“martin.”

he took a step toward you.

you scrambled backward across the bed immediately. “martin edwards park.”

“government name, huh? serious situation.”

“don’t you dare.”

his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “why are you scared?”

“i’m not scared.”

“then why are you retreating like a medieval peasant avoiding the plague?”

“because you fight dirty!”

“that sounds like fear.”

“that sounds like shut the fuck up.”

he grinned dangerously. oh no. you recognised that grin.

“martin,” you warned.

“hm?”

“don’t.”

“don’t what?”

“you know exactly what.”

he lunged, and you shrieked instantly.

“oh my god—” he grabbed your ankle before you could escape properly, dragging you back toward him while laughing so hard his voice cracked slightly. “martin!” you wheezed. “martin! stop—!”

“you called me a widowed bassist!”

“i wasn’t wrong!”

“rude.”

his hands found your sides immediately, making you fold in on yourself so fast you nearly fell off the bed. because unfortunately, tragically, your biggest weakness in life was tickling.

“no—!” you gasped between helpless laughter. “martin, i swear to god—”

“swear to god what?” he laughed, leaning over you slightly while continuing his attack. “you gonna spiritually fight me, pretty girl?” you hated that you physically could not breathe properly right now.

“i hate you!” you cried dramatically, trying unsuccessfully to shove him away.

“liar.”

“martin—stop—i can’t breathe—”

“sounds fake.”

“you sound fake!”

he laughed harder at that, hands finally easing slightly while you tried desperately to recover your dignity. unfortunately, in your attempt to push him away, your legs tangled together weirdly. he lost balance immediately. “wait—” you grabbed his sleeve instinctively: big mistake. 

the next second, both of you toppled sideways onto the mattress messily. your breath left your lungs in a startled laugh. he caught himself at the last second with one hand pressed into the bed beside your head. everything went still way too quickly afterward.

your laughter faded slowly first, and then his, because suddenly he was hovering over you close—way too close.

his hair fell into his eyes messily from laughing too hard moments earlier. your jacket still hung loosely from his shoulders. one of his rings brushed lightly against your wrist where his hand rested near yours against the sheets. your chest rose too fast beneath him, and his breathing wasn’t exactly steady either.

hallway noise echoed faintly somewhere beyond your door, but right now, it was just you. and him. and the terrifying awareness of how close his face was to yours right now.

he looked at you for one dangerous second too long. your eyes dropped instinctively toward his mouth, then immediately back up. unfortunately, he noticed.

he swallowed. “…hi,” he said quietly.

your heart nearly killed you. “…hi.”

neither of you moved, which honestly felt worse, because every second stretched tighter and tighter between you both like something fragile about to snap. his gaze flickered slowly across your face—to your lips, and then back to your eyes again—like he was thinking too much again. or maybe… like he was trying not to think at all. you could feel his breath against your skin, and your pulse felt genuinely humiliating.

“…you have really long eyelashes,” you blurted out. he blinked once in confusion, and laughed softly under his breath, cracking the tension just slightly.

“that’s your observation?” he murmured.

“i panic when i’m nervous.”

“i noticed.”

“shut up, mars.”

his smile softened at the familiar nickname in a dangerously affectionate way, and somehow that expression hurt worse than anything else, because nobody should look at their best friend like that. right?

the room had gone completely quiet after that. not awkward-quiet, but worse—the kind where every tiny thing suddenly became noticeable all at once: the sound of your breathing, the way his hand had instinctively braced itself beside your head against the mattress, the warmth of his body hovering over yours, the fact that your laughter had faded into something softer without either of you realising when it happened.

his hair had fallen into his eyes from laughing too hard earlier—soft dark strands hanging over his forehead—while his cheeks still stayed faintly flushed from literally wrestling you over something stupid you couldn’t even remember anymore.

“you’re insane,” he breathed out quietly, though he sounded more affected than annoyed.

“you started it,” you whispered back automatically.

“no, actually, you started it when you threatened to put some leopard print scarf on me.”

“because it would elevate your aura.”

“my aura does not need elevating.”

“yes it does. your outfit looked like a divorced rockstar.”

“that is literally the coolest thing anybody has ever said to me.”

you snorted softly despite yourself, but neither of you moved, which was the problem. because now? you were suddenly very aware that martin edwards park was bracing himself over you on your dorm bed while your faces were way too close, and his eyes kept flickering down toward your lips before darting away again like he hated himself for it.

his expression softened slowly. “…your eyeliner smudged,” he murmured quietly.

“oh.”

neither of you moved to fix it. god damn.

the late afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through your window, warm against the side of his face, while city noise drifted faintly from somewhere outside campus. one of your unpacked chrome belts dug painfully into your side, but honestly? you could’ve been getting stabbed and still not moved.

he swallowed again.

“so,” you said weakly, because your brain stopped functioning properly around him sometimes, “you’re, like… really heavy.”

his jaw dropped slightly in disbelief. “wow.”

“i’m just saying.”

“i’m literally holding myself up.”

“barely.”

“yn.”

“what?”

“you’re evil.”

“you’ve been saying that since we were six.”

“because it’s always been true since we were six.”

you grinned faintly, and he stared at your smile. and there it was again—that uncertain shift in the air; because suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty he looked this close. or how easy it would be to—

the dorm room door suddenly swung open. “oh my god?!” you both jerked violently apart like criminals caught committing tax fraud.

a girl stood frozen in the doorway with two massive tote bags hanging off her shoulders and a suitcase beside her. she had long dark hair and really pretty eyes you could get lost in. she was wearing an oversized zip-up hoodie and pink headphones rested around her neck. she blinked at the situation in front of her, and then her expression transformed into pure delight.

“…no because, this is crazy,” she said immediately. your soul left your body.

“wait—”

“hi!” she grinned brightly, looking between both of you like she’d just walked into free entertainment. “i’m yunjin. your dormmate apparently. and wow. first day too? you guys move fast.”

“we weren’t—”

“she attacked me,” martin said at the exact same time.

you turned toward him in betrayal. “excuse me?”

“you literally tackled me onto the bed.”

“you were tickling me!”

“because you called my jeans emotionally unemployed.”

“that’s because they are emotionally unemployed!”

yunjin stared at both of you for a long second before slowly setting her bags down. “so… are you guys dating already or are you doing that thing where you act married for seven years before realising you’re in love with each other?”

you and martin froze. “we’re not in love with each other,” you both said at the same time. 

yunjin’s smile widened dangerously. “oh, you’re that kind of duo.”

“please don’t psychoanalyze us,” martin groaned, dragging a hand down his face while sitting up properly from the bed.

“i’m literally a fashion major,” yunjin said. “psychoanalysing people is part of the curriculum.”

“it is not,” you muttered weakly. she ignored you completely.

“you,” she pointed directly at martin, “look at her like she invented music.”

martin choked on air. “i do not.”

“you literally folded her tiny sparkly tank tops like they were historical artifacts.”

“they wrinkle easily!” he defended weakly. 

“and you,” she pointed dramatically at you, “look at him like you’d forgive him for arson.”

you opened your mouth, then closed it again. “…depends on the circumstances,” you admitted.

martin made the most offended noise imaginable while yunjin doubled over laughing. “oh my god, you guys are insane.”

the knock that sounded against the still-open doorframe wasn't particularly loud, but it was enough to cut through the chaos that had completely consumed the room. all three of you looked up at once.

a tall guy stood awkwardly in the doorway, balancing a cardboard box against his hip as though he’d already begun regretting every decision that had led him here. written across the side of the box in thick black marker were the words ‘vinyl collection: do not touch’, which somehow felt like a warning and a personality trait at the same time. he had on a dark hoodie, and had messy hair, paired with the sort of perpetually sleepy expression that made it look like he’d been dragged out of bed against his will and still hadn't fully recovered from the traumatic experience.

for a second, he simply stared. his gaze swept slowly across the room, taking in the half-unpacked suitcases that seemed to have exploded across every available surface, martin sitting on the edge of your bed looking deeply offended by circumstances entirely of his own making, you still gripping a fuzzy leopard-print scarf like you were seconds away from committing a crime, and yunjin, who appeared to be experiencing the strongest laughing fit of her life.

the guy blinked. then blinked again. “...uh.” his voice carried the careful caution of someone approaching an unfamiliar animal. “before i make assumptions here, is one of you martin?”

martin immediately looked up. “yeah?”

the relief that crossed the stranger’s face was almost embarrassing to witness. “oh, thank god.” he shifted the box higher in his arms before exhaling dramatically. “no, seriously. thank god.”

martin frowned. “what?”

“i'm heeseung—your roommate.” he pointed vaguely toward the neighboring dorm room. “i’ve been standing outside the room for, like, fifteen minutes trying to figure out whether you got lost during move-in, got kidnapped, or somehow died or switched majors before classes even started.”

a horrified gasp escaped yunjin. “no, because, he almost did die.”

martin’s expression immediately twisted. “i absolutely did not almost die.”

“he did,” yunjin insisted. “emotionally.”

“i don’t think that’s a thing.”

“it became a thing the second she started unpacking.”

you stared at her. “we met ten minutes ago.”

“and yet,” she replied without hesitation, “i’ve somehow managed to be correct about every situation i’ve encountered.” the confidence in her voice was genuinely concerning.

heeseung’s eyes moved slowly between all three of you, long enough for him to begin understanding dynamics he absolutely should not have understood this quickly. finally, he nodded to himself. “...right.” nobody liked the way he said that.

“what?” martin asked suspiciously. heeseung looked at him. then at you. then at yunjin. then back at martin.

“this floor is going to be a complete nightmare.”

martin let out a long suffering sigh. “yeah.”

“absolutely,” yunjin agreed immediately.

“cool,” you strung along.

for a moment, heeseung looked prepared to leave. then something seemed to click. his eyes narrowed slightly. “...wait.”

martin visibly regretted whatever was about to happen. “what?”

“you’re that music guy.”

“what music guy?”

“the guitar account.”

martin blinked. for a second, genuine confusion crossed his face before realisation followed. “oh.”

“oh?” you echoed curiously. he immediately looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“yeah. i guess.” he rubbed the back of his neck slowly.

“no way.” heeseung laughed so suddenly it startled all of you. yunjin looked at him like she was ready to book him into a hospital. “dude, my sister listens to your covers all the time!”

your head snapped toward martin so fast it almost hurt. he looked horrified, while you looked delighted. 

“you never told me you already had campus clout,” you nudged his shoulder.

“i don’t have ‘campus clout’.”

“you have followers.”

“i posted, like, five videos.”

“exactly.” heeseung nodded with complete seriousness. “five too many.”

martin groaned loudly. “can everybody stop humiliating me for one day?”

“no,” the answer left you and yunjin at exactly the same time. the boys stared at you both. 

the betrayal on martin’s face was immediate. “you switched sides that fast?”

yunjin shrugged.

“she’s funny.”

“i’m funny,” you echoed.

“you got folded into a bed frame ten minutes ago,” he recalled.

“that was tactical weakness.”

“that’s not even a thing, dude,” heeseung chimed in, shaking his head. 

before you could stop yourself, laughter escaped you again. the sound came easier this time, and the worst part was that martin's attention found you immediately—like it always did; like it had been doing for years. his eyes moved toward you automatically, drawn there without thought, and for one very very stupid second the rest of the room seemed to blur around the edges. you hated how familiar that felt… hated how your chest still reacted to it… hated how every year that passed somehow made it worse instead of better.

“you are never living this day down,” martin informed you, pointing accusingly in your direction.

“correct,” yunjin said before you could answer. the traitor.

heeseung shifted the box in his arms, nearly losing his grip on one corner before catching it at the last second, and then jerked his head toward the hallway as though suddenly remembering that there were actual responsibilities waiting for them beyond whatever strange social experiment had apparently unfolded inside your dorm room. “anyway,” he said, glancing between the three of you, “orientation starts in, like, thirty minutes, and our RA gave an informal speech earlier that sounded suspiciously close to a threat. apparently anyone who shows up late is getting spiritually destroyed.”

martin let out a long groan that sounded like he was already exhausted by university despite having been a student for less than a day. “you say that like it’s a joke.”

“he wasn’t joking.”

“that’s worse.” with another dramatic sigh, he pushed himself up from the edge of your bed. immediately and very annoyingly, your stomach decided to betray you. it wasn’t even for a good reason, or at least that was what you told yourself. he was just standing up. people stood up all the time. there was absolutely no reason your brain should suddenly become hyperaware of the fact that his hair had gotten somehow messier during all the chaos, a few strands falling slightly into his eyes in a way that looked effortless despite the amount of effort it took other people to achieve that exact look. there was no reason you should notice that his hoodie sleeves had been pushed up sometime during the wrestling match he’d disguised as unpacking, exposing familiar forearms and familiar hands that you’d seen your entire life and somehow still couldn’t stop looking at. and there was definitely no reason you should notice the faint trace of pink still lingering across his cheeks from laughing earlier. that part felt particularly unfair because he looked happy; because you’d always liked the way he looked when he was happy; because some small, embarrassing part of you had spent years collecting moments like that without permission.

as though sensing your attention, he glanced down, and because apparently your body had given up pretending to cooperate with your dignity, you looked up at exactly the same moment. the eye contact happened naturally, like it always did, like neither of you had ever learned how not to find each other in a room. for a second, the noise around you seemed to blur into the background, and there it was again: that feeling. that horrible, impossible, unnamed thing that seemed to appear every time your eyes met and lingered a fraction too long—not enough to mean anything, but too much to mean nothing. the worst kind of almost.

yunjin noticed immediately, of course. her eyes widened ever so slightly before darting between the two of you, and the expression that crossed her face looked disturbingly similar to someone finally fitting the last piece into a puzzle.

“oh.” the word was barely louder than a whisper, more to herself than anyone else. 

martin’s reaction was immediate. without even looking away from you, he grabbed one of the plushies scattered across your bed and launched it directly at her face. it hit her shoulder. “don’t start.”

yunjin looked deeply offended. “you say that like i said something.”

“you were about to,” he finally looked at her.

“i wasn’t.”

“you absolutely were.”

the grin spreading across her face suggested otherwise. thankfully, heeseung chose that moment to rescue everyone from whatever conversation was about to happen. “c’mon,” he called, backing toward the hallway. “if we miss orientation because of whatever this is, i’m blaming all three of you weirdos.”

martin pointed at yunjin one last time. “this conversation isn’t over.”

“it absolutely is.”

“it isn’t.”

“it is.”

“it isn’t.” then he disappeared into the hallway with heeseung. and somehow, the room felt quieter, which was actually ridiculous. he’d been gone for maybe ten seconds; maybe less. you’d spent entire summers without seeing him sometimes—entire school breaks, entire vacations. so there was absolutely no logical reason for his absence to feel noticeable, and yet, the empty space he left behind seemed larger than it should have been, like the room had shifted around him without your permission.

“bro,” heeseung’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere in the hallway. “you literally had her pinned to the bed.” your entire body froze.

a beat later, martin’s horrified voice followed. “i was being assaulted.”

“you looked pretty happy about it.”

“shut up.”

the conversation dissolved into distant laughter before fading entirely. meanwhile, your face felt approximately nine hundred degrees. slowly, very slowly, yunjin turned toward you.

you pointed at her immediately. “don’t.”

“i haven’t even said anything.”

“your face is saying enough.”

her grin widened. “your face is saying significantly more.”

a groan escaped you before you could stop it. you threw yourself backward onto the mattress and buried your face into the nearest pillow. “i hate this university already.”

“no, you don’t.”

your voice came out muffled. “…maybe not entirely.”

“exactly.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke. you watched her from beneath the edge of the pillow as she crouched beside one of the suitcases she’d dragged in earlier and began unpacking with the confidence of somebody moving into a place she’d lived her entire life instead of somewhere she’d arrived less than an hour ago. and somehow, despite the fact that you’d only known her for ten minutes, the room already felt different—less temporary; less awkward; less like two strangers sharing a space. maybe it was because she behaved as though friendship was a foregone conclusion rather than something that needed to be carefully negotiated. or maybe it was because there was something familiar about her energy—the way she filled silence without overwhelming it, the way her teasing never felt cruel, the way she made conversation feel easy instead of exhausting. she seemed like the kind of person who could sit beside you for hours without making you feel responsible for entertaining them; the kind of person who made spaces feel lived in.

“are you planning on helping me unpack?” you looked up. she was holding an aggressively fluffy cardigan. “or,” she continued, entirely too casually, “are you planning on mourning your fake-boyfriend situationship for the rest of the evening?”

a horrified gasp escaped into the pillow from your mouth. “that wording was evil.”

“so that’s a yes?”

you considered pretending to be unconscious. unfortunately, she already knew you were alive. “...fine. yes.”

“excellent!”

with all the grace and dignity of a fallen soldier, you rolled off the bed and onto your feet before making your way toward her side of the room, already regretting every life choice that had somehow led to a complete stranger diagnosing your emotional problems within the first hour of meeting you.

the second you started helping yunjin unpack, everything about her suddenly began making sense, not in some life-altering revelation way, just in the quiet way people sometimes clicked into place once you saw the things they surrounded themselves with. her side of the room looked exactly how she felt: like somebody had taken the aesthetic of a clean-girl influencer, thrown it into a blender with an overenthusiastic theatre kid, and somehow ended up with something that just worked. lace tops spilled from one suitcase in soft pastel piles. oversized hoodies were tangled together like they'd been stuffed in at three in the morning with absolutely no concern for organisation. tiny silver rings and necklaces appeared every time she opened another pouch. chunky boots sat beside delicate camisoles. at least three different shades of pink existed within arm’s reach at all times.

and then there was the makeup bag, or rather, the makeup explosion. you watched in silence as what looked like approximately thirty lip products immediately attempted to escape the second she unzipped it.

your eyebrows climbed higher. “you own an unreasonable amount of pink.”

she didn’t even look up. she was too busy wrestling a cardigan off a hanger. “and you own enough belts to survive an apocalypse.”

you glanced toward your own side of the room. fair observation. “fashion is survival.”

“that sounds concerning.”

“that’s because you’re uncultured.”

“that’s because i think normal people don’t prepare for the collapse of civilisation through accessories.”

“normal people are boring.”

a laugh escaped before you both could stop it. the sound lingered comfortably between you for a moment, and the strange thing was that it shouldn’t have felt comfortable. somehow the awkwardness that usually accompanied meeting new people had already disappeared. maybe it was because yunjin seemed physically incapable of behaving like a stranger, or maybe it was because she’d walked into your life with the confidence of somebody who had already decided friendship was inevitable. either way, the room felt warmer now, less like two people assigned to share a space, and more like the beginning of something.

you reached for another hanger and slid a graphic tee onto it while yunjin continued unpacking at an almost alarming speed. for a few minutes, conversation drifted harmlessly between you.

“so,” she started.

the word immediately made you suspicious. not because of the word itself, because of the way she said it—slow. deliberate. dangerously casual.

you didn’t even bother looking at her. “no.”

“you haven’t even heard the question.”

“i don’t need to.”

“oh?”

you hung a sweater inside the wardrobe. “i already know where this is going.”

“and?”

“and no.”

the smile in her voice was audible, which meant she was absolutely going to ignore you. “how long have you and martin been in love with each other?”

the hanger slipped, not dramatically enough to hit the floor, just enough that you had to catch it again before it fell. across the room, yunjin looked deeply satisfied with herself. you looked horrified.

“we are not—”

“oh my god.” she dropped her head back immediately. “stop lying to me.”

“i’m not lying!”

“you absolutely are.”

“yunjin.”

“yn. i literally watched that entire k-drama scene unfold in front of me.”

“there was no scene.”

“there absolutely was.”

you groaned loudly. the problem wasn’t that she was asking, but that you knew exactly what she was talking about—every glance, every accidental touch, every stupid moment that had happened since move-in. and somehow hearing it out loud made everything feel worse. “it’s not like that.”

“then explain the eye contact.”

you immediately regretted engaging. “what eye contact?”

she stared at you. the look on her face suggested she was seconds away from filing a formal complaint against your intelligence. “the eye contact.”

“that explains nothing.”

“the eye contact where both of you looked approximately one second away from kissing.”

your soul wanted to leave your body immediately. “we were not—”

“you were.”

“we weren't.”

“you literally looked at each other like divorced lovers reuniting during wartime.”

you paused, and then blinked. “…that’s weirdly specific.”

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“answer the question.”

the sigh that escaped you felt old. you abandoned the hangers entirely before lowering yourself onto the floor beside her suitcase. the carpet scratched lightly against your legs. sunlight spilled through the dorm window, stretching golden across the room and catching on the silver jewelry scattered around yunjin’s side. for some reason, the domesticity of it all made this conversation worse, like you’d known her longer than a single afternoon.

“…we’ve known each other forever.”

the teasing expression on her face softened slightly. “how forever?”

you stared down at the sweater in your lap, at the loose thread hanging from one sleeve, at literally anything except her. “like…” the answer sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud. “...toddler forever.”

everything stopped. the tee she’d been folding froze halfway through the process. “oh.”

“yeah.”

“oh, this is serious serious.”

you immediately groaned. “it is not.”

“it absolutely is.”

“no.”

“yes.”

you grabbed one of her sweaters and began folding it with far more aggression than necessary. “it’s not serious.” the weakness of the argument was obvious, even to you.

she looked unconvinced. actually, she looked concerned, which somehow felt weirder. “it’s giving… soulmatism.”

you looked up at her with narrowed eyes. “that’s not a word.”

“it is now.”

“that’s not how language works.”

“language is fake.”

you hated that you laughed. you hated it even more because she looked unbearably pleased afterward. and somehow, after that, talking became dangerously easier. maybe it was because yunjin actually listened when people spoke, or maybe it was because she never treated emotions like inconveniences… or maybe it was because she had a way of making confessions feel casual, like you weren’t handing somebody pieces of yourself, but like you were simply continuing a conversation.

whatever the reason was, one story became another, and then another, and another, until you found yourself talking without really meaning to—about paper rings exchanged under warm lights, about strawberry milk cartons saved during lunch, about middle school dances, about train rides, about birthdays spent together, about aquariums, about all the tiny moments that shouldn’t have mattered so much but somehow did. the stories piled up around you—years and years of them—every single one somehow leading back to martin edwards park. 

by the time you finished talking, yunjin was sitting motionless on the floor surrounded by half-unpacked skincare products and jewelry organisers. she looked like somebody attempting to process a particularly devastating tv show finale. 

“…no because if this ends badly, i’m suing somebody.”

you immediately buried your face in your hands. “see?” your voice came out muffled. “this is exactly why i can’t tell him.”

“but he literally loves you.”

the words hit harder than they should have, making you shake your head immediately. “not like that.”

“yn.” the way she said your name made you nervous, like somebody preparing evidence. “that man learned your favorite anime opening on guitar in middle school.”

the memory surfaced immediately—martin sitting on the edge of his bed, frowning at sheet music, playing the same section over and over until he got it right. just because you’d mentioned liking it once. “…yeah.”

“he waits through your track practices.”

another memory—summer heat, bleachers, martin sitting through three straight hours of training with a bottle of water and absolutely no reason to be there. “…yeah.”

“he remembered the exact jellyfish exhibit you cried at when you were a kid.”

your chest hurt just a little because suddenly you weren’t in your dorm room anymore. you were ten years old again, standing in front of dark blue glass while jellyfish drifted through water like floating ghosts. you’d forgotten when exactly that had happened, what you’d eaten afterward, and almost everything else. but he remembered—of course he remembered. he remembered things the way other people collected photographs: carefully, quietly, keeping them safe until years later when he’d hand them back to you. “…yeah.”

“and today,” yunjin continued, sounding increasingly exasperated, “he looked ready to square up with god knows who because your eyeliner smudged.”

you let your head fall against the side of her suitcase. “that’s just his personality.”

a long silence stretched out, the kind that made you look up eventually. she was staring at you, just… staring. the look on her face suggested she’d reached a conclusion, and unfortunately for you, it wasn’t a flattering one. “you are actually the dumbest smart person i’ve ever met.”

you smiled weakly. “thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

before you could defend yourself, a sharp knock echoed through the room making both of you look toward the door.

“orientation in five!” heeseung’s voice carried through the hallway. then, after a brief pause, he added, “also martin walked into a wall literally thirty seconds ago.”

a horrified voice immediately followed. “heeseung, shut up.”

yunjin’s jaw dropped in amusement as she got ready to bully him about it for the next few years. “oh my god.”

you bit down on the inside of your cheek. unfortunately, that did absolutely nothing to stop the smile spreading across your face.

campus orientation was genuinely hellish: too many people, too much noise, and way too many overly cheerful upperclassmen wearing matching university hoodies while yelling directions through microphones like literal military commanders. the four of you ended up squeezed together near the back of the massive auditorium after barely finding seats beside each other. the air was thick with humidity and freshman anxiety.

you sat directly between yunjin and martin, while heeseung slouched on martin’s other side looking exhausted already. “i think i blacked out during the third speech,” he admitted, his head tilted back against the plastic seat.

“there were seven speeches,” you informed him helpfully.

“exactly.”

martin leaned closer toward you slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. “did you eat anything today besides pocky?”

you looked offended. “i had iced coffee too.”

“that’s not food.”

“it has calories.”

“that’s not how nutrition works.”

“you sound thirty,” you rolled your eyes.

“you sound malnourished.”

yunjin watched both of you from your left like she was witnessing live theatre, her eyes darting back and forth between your faces. heeseung noticed her expression immediately.

“…oh, you clocked them too?” heeseung muttered across the seats.

“immediately,” she whispered back.

you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward slightly to glare past martin. “i can hear both of you.”

“good,” they answered together, completely unfazed.

martin looked between all three of you suspiciously, his brow furrowing. “…why do i feel like i’m being cyberbullied in real life?”

“because you are,” heeseung nodded solemnly.

a loud cheer erupted somewhere near the front of the auditorium as one of the orientation leaders announced club sign-ups, the sound echoing sharply through the sound system. the sudden noise startled you enough that you instinctively flinched slightly toward martin. without even looking, his hand moved automatically to steady your knee. just for a second—just instinct. his fingers were warm through your jeans, grounding you instantly before he pulled his hand back into his pockets.

yunjin slowly looked at heeseung. he slowly looked back at her. simultaneously, their lips moved in a silent, terrifying synchronisation: ‘they’re doomed.’

orientation dissolved into absolute chaos pretty quickly after that. the auditorium emptied into the campus courtyard in huge, noisy waves of students while upperclassmen practically hunted freshmen down with club flyers. music blasted somewhere near the student union building, where somebody was already performing an acoustic cover of a k-pop ballad with a guitar near the fountain, while fashion majors were taking photos literally everywhere, and the engineering students looked universally terrified.

“why does everybody here dress like they’re in a pinterest board?” heeseung muttered, looking around the area with a slight frown.

“because we’re art and music students,” yunjin replied, adjusting her tote bag. “half this campus survives entirely on aesthetics and caffeine.”

“that explains the emotional instability in the air,” you snorted softly while adjusting the straps of your bag. your outfit definitely wasn’t helping the pinterest allegations either—low-rise dark washed jeans with silver chain details hanging against your thigh, a pink graphic tee layered over white thermals, chunky headphones resting around your neck, and rings decorating almost every finger. your eyeliner was slightly smudged from earlier, giving your makeup an accidentally messy look. beside you, martin somehow looked equally unfair: he wore an oversized black hoodie layered beneath a faded leather jacket despite the warm weather, a long silver necklace resting against his shirt, baggy jeans, and black headphones hanging around his neck, rings, bracelets, and that wavy, annoyingly pretty hair that fell slightly into his eyes.

“okay,” yunjin clapped suddenly, snapping everyone out of their daze. “campus exploration mission.”

“i thought this was orientation.”

“it is orientation,” she nodded. “we’re orienting ourselves toward good food and attractive people.”

“those are two very different things,” heeseung frowned.

“not to me. let’s go!”

the four of you began wandering through the crowded campus pathways afterward, occasionally stopping whenever some extra hyper club member aggressively shoved ugly neon flyers into your hands. at one point, martin ended up arguing with a music production senior for nearly ten minutes about analog recording frequencies, his hands gesturing wildly while the rest of you sat at a nearby concrete table pretending to care.

“he’s kinda nerdy,” yunjin whispered to you quietly, leaning her chin on her palm.

“you noticed that now?”

“he tried explaining microphone frequencies to me earlier with the passion of a divorced rockstar.”

“those are literally the same words i used today!” you burst into laughter, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the courtyard. martin shot both of you a suspicious look from across the table, pausing mid-sentence with the senior.

“what are you laughing at?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“nothing,” you replied without missing a beat.

“that sounded fake.”

“your face sounds fake,” you rolled your eyes.

“…what does that even mean?”

“exactly. shut up.”

heeseung looked genuinely emotional watching you both, shaking his head. “you guys argue like an old married couple. it’s exhausting as fuck to listen to.”

eventually, the four of you split apart slightly while exploring one of the outdoor student booths lining the main courtyard. martin got completely distracted by some vintage vinyl display, his inner music nerd taking over, and heeseung followed him because apparently they shared the same exact soul of a forty-year-old man. which left you and yunjin wandering between the art booths together.

“you know,” she started carefully, her voice dropping into that specific matchmaker tone, “i still think he likes you.”

you sighed dramatically, examining a handmade ceramic pins display. “yunjin, you’ve known us for, like, four hours.”

“and i’m already deeply invested.”

“you need hobbies.”

“this is my hobby now.”

before you could respond, someone stepped beside you suddenly, blocking the sunlight. “hey.”

you turned and came face-to-face with a guy who stood there holding two iced americanos in one hand, while his other hand rested casually in the pocket of his varsity jacket. sharp eyes, a pretty smile, and orange-ish hair pushed back slightly. he had a very confident, effortless aura about him. he tilted his head slightly, his eyes crinkling as he recognised you from the auditorium earlier. “you’re one of the fashion majors from orientation, right?”

“oh,” you blinked, caught off guard. “yeah.”

“i’m jeongin.”

“yn.”

“pretty name for a pretty woman,” he smiled, offering a casual nod. yunjin physically perked up beside you like a shark smelling blood in the water. you ignored her, keeping your eyes on him. he took a sip of his coffee, his smile widening slightly. “you looked deeply miserable during the speeches earlier.”

“that’s because i was.”

“that’s fair. i almost fell asleep during the dean’s speech.”

“you and half the campus,” you smiled back. he laughed softly. okay… he was actually kind of charming. yunjin noticed your expression immediately, a tiny, knowing smirk spreading across her face.

“so,” he glanced toward the flyer in your hand, a tiny smirk playing on his lips, “you joining any clubs or are you just pretending to listen like the rest of us?”

“mostly pretending,” you hummed.

“you’re surviving university well already.”

“thank you,” you nodded solemnly. he laughed again—that same low, nice sound from before. unfortunately, you were actually a little funny, which meant conversations like this happened relatively often. yunjin slowly looked over your shoulder toward something behind you. then her eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows shooting up.

before you could even turn around, a familiar voice cut right through the conversation. “yn.” your stomach betrayed you instantly, doing a violent flip. martin stood there holding two cans of redbull and a plastic bag of snacks, while heeseung lingered beside him looking way too entertained already. martin’s expression looked neutral—too neutral, which was usually dangerous.

“hi,” you said carefully. his eyes flickered briefly toward jeongin, taking in the varsity jacket and the two americanos, before landing back on you. jeongin looked back casually, tilting his head, and suddenly the atmosphere became weird. not openly hostile or aggressive, just… boy weird.

“this is jeongin,” yunjin introduced immediately, jumping into the silence like the shit stirrer she truly was. “he was just talking to yn.”

“i gathered that,” martin replied too calmly.

jeongin smiled politely, totally unfazed by the sudden drop in temperature. “you guys friends?”

before you could even open your mouth to answer, yunjin cut in. “she’s basically his wife.”

“yunjin!” you choked, your face heating up instantly.

martin nearly inhaled his own oxygen wrong, clearing his throat aggressively as his ears went a furious shade of pink. beside him, heeseung physically turned away because he started laughing too hard, burying his face in his hand.

jeongin blinked once, looking between you. “…oh.”

“we are not married,” you said immediately, looking at yunjin with an expression that clearly said ‘i am going to murder you in your sleep’. you wanted to actualise a black hole and die right there on the pavement.

“she proposed first, actually,” martin added dryly, recovering his composure remarkably fast.

you stared at him in pure betrayal. “why would you bring up the paper rings right now?!”

“because you started the marriage allegations.”

“you literally agreed to it!” you said, exasperatedly.

“i was a kid!”

“you said yes immediately!” you threw your hands up.

jeongin watched the entire exchange slowly, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. then he looked at yunjin. then heeseung, who was still silently shaking with laughter. then back at you and martin. “…so you’re not dating.”

“no,” both of you answered instantly, your voices overlapping in perfect, frantic synchronisation. another heavy pause stretched over the yard. “…right,” jeongin nodded, his tone suggesting he believed absolutely zero percent of that. he offered a polite, somewhat amused, smile. “well, i should probably head to the design building. see you around, yn.” he still lingered, though.

“yeah, see you,” you muttered. martin stepped up, handing you one of the redbulls a little abruptly. your fingers brushed briefly while taking the cold metal can from him. it was a tiny moment. a tiny, stupid, completely insignificant moment. but he looked down at your hand for half a second too long afterward, his thumb twitching slightly against his jacket pocket as his expression softened almost unconsciously.

yunjin saw it. heeseung saw it. unfortunately, both of them were thoroughly evil.

“so,” heeseung said casually to martin, a knowing smirk stretching across his face, “you looked ready to kill him just now.”

martin looked genuinely horrified, his head snapping toward him. “what?”

“you walked over here like a divorced husband discovering his wife on a dating app,” yunjin nodded seriously, her arms crossed over her chest.

“i did not.”

“you literally interrupted their flirting.”

“we weren’t flirting,” you defended weakly, your face feeling warm as you gripped your canned drink a little tighter.

jeongin, who hadn’t actually walked away yet, tilted his head with a lazy, amused smile. “… i kinda was.”

absolute silence. oh. oh no. martin froze completely, his entire posture locking up. beside him, heeseung made a choked noise so sudden and violent it sounded medically concerning. yunjin grabbed your arm immediately, her fingers digging into your jacket sleeve like she was about to witness front-row live entertainment. meanwhile, martin stared at jeongin with the exact expression of someone trying very hard to remain normal. “…cool,” he said finally. not normally at all. 

jeongin either didn’t notice the sudden drop in atmosphere or he chose violence intentionally. “you’re pretty,” he told you casually, his tone incredibly effortless. “i wanted to talk to you earlier in the auditorium, but you were always with him.”

the silence afterward was catastrophic because martin visibly stiffened, his shoulders squaring beneath his leather jacket. your own brain completely stopped functioning, the words echoing in your ears. yunjin physically folded into herself, trying not to scream out loud, while heeseung just whispered, “oh my god,” under his breath like he’d just witnessed a historic geopolitical event.

you looked at martin instinctively. big mistake. because his jaw had tightened slightly, a sharp line forming along his throat, and his pretty eyes were darkened slightly under his bangs. and suddenly he looked… jealous? your chest hurt immediately, your heart nearly exploding on impact from the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“you should come hang with us later tonight,” jeongin continued easily, totally ignoring the tension radiating off martin. “some freshmen are exploring the night market nearby.”

before you could even open your mouth to answer, martin chimed in, “she’s busy.” everyone turned toward him. including himself, apparently, because he looked deeply startled right after the words left his mouth.

you blinked, looking up at him. “i am?”

he stared at you for one painfully long second, his eyes wide and slightly panicked before he recovered his composure. “…we’re unpacking stuff later,” he said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. yunjin almost started convulsing from trying not to laugh, her shoulders shaking violently against yours. 

jeongin looked between both of you once again, his sharp eyes taking in your flushed face and martin’s absolute rigidity, and then he suddenly grinned. “oh,” he said softly, like he’d just figured out a very amusing secret.

martin’s expression darkened instantly. “we’re not dating,” he said, not for the first time that day, his voice dropping an octave.

“sure,” jeongin nodded politely, which somehow felt ten times worse than him actually arguing back. he eventually actually left after exchanging socials with yunjin instead of you, which honestly felt entirely intentional. “see you guys around,” he smiled casually, walking backward a few steps into the yard. then he looked at you specifically, his eyes crinkling. “and yn? don’t let him scare every guy away before the semester even starts.”

martin looked genuinely offended. “i didn’t scare anybody.” 

jeongin only grinned, turning around and disappearing back into the buzzing crowd of students. the exact second he was fully out of hearing range, yunjin exploded. “oh, you are sick,” she let out the scream she’d been holding in.

“i actually need this documented academically for future research purposes,” heeseung added, clutching his chest dramatically.

martin frowned immediately, his ears still burning pink. “what are you both even talking about?”

“you got jealous.”

“i did not.”

“you interrupted a man mid-flirt like an overprotective victorian husband,” yunjin cackled.

“he was annoying.”

“he was hot,” yunjin corrected smoothly.

martin visibly recoiled, his eyebrows shooting up. “okay, now you’re just saying things to upset me.” the words slipped out so naturally, so entirely without thought, that nobody reacted for half a second. then the realisation hit, and silence slammed into the group. martin froze. you froze.. heeseung’s mouth fell completely open, and yunjin dramatically grabbed onto his shoulder to steady herself because her knees were actually giving out.

martin recovered first, clearing his throat aggressively as he looked anywhere but at you. “…not upset me,” he corrected weakly, his voice cracking slightly. “like—like, generally. as a person.”

“right,” heeseung nodded solemnly, his face deadpan. “you sounded very normal and convincing there, bro.”

“shut up.”

unfortunately for martin, his ears had already gone a furious shade of red, which made everything so much worse. you rolled your eyes to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips, but inside, your heart was still hammering against your ribs, helpless against the look he had given you just moments before.

by nighttime, the entire campus had transformed—fairy lights glowed in long, tangled strings around the main lawn while students gathered in messy circles across picnic blankets and foldable chairs. someone had set up huge speakers nearby, the bass thumping low against the ground. somebody else was definitely grilling food illegally behind one of the dorm buildings because the smell of charcoal drifted over the grass all the way till your group. a massive campfire burned near the center of the field, warm orange light flickering across hundreds of faces while music drifted softly through the cool night air. the atmosphere felt… nice. too nice. maybe even dangerously nice.

“this is kinda cute,” you admitted quietly, tucking your legs under you as you sat down beside yunjin on one of the plaid blankets.

“kinda?” she looked around dramatically, gesturing with her hands. “this is peak university movie montage. if a guitar guy shows up, i’m gonna go feral.”

heeseung dropped down nearby a second later, holding a ridiculous assortment of drinks and snacks balanced dangerously in his arms. “i stole these from a business major,” he announced, dumping them in the center of the blanket.

“you can’t just confess crimes casually,” martin frowned, sitting down right beside you.

“it’s orientation week. laws don’t exist yet.”

“that’s not how society works.”

“you sound like you pay taxes willingly, dude.”

“yn and i already planned to skip taxes, actually,” martin said while looking personally insulted, his mouth parting slightly in offense. you laughed quietly at his face, accepting one of the brightly colored canned drinks heeseung confusedly tossed into your lap.

“what even is this?” you asked, tilting the can to read the blurry label.

“something fruity.”

“that sounds dangerous coming from your mouth, hee.”

“exactly.”

you took a sip anyway, because why not. immediately, you grimaced. “oh my god.”

yunjin snorted, leaning closer. “you hate it?”

“it tastes like… if battery acid and artificial strawberries had a baby,” you shuddered.

“…you’re drinking more though.”

“unfortunately,” you muttered, taking another long sip.

the night blurred softer after that—music, laughter, and the distant sound of people shouting lyrics badly around the fire. you watched yunjin aggressively force an exhausted heeseung into some random group game against his will a few blankets over. beside you, martin was sitting close. close enough that your shoulders kept brushing accidentally every time either of you shifted. or maybe not accidentally. you honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

the fruity battery-acid drink turned out to be way stronger than expected, too. you weren’t blackout drunk—not even close—but just enough to make your chest feel fuzzy and warm, your thoughts a little softer, and your self-control significantly worse than usual. 

that was a massive problem when martin existed nearby looking like… martin. his sleeves were pushed up slightly now, and his hair was entirely messy from the night wind. his silver rings glinted sharply under the orange firelight as he laughed quietly at something heeseung was yelling from across the lawn, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm against his knee. you stared too long. again. 

yunjin noticed immediately. “oh, she’s gone,” she whispered loudly toward heeseung, pointing a finger at you.

“what?”

“she’s doing the yearning stare again.”

you nearly choked on your drink, your eyes widening. “i am not!”

“you look at him like he personally hung the moon, yn.”

“that doesn’t even make sense.”

“it does, actually,” she insisted.

martin looked over finally, drawing his eyes away from the fire. “what are you guys talking about?”

“nothing,” you answered way too quickly, your voice hitting a higher octave.

“yn’s in love with—ow!” yunjin yelped, clutching her shin after you kicked her violently across the blanket. martin blinked slowly, looking between the two of you in mild confusion.

“…yn, you just assaulted her.”

“she lied.”

“i literally didn’t even finish the sentence,” yunjin complained, rubbing her leg.

“you didn’t need to.”

heeseung looked between all of you before letting out a deeply exhausted, long-suffering sigh. “this friend group is gonna kill me before the first semester even starts.”

the campfire crackled loudly nearby, a shower of sparks flying up into the dark sky while the music shifted into something slower and softer. students started pairing off slowly around the lawn—some dancing badly near the speakers, others wandering toward the dark food stalls, or just sitting closer together beneath shared blankets. the air grew noticeably colder, the wind biting through your thin zip-up. without thinking much about it—blame the alcohol, blame the temperature—you leaned slightly closer toward martin’s side for warmth.

he noticed instantly. “you cold?”

“a little,” you muttered, looking down at your drink. without saying another word, he tugged off his heavy flannel overshirt, his movements effortless as he draped it gently over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through the sleeves. your heart beat much faster because the fabric was still warm from his skin, and it smelled entirely like him—the specific laundry detergent his mom had been using since you were kids, faint cologne, and something else that was just painfully, distinctly martin.

“you’re gonna freeze,” you muttered quietly, burying your chin into the high collar of the shirt.

“i’m fine.”

“you say that every time.”

“because you steal my clothes every time,” he pointed out dryly.

“that sounds like a you problem.”

he laughed softly under his breath, his head tipping back slightly against the cool night air. your heart nearly folded in on itself. god, this was genuinely humiliating. the alcohol made everything ten times worse because suddenly all your carefully hidden feelings sat way too close to the surface—raw and exposed. every glance he threw your way felt incredibly heavy. every accidental touch lingered a second too long. at some point, yunjin and heeseung completely disappeared to go bully another freshman group into sharing their marshmallows, leaving you and martin sitting near the dark edge of the firelight dangerously alone. 

the music softened again nearby, the acoustic guitar chords floating over the lawn. martin leaned back against the grass, propping himself up on his elbows with a quiet sigh as he looked up at the sky. you didn’t look at the sky. you watched him instead.

“you’re staring again,” he murmured without looking over.

drunk bravery was a disease. “so what if i am?”

that got his attention immediately. his head turned toward you slowly as the firelight flickered across his face while surprise flashed briefly through his expression.

“…you okay?” he asked, still balanced on his elbows to look up at you, his eyes dark under his bangs.

“no.”

his brows furrowed instantly and his entire posture shifted as he sat up a bit straighter on the blanket. “what’s wrong? did you drink too much of that battery acid stuff? i kept warning you to slow down.”

“maybe.”

“you absolute lightweight,” he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, fondly exasperated tone that always made your chest feel tight. “i knew i shouldn’t have let heeseung give you that.”

“you’re literally prettier tonight,” you suddenly informed him. the words tumbled out of your mouth before your brain could even initiate a broadcast. what followed was absolute, catastrophic silence. oh no. your internal filter had arrived around twenty fucking thousand business days too late.

martin blinked once, his hand freezing mid-motion where he had been about to run it through his hair. “…what did you just say?”

“you heard me,” you said, stubbornly refusing to back down now that the damage was already done, even though your face was burning so hot, it felt like the campfire was under your skin.

his ears turned a furious shade of pink almost instantly, the color creeping up from the collar of his shirt. you wanted to desperately disappear into thin air right then and there. “yn—”

“no, because actually,” you interrupted aggressively, pointing a slightly shaky finger vaguely at his face to stop him from speaking, “it’s genuinely, incredibly annoying. you have no idea.”

“what is?” he asked, his voice sounding a little breathless now as he watched your finger.

“you.”

“…me?”

“yes. your whole…” you gestured helplessly between his face and his shoulders, completely losing your grip on vocabulary, “your whole everything. it’s unfair.”

he stared at you in complete disbelief now, his mouth slightly parted. you kept going anyway, because apparently the artificial strawberry alcohol had taken away your survival instincts and replaced them with pure, unfiltered honesty.

“you keep doing this thing where you look all…” your hands moved vaguely in the air again, trying to map out the exact way the firelight caught his jawline, “…all soft and nice and stupidly handsome all the time. in that ugly uniform back then, in that leather jacket right now. it’s ridiculous.”

he looked like his soul had temporarily left his body. he just sat there, the orange light flickering across his wide eyes. “handsome?” he repeated weakly, his voice cracking just a fraction. “you think i look… handsome?”

“oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face entirely into your hands immediately, the rough denim of his flannel overshirt pressing against your cheeks. “forget i said that. delete it from your memory, actually. i’m insane. don’t let me touch alcohol ever again.”

unfortunately for you, he started laughing softly. it wasn’t a mocking laugh, or a teasing one, which would have been so much easier to handle. it was worse—it was that deep, quiet, devastatingly fond sound that always made your knees weak. “you’re so drunk right now,” he murmured, his voice practically vibrating against the space between you.

“i’m not drunk, i’m emotionally suffering,” you mumbled into your palms.

“that too,” he chuckled softly.

you peeked at him through the small gaps between your fingers. big mistake. huge mistake, actually, because now he was looking at you in that way again. that soft, weird, focused way that always made your heart beat too fast.

“you’re pretty too, you know,” he said quietly, his eyes locked onto yours as you lowered your hands. “especially when you’re tired and your eyeliner is all smudged like that.”

your heart stopped completely. the air in your lungs went entirely cold. “…don’t joke right now, martin. i will actually throw this drink at your head.”

his expression shifted immediately, the teasing softness hardening into something intense, something real, something that made your stomach drop. “i’m not joking,” he said, his voice incredibly steady.

the air changed again, the heavy humidity of the night suddenly compressing into that terrifying almost-feeling that had been hovering over the two of you for years. the fire crackled loudly somewhere nearby, and the distant, buzzed laughter of other freshmen echoed across the lawn, but suddenly everything felt completely muted around the two of you. he looked at you for a second too long, his gaze dropping from your eyes. you looked back, unable to move, unable to breathe. and suddenly your chest hurt so badly you wanted to scream because this was the ultimate problem. always this. too much feeling. too much history. too much almost.

his eyes flickered downward briefly—pointed directly, unmistakably, toward your lips. your breath caught instantly in your throat. he noticed, and you noticed him noticing. and somehow, despite the rules and the allegations and the fear, neither of you moved away. the distance between you suddenly felt very small. 

his leather jacket brushed against the flannel on your shoulders. “yn,” he said softly. you almost cried at the way he said your name—gentle, careful, like it was something sacred that only he could worship correctly. he didn’t say it as a warning, or an insult, or even as a question. it was just your name, but it sounded like something dangerous and precious in his mouth. your eyes locked onto his, leaning slightly closer.

“oh my god, heeseung, look! they’re doing the eye contact thing again. i told you they were doomed as fuck!” the loud, cackling whisper shattered the silence like bricks through glass.

you both jumped apart like actual convicted criminals caught in the act, martin clearing his throat aggressively as he violently turned his head to stare at the grass, his entire face flashing a bright, brilliant red under the firelight. heeseung nearly collapsed laughing, bending over with his hands on his knees, while yunjin pointed a sticky marshmallow stick at both of you accusatorily.

“you guys are embarrassing!” she yelled over the bass, her voice carrying across at least three neighboring blankets. “the tension is literally radioactive! i can see the waves, like the ones from spiderman’s spidey tingles!”

martin grabbed a nearby, half-empty marshmallow packet from the grass and threw it directly at her face. it was a remarkably accurate shot. somehow—the plastic bag hit yunjin squarely in the forehead with a soft thud before dropping into her lap. she gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “domestic violence! i am calling campus security! i am reporting a hate crime!”

“you deserved that,” he informed her, his voice tight as he tried—and failed—to control the dark blush still burning across his cheekbones.

“you almost kissed her!” yunjin shrieked, totally unfazed.

“literally nothing happened!”

heeseung stepped up, pointing aggressively between both of you like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “bro, don’t lie to the court. your faces were literally moving closer. we saw the physical trajectory. it was a closing gap.”

“we were talking,” martin defended, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms over his chest. “the music is loud. i was leaning in so I could hear her.”

“your eyes were closed halfway, bro.”

he froze. his arms slowly uncrossed. “…they were not.” you, unfortunately, remembered that they absolutely, one hundred percent, were. your memory might have been a little fuzzy around the edges from the weird alcohol, but you distinctly remembered the heavy, dark sweep of his eyelashes just inches from your own, which meant your entire body immediately overheated again, a hot wave of panic rushing straight to your ears.

“okay!” you announced loudly, standing up way too quickly from the plaid blanket. “i’m choosing peace and pretending you both said absolutely nothing. goodbye!”

“you’re walking crooked,” yunjin noted, watching you sway.

“the earth is tilted,” you argued, staring straight ahead.

“that’s not how gravity works, yn.”

“not with that attitude it doesn’t, yunjin,” you glared drunkenly at her.

heeseung started laughing all over again while martin instinctively reached out, his reflexes kicking in the exact second you almost tripped over the raised edge of the picnic blanket. his hands wrapped around your waist briefly to steady you. his palms were incredibly warm through the fabric of your shirt and his flannel on top, spanning the sides of your ribs, holding you entirely still against the pull of gravity. for a second, everything felt perfectly balanced and safe. your brain short-circuited instantly, the remaining alcohol turning into pure static.

“there,” he muttered quietly, his breath brushing the side of your neck as he helped you find your footing again. his hands lingered on your waist for just a beat too long before he slowly pulled them back, his fingers twitching slightly. “careful. i don’t need you cracking your skull open on orientation night.”

you looked up at him through your messy bangs. another massive, fatal mistake… because now he was standing too close, looking down at you with some intense, protective gaze that made your stupid alcohol-filled heart immediately start malfunctioning again.

“i wouldn’t have cracked it,” you whispered, your voice suddenly losing all its previous defensive bite. “you caught me.”

his eyes softened, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked back up, his voice dropping an octave. “i’m always gonna catch you, yn. you know that.”

thankfully, before your brain could completely spiral into a puddle of mush, loud, explosive music suddenly blasted through the main campus speakers. the beat dropped hard, and a massive, roaring cheer erupted across the entire lawn. 

“oh hell yes,” yunjin gasped, her eyes lighting up. students immediately started abandoning their blankets, rushing toward the large open space near the roaring campfire where a group of upperclassmen had apparently decided orientation night required a massive, chaotic dance floor now.

“you guys are coming,” heeseung announced, already bouncing on his heels.

“i don’t dance,” martin said instantly, taking a step back.

“that’s crazy because our entire major literally revolves around rhythm,” heeseung pointed out, grabbing his shoulder.

“music and dancing are not the same thing.”

“you’re literally lying to yourself.”

yunjin grabbed your wrist dramatically, her grip tight and unyielding. “come on, yn! don’t let the resident loser ruin the vibe!” you honestly didn’t need much convincing. 

maybe it was the heavy buzz of the alcohol, or maybe it was the infectious energy of the music pulsing through the grass. or maybe, honestly, it was just the overwhelming rush of being independent, finally away from home, with your best friends beside you under the glowing campus lights while the night still felt entirely endless and full of potential. either way, you let yourself get dragged straight into the center of the crowd.

the atmosphere became chaotic immediately—hundreds of students were yelling lyrics at the top of their lungs, people jumping around horribly off-beat, and someone had already fallen face-first onto the grass nearby, laughing too hard to get back up. the playlist shifted wildly between trendy pop songs and old, nostalgic throwback hits, but everybody screamed along regardless, throwing their hands in the air.

yunjin danced like rent was due, throwing her hair around and aggressively pointing at people in the crowd to blow kisses to. heeseung somehow danced even worse, doing ironical 80s disco moves that had you clutching your stomach from laughing so hard. martin mostly stood nearby on the perimeter of your little circle, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, laughing quietly at all of you. he looked so separate from the chaos, so steady and grounded, that you couldn’t take it. 

you stepped forward and grabbed both his wrists dramatically, pulling his hands out of his pockets. 

“oh no,” he said immediately, his lips twitching into a smile even as he tried to pull back.

“oh yes.”

“yn, please. have mercy.”

“dance, loser!” you yelled over the chorus of a pop song, tugging on his arms.

“i physically can’t, like, i genuinely lack the coordination for whatever heeseung is doing over there.”

“you’re literally a musician! your whole life is tempo!”

“that’s discrimination,” he protested, but the resistance in his arms was already fading.

you snorted before trying to pull him closer into the dense crowd anyway, moving your shoulders to the beat. he resisted for a whole two seconds before giving up completely. mostly because you looked too happy to say no to. your laugh echoed loudly through the music, bright and unfiltered, while the warm firelight flickered beautifully across your face. 

he watched you, and he suddenly felt that familiar, terrifying, heavy ache in his chest again. god, he loved you so much. it was honestly becoming a liability, and medically concerning how much space you took up in his head, how a single look from you could completely dictate the rest of his day. 

you caught him staring and pulled him a little closer, your hands shifting from his wrists to rest lightly against his chest. “see? it’s not that hard,” you laughed, looking up at him. “just move a little.”

he let out a soft, defeated breath, his hands coming up to rest gently on your hips to keep people from bumping into you as the crowd surged. “i’m only doing this because you’re drunk,” he lied softly, his thumb absentmindedly drawing a small circle against your waist.

“liar,” you teased, leaning into his space. “you’re doing it because you love me.”

his heart did a violent, dangerous backflip. he looked down at your face, his expression turning incredibly serious for a split second despite the screaming crowd around you. “yeah,” he murmured, the word swallowed by the loud bass, though his eyes said it clearly enough—‘yeah, i do’.

eventually, the crowd shifted around again as another wave of students joined the circle, pushing people around. somewhere in the sudden chaos, yunjin completely disappeared toward the snack tables to hunt down more food, and heeseung and martin got aggressively dragged into an intense dance-battle circle against their will, leaving you tucked away in a corner of the moving crowd. 

suddenly you found yourself beside an unfamiliar guy—dark hair, sharp smile, performatively fake glasses slightly crooked from dancing.

“oh,” he laughed when you nearly bumped into him. “sorry.”

“my bad,” you grinned tipsily.

“i’m seungmin,” he introduced himself over the loud music.

“yn.”

recognition flashed across his face immediately. “ohhh. jeongin told me you’re that martin guy’s—”

“best friend,” you interrupted automatically. 

seungmin looked deeply unconvinced. “…right.”

the music switched again with a massive, heavy bass drop, and the crowd collectively screamed in recognition. “oh my god, i love this song!” you gasped, your eyes lighting up as you threw your hands in the air, completely giving in to the rhythm. 

seungmin laughed immediately, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head at you. “you’re definitely drunk.”

“i’m not drunk, seungmo,” you yelled back over the blaring speakers, spinning around on your heel. “i’m experiencing life!”

“that sounded deeply philosophical.”

“thank you! i try!” you grinned.

unlike martin, who always tended to watch you carefully and protectively whenever you drank—guarding your space and counting your sips—seungmin just matched your chaotic energy instantly. within minutes, the two of you were yelling lyrics completely out of key, jumping hysterically, and dancing stupidly among the sweaty crowd like you’d known each other for an entire lifetime instead of just a few minutes. to you, this was just pure, unadulterated excitement. new friend, fun person, cool vibes, the university experience you had always read about.

unfortunately, martin noticed from across the lawn, and he immediately looked like somebody had shot him.

he stood near the edge of the dense crowd, holding two fresh drinks he’d gone to get for the two of you, staring directly through the moving bodies to where you were laughing brightly at something seungmin had just said. his fingers tightened around the aluminum cans, his jaw setting into a rigid, hard line as he watched seungmin casually lean in close to hear you over the music. 

heeseung materialised beside him instantly, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “oh, brother.”

“i’m literally fine,” martin said, his voice entirely flat, though his eyes didn’t leave your face for a single second.

“sure you are. you look like you’re about to write a critically acclaimed, ten-minute, best-selling indie breakup album.”

he looked away immediately, staring down at the grass as if it were the most fascinating thing on campus. “they’re just dancing, bro. it’s fine. she’s having fun.”

“yeah,” heeseung nodded, crossing his arms and tilting his head toward the dance floor. “and you’re staring at them like a tragic war veteran watching his entire hometown burn to the ground.”

“i am not.”

“martin, you’ve literally crushed your drink can.”

he looked down at his right hand. oh. he had. the metal can was completely mangled, liquid dripping slowly over his silver rings and onto his sneakers. “…oops,” he muttered, his face turning a dark, frustrated shade of red.

meanwhile, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent crisis happening. seungmin had somehow convinced you to join a completely ridiculous dance challenge with a group of random upperclassmen nearby, and the two of you were currently losing horribly.

“this is rigged,” you accused, pointing dramatically at the guy who had just executed a perfect backflip. “he’s a professional!”

“you’re just bad at coordination, yn,” seungmin teased, leaning back with a grin.

“i was an athlete!” you protested loudly.

“that actually makes this so much sadder.”

you gasped dramatically, clutching your chest before breaking out into another fit of laughter. but as you laughed, the world suddenly felt oddly, overwhelmingly warm. the cool night air didn’t feel cold anymore; instead, a sudden wave of heat flushed through your body, and the colorful fairy lights blurred sharply at the edges, spinning into bright, dizzying streaks of gold and orange. hm… weird.

“you okay?” seungmin asked, his teasing smile fading instantly as he noticed your expression shift, your eyes glazing over slightly.

“yeah,” you nodded automatically, trying to ground yourself, but the motion of nodding was a terrible idea. you immediately swayed heavily sideways, your balance completely deserting you. “oh,” you whispered. okay, maybe you were not okay.

the music suddenly sounded like it was playing underwater, the thumping bass echoing distantly in your ears. your stomach flipped unpleasantly, a sharp wave of nausea hitting you right before a massive wave of dizziness crashed over your head all at once, making the grass feel like it was tilting at a ninety-degree angle.

“oh shit,” seungmin muttered, his eyes widening in alarm as he reached his arms out slightly toward you. “yn? hey, stay upright—”

somewhere nearby, martin looked over instantly. his eyes had never really left you anyway, but the exact millisecond your shoulders slumped and your footing gave way, his internal alarm went off.

your vision blurred badly now, the bright colours of the campfire and the strings of fairy lights smearing together into a dizzying canvas of color. the heavy bass from the speakers faded into a muffled noise. your knees buckled beneath you before you could fully realise what was happening, the grass rushing up to meet you.

and then warm, solid arms caught you before you could even graze the ground. there was a strong, unyielding grip around your waist, pulling you up and anchoring you against a broad chest. a familiar, comforting scent washed over you—his cologne, and the winter wind. 

and then, his voice followed. “hey, hey, hey—careful. i’ve got you, ynnie.” martin. of course it was martin.

your head lolled slightly against his chest, your forehead resting against the cool zipper of his jacket while he carefully shifted his weight to steady you both. he was holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to shield you from the entire world. the last clear thing you saw before your vision went completely fuzzy again was his face hovering directly over yours. his brows were deeply furrowed with worry, his usually guarded eyes turned soft and hyper-focused, and his lips were parted slightly as his gaze scanned your face, frantically checking to see if you were okay.

“…pretty,” you mumbled weakly, your voice thick and slurred as you reached up a heavy hand to vaguely touch his jawline. his intense, worried expression broke instantly. a helpless flush crept all the way up his neck, and his lips twitched, completely losing his battle against the effect of your words.

“oh my god,” heeseung whispered somewhere nearby, having jogged over right behind him. “he’s done for. he’s actually never recovering from that. put it on his tombstone, seriously.”

“shut up, heeseung,” martin hissed quietly, keeping his eyes locked entirely on you while trying not to smile, but ultimately failing, because how could he not smile at his girl? his hands smoothed over your back, keeping you pressed securely against him. you blinked slowly up at him, the darkness of the night sky framing his face like a halo.

“mars?” you whispered, using the old childhood nickname that always made his defenses completely crumble.

“yeah, pretty girl,” he answered softly, his voice dropping to a tender, private whisper meant only for you. he leaned down slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead with the gentlest touch. “i got you. i always got you.” wrapped up in his warmth, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart against your ear, that was more than enough.

by the time martin carried you back toward the freshman dorm buildings, the campus had gotten noticeably quieter. the heavy bass from the lawn faded into a dull hum in the background behind you both, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves as the cool night air drifted through the brick pathways. you were fully conscious now—the brief wave of blacking out had passed—you were just dramatically, dangerously drunk. which somehow made you even more of a menace.

martin had originally been carrying you piggyback-style because, according to you, your legs had ‘officially stopped cooperating.’ your cheek rested heavily against his shoulder while your arms hung loosely around his neck, your fingers casually playing with the collar of his jacket.

“you smell nice,” you informed him very seriously, your breath brushing right against his ear.

he laughed quietly under his breath, tilting his head slightly away from the tickle of your hair. “thanks.”

“you always smell nice. even when you look mean.”

“that’s slightly creepy, yn.”

“i’m not creepy, i’m observant.”

“you’re drunk.”

“both can coexist,” you argued logically, nodding against his neck. “it’s a spectrum.”

he smiled helplessly to himself, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip under your legs to hoist you a little higher. damn, you were actually gonna kill him someday. he could feel the steady warmth of your body pressed against his back, and every time you spoke, his heart did a stupid, erratic little jump.

“you know,” you mumbled after a moment of staring at the passing lampposts, “i think my internal organs completely dissolved back there. the strawberry battery acid got them.”

“that’s not medically possible.”

“you don’t know that, mars. you’re a music production major.”

“i literally do know that. i took high school biology.”

“...whatever. no.”

he snorted softly, the sound vibrating through his back against your chest. your building’s lights glowed warmly ahead, illuminating the empty concrete courtyard. your head tipped sleepily against his shoulder again, your eyes closing as the gentle motion of his walking rocked you. 

after a quieter moment, your eyes snapped open and you suddenly gasped softly. “oh my god.”

“what?” he asked, his tone instantly sharpened with worry. “do you feel sick again? do i need to put you down?”

“…i never finished unpacking my belts,” you whispered in horror.

he paused and then laughed harder this time—a real, unsuppressed sound that echoed softly in the quiet courtyard. “your priorities are absolutely unbelievable.”

“no, because yunjin was helping me, and then you came into the room and you were being…” you lifted one hand from his shoulder to gesture vaguely in the air, “…all handsome and emotionally stressful. you ruined the workflow.”

he nearly tripped over the first step of the dorm entrance. “…emotionally stressful?” he repeated, his voice cracking just a fraction as he recovered his footing.

“yes.”

“that’s not a real medical condition, pretty girl.”

“it should be. they should put your picture next to it in the textbook.”

your voice had grown much softer now—thicker and sleepier as the wind caressed your face. martin slowed his pace slightly. when he reached the dorm entrance, he carefully lowered you back onto your feet. 

“alright,” he said. “can you walk?”

“obviously.” you took one step. then another. then somehow managed to walk directly into a decorative concrete planter. 

he grabbed your elbow before your face could meet the shrubbery. “yn.”

“mars,” you almost cried, eyes filling. “the bush moved!”

“the bush did not move.”

“that sounds exactly like something a moving bush would say,” you pouted sadly.

he pinched the bridge of his nose. “come on.”

you took another step. and immediately swayed. your balance vanished so fast it almost looked cartoonish—one second you were standing upright; the next, your body tilted dangerously sideways toward the concrete walkway. 

he caught you instantly again. his arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall, pulling you back against his chest. “okay,” he said firmly.

“okay what?”

“okay, we’re done pretending you can walk.”

“i can absolutely walk. the bush moved last time, ‘twasn’t my fault.” to prove your point, you attempted another step, causing your ankle to roll in the wrong direction. he closed his eyes for one long second, then sighed deeply—the kind of sigh people let out when accepting a fate they can no longer avoid. 

before you could protest, one arm slid behind your knees while the other wrapped securely around your back. the world tilted. you let out a surprised squeak as your feet left the ground entirely. “mars!”

“nope.”

“what do you mean ‘nope’?”

“i mean you’ve lost walking privileges.”

“that’s authoritarian.”

“and yet here we are.”

you stared up at him in outrage from where he was carrying you bridal-style. the anger lasted approximately four seconds, and then you got comfortable. “…this is actually kinda nice.”

“i know.”

“wow. so humble.”

“you almost fell into a bush. i’m not taking any chances.”

“the bush started it.”

he laughed under his breath again and continued toward the stairwell. he carried you up the stairs with deliberate, careful steps—apparently there were no elevators because your university wished suffering upon its students—making sure your shoes didn’t bump against the railings. after a minute, your head settled against his shoulder. “you know what your problem is, mars?” you murmured suddenly.

he smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on the step ahead. “what’s my problem, ynnie?”

“you keep looking at me all… all…”

“all what?”

you frowned against his shoulder, your eyebrows knitting together as your alcohol-addled brain tried desperately to find the right words to describe the heavy, suffocating feeling in your chest. 

“…like you like me,” you whispered honestly.

his entire body went completely rigid for half a second. his feet froze on the concrete step. the stairwell suddenly felt suffocatingly quiet, the distant sounds of the campus completely cutting out. his grip on you tightened instinctively. he swallowed hard, his throat dry, before forcing his legs to start moving again, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

“…you’re drunk, yn,” he said, his voice lower now, strained under the weight of the massive secret he’d been carrying for years.

“mm.”

“you should sleep. you’re filtering absolutely nothing right now.”

“…you’re still pretty though,” you mumbled into his jacket, your eyelids fluttering shut as you gave up the fight against sleep.

martin’s heart genuinely hurt now—a sharp ache right in the center of his chest. because you said things like that so easily, throwing around words that could completely ruin him, while having absolutely no idea what they did to his sanity. or maybe you did know. maybe you felt the shift too. and to him, as he finally reached your dorm door, that was the most terrifying part of all.

‘friendship’ feels like too small of a word to describe what you had together. the thing you share is more than friends, nearly lovers, but not quite. there’s no other way to explain it.

© hyuneskkami ❦

it was actually painful to watch. like, physically painful.

you stood by the vending machines, pretending to be deeply invested in the ingredients of a strawberry milk carton, but your eyes were entirely glued to the courtyard. a few yards away, valerie and seonghyeon were standing next to each other. standing. not talking, not moving—just vibrating with an absurd, ridiculous amount of sheer pining.

val was doing that thing where she adjusted her backpack strap every three seconds, her cheeks a bright, stupid shade of pink, while seonghyeon stared at a spot just past her left ear like it held the secrets to the universe. he cleared his throat. she dropped her pen. they both bent down to grab it, bumped foreheads, scrambled backward like they’d just touched live wires, and immediately started apologising to the floor.

oh my god, you thought, pinching the bridge of your nose. someone put them out of their misery. please.

“if they keep this up, they’re going to single-handedly lower the average iq of this entire school.”

you jumped, nearly dropping your strawberry milk. you whipped around to find ahn keonho—seonghyeon’s best friend—leaning against the locker next to you. he had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his dark eyes fixed on the exact same trainwreck in the courtyard. his face was a picture of exhaustion.

“keonho,” you breathed, clutching your chest. “don’t sneak up on me like that! and also—yes. thank you. it’s a literal crime against humanity. do they not realise how loud they’re being without even speaking?”

“it’s deafening,” keonho agreed, a slow, sarcastic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked down at you. “hyeon has been sighing into his textbook for three days straight. i can’t study. my grades are suffering. it’s a tragedy.”

“val spent forty minutes yesterday asking me if ‘hey’ with one y meant he hated her,” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “we’re living in a literal psychological horror film.”

keonho chuckled, a low, quiet sound that did something weirdly fluttery to your stomach—not that you had time to analyse that disaster right now. he tilted his head toward the courtyard, where valerie and seonghyeon were currently walking in opposite directions, both looking thoroughly miserable.

“so,” keonho said, his eyes dropping to yours, holding your gaze with a sudden, sharp intensity that made your breath hitch. “are we just gonna stand here and watch them suffer, or are we actually going to do something about it?”

you grinned, your eyes lighting up with dangerous, chaotic energy. “oh, keonho. i thought you’d never ask.”

☆

the blueprint for operation: true love was officially drawn up the very next day in the back corner of a cramped, neon-lit convenience store.

you slammed a notebook down on the plastic table, right next to keonho’s banana milk. “if we’re doing this, we need ground rules. methodical, airtight rules. we cannot afford to mess this up.”

keonho picked up his milk, taking a slow sip while browsing your hastily scribbled list with raised eyebrows. “rule number one: no k-drama tropes? you’re killing my vibe, yn! i was looking forward to orchestrating a dramatic rainstorm.”

“man, i’m serious!” you hissed, leaning over the table. “and rule number two is the most important: absolute secrecy. if val finds out i’m meddling, she will literally migrate to antarctica out of pure embarrassment. and if seonghyeon finds out…”

“he’ll lock himself in his room and study calculus until graduation,” keonho finished dryly, spinning a pen between his fingers. he leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a lazy, challenging tilt. “alright. partner. what’s step one?”

☆ 

step one, as it turned out, was a catastrophic failure.

you had meticulously engineered a ‘casual hangout’ at a trendy cafe near school. the pitch was simple: val and you were going, keonho and seonghyeon just happened to be there, and oh wow, look at that, let’s just grab a booth together!

it took exactly four minutes for the plan to crash and burn.

instead of hitting it off, val and seonghyeon had apparently lost the ability to function as human beings. they sat directly across from each other, radiating an aura of awkwardness so thick it was practically tangible. val was aggressively tearing her paper napkin into microscopic shreds, her eyes glued to her lap. across from her, seonghyeon was holding his iced americano with both hands, staring into the dark liquid like it held the secrets to the universe, occasionally clearing his throat but saying absolutely nothing.

the silence stretching across the table was deafening.

you kicked keonho under the table. do something, you screamed with your eyes. he winced slightly, shooting you a sharp look before clearing his own throat. “so, seonghyeon. you… like coffee. right?”

seonghyeon blinked slowly, looking up. “yeah. it’s… bitter.”

val suddenly squeaked, her head snapping up. “i like bitter things too! i mean—not that bitter. like, dark chocolate. but coffee is good. the beans. you know?” she immediately looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

 seonghyeon nodded solemnly. “beans are essential to coffee.”

you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper. under the table, keonho’s foot nudged yours. when you looked at him, he was biting his lower lip, his shoulders faintly shaking as he desperately tried to suppress a laugh.

“right, great, wonderful! beans!” you practically shouted, trying to salvage the wreckage. “speaking of essentials, keonho, didn’t you say you wanted to try that… new strawberry tart? let’s go look at the display counter, c’mon.”

before he could object, you grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the booth, leaving the two pining statues behind.

the second you reached the safety of the ordering counter, you slumped against the glass display, letting out a massive, exhausted groan. “oh my god. i can’t do this. i’m going to have a stroke before the semester ends.”

keonho let out the laugh he’d been holding back, a low, rich sound that vibrated right through you. he leaned against the counter next to you, crossing his arms. “i told you. ‘beans are essential’? that’s peak romance right there. we should just let them walk down the aisle now.”

“shut up,” you groaned, buried your face in your hands. “they’re literally painful to watch. why are they like this?”

“because they’re idiots,” keonho said softly. you dropped your hands to look at him, finding him already looking down at you. his usual sarcastic smirk was softened by a genuine, amused warmth. “but hey, you’re not doing too bad. your beans transition was flawless.”

“you’re making fun of me.”

“a little bit,” he admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he nudged his shoulder against yours, a casual gesture that suddenly made the crowded cafe feel very small and very warm. “but seriously. we’re in this together now. we just have to be smarter than them. which, judging by the current situation, isn’t a very high bar…”

you laughed, the frustration melting away, replaced by a strange, fluttering warmth in your chest. as you both stood there, looking back at the booth where val and seonghyeon were still sitting in absolute, agonising silence, you realised something terrifying.

carrying this double date was exhausting—but standing here, sharing the panic with keonho? it was the most fun you’d had all week.

☆

the ‘strategising’ sessions quickly became a daily necessity, though if anyone asked, you’d swear it was purely for the sake of the mission.

it started with a shared google document, which keonho immediately vandalised with sarcastic comments, and quickly escalated to meeting up outside of school. at first, it was just the library after school. then, it was the convenience store. by week three, you had a designated corner booth at a late-night diner three blocks from your house, surrounded by scattered notebooks, half-eaten fries, and a ridiculous amount of mutual brain rot.

“okay, hear me out,” you whispered, leaning so far across the booth’s sticky table that your collarbone was practically touching your cold milkshake. “next friday is the school festival. we slip a note into seonghyeon’s locker telling him to meet a ‘secret admirer’ behind the gym. but—plot twist—we slip the exact same note into val’s locker. they show up, and boom, trapped in an enclosed space. they have to talk.”

keonho, who was currently balancing a fry on his index finger, looked up at you with flat, unimpressed eyes. “yn, that’s a parent-teacher association lawsuit waiting to happen. what if they get locked in? what if the gym teacher finds them and thinks they’re skipping class to make out?”

“then the mission is accomplished!” you insisted, tapping your pen against his knuckles to make him pay attention. “focus, keonho. we are losing momentum. yesterday, val literally ran away from him because he offered her a piece of gum. fuckass gum. she thought it was a declaration of war.”

keonho laughed, his shoulders dropping as he leaned forward, mirroring your posture. he rested his chin in his hand, his dark eyes glittering with that lazy, teasing warmth that you were slowly—and dangerously—becoming addicted to.

“she’s dramatic. just like her best friend,” he murmured.

“excuse me? i’m highly pragmatic,” you shot back, though your cheeks warmed up under his steady gaze.

“sure you are. that’s why you have a colour-coded excel sheet for our best friends’ love lives.” he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the pen from your hand, spinning it lazily. “but seriously. we can’t do the locker thing. seonghyeon is too smart. he’ll recognise the handwriting, or worse, he’ll think it’s a prank and won’t go.”

“fine. what’s your brilliant idea, genius?”

he tapped the pen against his chin, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second before darting back to your eyes. “we do a group study session. at my place. my parents are out next weekend.”

your heart did a sudden, violent flip-flop. “your place?”

“yeah. we invite both of them. then, twenty minutes before they arrive, you and i conveniently get ‘stuck’ at the grocery store buying snacks. we leave them alone in the apartment. seonghyeon’s awkward, but he’s a gentleman, so he’ll have to host her. they’ll have to talk!”

it was actually a really good plan. simple, low-risk, and highly effective. but your brain was currently stuck on a completely different detail.

“wait,” you said, your voice dropping a fraction. “so… we’d be hanging out? just the two of us? at the grocery store?”

he paused. the lazy smirk on his face faltered, just for a second, replaced by a subtle, sudden tension. he cleared his throat, his fingers tightening slightly around your pen.

“i mean. yeah. if we want the excuse to be believable, we have to actually go buy the snacks,” he said, his voice a little lower than usual. he looked down at the table, drawing mindless circles on the napkin with the pen. “unless… you don’t want to spend that much time with me outside of this…”

“no!” you said a little too quickly, a little too loud. a couple of juniors at the counter turned to look at you, and you immediately shrunk back into the booth, your face burning. “i mean—no, that’s fine. i don’t mind. i like… strategising with you.”

keonho looked back up, a slow, incredibly soft smile spreading across his face. it wasn’t his usual sarcastic smirk. it was genuine, quiet, and it made your chest ache in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with anything else in that moment—except ahn keonho.

“good,” he murmured, sliding the pen back across the table until it brushed against your knuckles. “because i’m starting to think the strategy sessions are the best part of my week.”

your breath caught, the cool plastic of the pen pressing against your skin feeling suddenly electric. before you could fumble for a response, keonho tapped the notebook, his classic, lazy smirk sliding back into place as if he hadn’t just thrown your entire internal monologue into a tailspin. “back to work, partner. next weekend is the big day.”

☆

the day of the study session arrived with a torrential downpour, which you chose to interpret as a brilliant atmospheric blessing for the mission.

operation: trapped in the apartment was officially a go.

keonho and you had arrived at his place early under the pretense of ‘setting up’, but the second the clock hit 1:40 PM—exactly twenty minutes before valerie and seonghyeon were scheduled to arrive—keonho threw his keys onto the counter and looked at you.

“right,” he said, checking his watch. “time to execute the snack heist. text them now.”

your fingers flew across your screen, sending a highly calculated, slightly frantic text to the group chat.

hey guys!! keonho and i realised we have literally zero food at his place 😭😭 so we’re sprinting to the grocery store down the street! the door is unlocked, so js go on in and make yourselves at home, alr?

“sent,” you breathed, looking up at him and pocketing yiur phone. “let’s go.”

the walk to the neighborhood grocery store was a chaotic scramble under a single, violently shaking umbrella. keonho had naturally taken the handle, his tall frame blocking the worst of the wind, but the sheer proximity meant your shoulders were glued together the entire three blocks. every time his arm brushed against yours to steady the umbrella, your heart did a stupid, nervous little stutter.

by the time you burst through the automatic glass doors of the store, you were laughing, shaking the raindrops from your hair.

“okay, we need to drag this out,” you whispered conspiratorially, grabbing a red plastic shopping basket and handing it to him. “we need to give them at least thirty minutes of pure, uninterrupted awkwardness so they’re forced to converse. walk slow. evaluate the snacks with extreme scrutiny, soldier.”

keonho snorted, following you into the chip aisle. “extreme scrutiny. right. let me check the structural integrity of these potato chips.”

for the next twenty minutes, the grocery store became your own personal playground. you dragged keonho from aisle to aisle, holding up random items and demanding his opinion.

“do you think seonghyeon is a sour cream and onion guy, or does he radiate standard salted energy?” you asked, holding up two bags.

keonho paused, leaning against the handle of the shopping basket, his eyes fixed on you with a look of amusement. “he’s definitely standard salted. completely predictable. unlike someone else i know who tries to buy literal seaweed snacks for a high-stakes romance intervention.”

“hey! seaweed is an elite study snack,” you pouted, tossing a pack into the basket anyway.

as you walked toward the beverage section, you checked your phone. no texts from val. no texts from seonghyeon.

“silence on the front,” you reported, turning back to him. “either they’re finally talking, or they’ve mutually decided to pretend the other doesn’t exist. do you think we should go back?”

keonho didn’t answer right away. he was standing near the glass drink coolers, the cool, fluorescent light catching the sharp angle of his jaw. he reached out, taking a bottle of banana milk from the shelf, but instead of putting it in the basket, he just held it, his dark eyes dropping to look at you.

“let’s give them ten more minutes,” he said softly. the teasing tone was gone, replaced by a quiet, deliberate slowness. “no need to rush back to the awkward chaos.”

“yeah?” you murmured, suddenly feeling very warm despite the air-conditioned aisle.

“yeah,” he said, a gentle smile touching his lips. he took a step closer, his shoulder lightly brushing yours as he placed the milk in the basket. “besides, i’m enjoying the grocery store hangout. it’s… nice. just us.”

your stomach did a violent, dizzying flip. you quickly turned your head toward the display case, pretending to be intensely fascinated by the rows of soda cans just to hide the raging blush creeping up your neck. you nodded quickly. “yeah. just us. it’s nice.”

by the time you finally walked back into keonho’s apartment, the air in the living room was thick with tension. val and seonghyeon were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, both staring at the textbook on the coffee table like it was a live bomb. val’s face was bright red, and seonghyeon looked like he had forgotten how to breathe through his nose.

keonho and you exchanged a quick, victorious glance behind their backs. the mission had been a success. they had survived thirty minutes alone.

but as you went to the kitchen to unpack the snacks, you weren’t thinking about either of your friends at all. you were still thinking about the way keonho’s voice had sounded in the drink aisle, low and private, completely shifting the gravity of the room.

☆

the ‘demonstration’ was entirely your idea. at least, that was the lie you kept telling yourself to ignore the frantic, drum-like beating of your heart.

it started on a tuesday afternoon. the four of you had been studying in the library, and val had spent twenty minutes staring at seonghyeon’s hands as he wrote down math formulas. later, when the two of them had left to get water, valerie had practically collapsed against your shoulder, whispering in a panicked rush, “yn, his hands are so nice. what if he held my hand? how do people even do that casually? what if my hands are sweaty? what if i ruin everything?”

so, naturally, during your late-night strategy session at the playground near your house, you brought it up.

“she’s overthinking the physical stuff,” you sighed, swinging lazily on the swingset. “she’s terrified of how a guy would actually initiate anything. she needs to see that it’s not some big, terrifying event.”

keonho, who was leaning against the metal chain of the swing next to yours, let out a soft huff. “it’s literally just holding hands. it’s not rocket science.”

“to val, it is!” you defended, turning in your swing to face him. “she needs an example. like… how a guy would actually do it. casually. so she knows what to expect. and i can’t really help ber because it’s not like i’ve held a guy’s hand before either.” you huffed. 

keonho stared at you for a long moment, the cool night breeze rustling his dark hair. he let out a slow, quiet breath, his gaze dropping to your hands resting on the swing chains. 

“fine,” he murmured, stepping off his swing. he walked over and stopped right in front of you, his tall frame casting a long shadow over yours. “i’ll show you. for… educational purposes.”

“right. educational,” you swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was standing. you stood up, and you both began walking around the park.

“okay. say you’re walking next to her,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, calm register. “you don’t just grab her hand out of nowhere. that’s weird. you wait for a transition. like, your shoulders brush.” he leaned in slightly, his shoulder gently bumping yours. a tiny jolt of electricity shot down your spine.

“and then?” your voice sounded breathy, even to your own ears.

“and then, you look at her. you check if she’s comfortable.” he looked down at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the rest of the playground completely fade away. he reached out slowly. his fingers, warm and slightly calloused, brushed against the back of your hand. “if she doesn’t pull away… you just… slide your fingers in.”

slowly, deliberately, keonho slipped his fingers between yours, his palm pressing warm and firm against your own. his hand was large, wrapping completely around yours, holding it with a gentle but protective pressure.

you forgot how to breathe. your eyes darted down to your joined hands, then back up to his face.

he wasn’t smirking. the sarcastic, teasing boy you thought you knew was entirely gone. instead, he was staring at you with a quiet, almost vulnerable focus, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle over the back of your knuckles.

“like that,” he whispered, his voice incredibly soft. “that’s how a guy would do it. gently. so she knows he’s actually paying attention to her.”

“ah, i… see,” you managed to squeak out. you should have pulled your hand away. the demonstration was over. but you didn’t move, and neither did he. for a long, suspended second, you just stood there in the quiet night, hands tightly locked, the boundaries of your ‘partnership’ dissolving into nothing.

☆

after that night, the shift was impossible to ignore. the lines weren’t blurred; they were completely erased.

keonho started looking at you differently. he no longer looked past you or lazy-eyed during your planning sessions. when a plan succeeded—like the time you fully engineered a scenario where seonghyeon had to walk valerie to her bus stop—you had let out a triumphant squeal, grabbing keonho’s shoulders and shaking him.

instead of teasing you, keonho had just stood there, his hands coming up to gently rest on your waist to steady you. he had watched the bright, victorious grin on your face, with a look of absolute, breathtaking fondness crossing his features. he realised, right then, that your fierce loyalty and the passionate, chaotic way you cared for your friends was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. he didn’t care about the mission anymore. he just wanted to be the one who made you laugh like that.

and you were realising things, too.

you realised keonho wasn’t just a sarcastic jerk who got dragged into your schemes. he was the guy who remembered exactly how you liked your acai. he was the one who, when a sudden draft hit the library, silently draped his uniform jacket over your shoulders without you even having to ask, his fingers lingering on your collarbone for just a second too long.

he was reliable. he was attentive. and every single time he looked up from his notebook, caught your eye, and gave you that private, slow smile meant only for you, your stomach flipped and your heart beat faster.

you were supposed to be playing cupid. but looking at him now, you realised you had accidentally walked right into your own trap.

☆

the problem with succeeding at a mission is that, eventually, the mission… ends.

it started when val stopped texting you 911 flashes over a single-letter text message. then, during a tuesday lunch break, you watched in utter disbelief as seonghyeon casually reached across the table and slid his bag of chips over to her without a single foreheaded-collision or stammered apology. she took them, smiled, and her cheeks turned a very normal, incredibly soft shade of pink.

they were doing it. they were functioning like normal human beings.

and it was absolutely devastating.

because suddenly, the shared google document lay untouched for three days straight. the frantic, late-night phone calls detailing ‘tactical romantic interventions’ completely ceased. you sat at your desk at home, staring at your phone, waiting for it to buzz with a dry, sarcastic comment from keonho about how seonghyeon had accidentally breathed in val’s direction again… but the phone stayed dark.

when you did see keonho at school, the air between you felt thick, heavy with a strange, unspoken panic. one afternoon, you ran into him by the lockers. you gripped the strap of your backpack, trying to sound casual. “so… no emergencies today? i guess the locker plan is officially retired.”

keonho leaned against the locker, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. he looked exhausted, his dark eyes scanning your face with a restless, intense focus that made your lungs feel tight. he let out a low, rough breath. “yeah. looks like they’ve got it covered. seonghyeon didn’t sigh once during study hall today. it’s a miracle.”

“a miracle,” you repeated, the word tasting like ash. you forced a small smile. “we did it, partner. mission accomplished.”

he didn’t smile back. his jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to your lips for a agonisingly long second before he looked away, clearing his throat. “right. mission accomplished. guess i’ll… see you around, then.”

he walked away, and you stood there, your chest aching with a hollow, crushing realisation. you had spent so much time orchestrating a love story for your best friends that you hadn’t realised you were completely dependent on the boy who was helping you build it. you didn’t want the operation to end. you wanted an excuse. 

you wanted him. 

but you were too terrified to say it out loud, and judging by the cold distance he was suddenly keeping, you figured he was just relieved to finally have his free time back.

☆

the breaking point arrived on a thursday after school, and it didn’t involve valerie or seonghyeon at all.

you were waiting by the school gates for val, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, when louis, a popular junior who was your age (and a year younger than keonho) from the soccer team, walked up to you. he was tall, confidently leaning one arm against the brick wall right above your head, flashing a charming, practiced smile.

“hey,” louis said, his voice smooth. “you’re yn, right? friends with valerie? i’ve seen you around a lot lately. you’re pretty funny.”

you blinked, completely caught off guard. “oh. uh, thanks?”

“i was wondering,” he continued, tilting his head closer, his eyes scanning your face in a way that made you feel incredibly weird. wrong-weird. “are you doing anything this weekend?”

“i’m… busy, actually.”

“there’s this new arcade opening downtown. i thought maybe we could go together. just the two of us.” i heard you liked arcades…”

your brain short-circuited. you opened your mouth to stammer out a polite rejection again, but before a single syllable could leave your lips, a heavy, suffocating shadow fell over both of you.

“she’s busy,” a cold, lethal voice cut through the air.

you whipped your head around. keonho was standing there. you had never seen him look like this. the lazy, sarcastic, easygoing boy was completely gone. his face was set in a hard, dangerous mask, his eyes flashing with an icy, unbridled fury that actually made you step back. he didn’t even look at louis; his gaze was entirely fixed on the junior’s arm against the wall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick.

louis frowned, dropping his arm and stepping back, annoyed. “excuse me? who are you?”

keonho stepped directly into louis’s personal space, effectively cutting him off from you. he was slightly taller, his broad shoulders completely blocking your view of the senior. the aura radiating off keonho was so fiercely protective, so heavy with territorial jealousy, that the entire courtyard seemed to go dead silent.

“i’m the guy telling you to back off,” keonho said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a quiet threat that made louis’ confidence visibly evaporate. keonho reached back, his hand blindly finding your wrist, his fingers gripping you with a tight, unyielding pressure. “she said she’s busy, didn’t she? move along.”

louis looked between keonho’s expression and his tight grip on your wrist, raised his hands in defeat, and muttered a hurried, “whatever, man,” before turning on his heel and walking away.

the second he was gone, the silence rushed back in. your heart was pounding so hard against your ribs it felt physical. your brain was entirely fried. 

ahn keonho. protective. jealous. what?

keonho didn’t let go of your wrist. he finally turned around to look at you, his chest heaving slightly as he breathed. the fury in his eyes was rapidly melting into a raw, panicked vulnerability. he looked down at where his hand was tightly gripping your wrist, his fingers trembling slightly before he abruptly let go, stepping back as if he’d just been burned.

“keon—” you started, your voice shaking.

“don’t,” he muttered, rubbing a hand violently over his face, refusing to meet your eyes. “just… don’t, yn.”

without another word, he turned and stormed out of the school gates, leaving you standing there in the middle of the courtyard, your skin still burning where his fingers had been, your mind completely, utterly shattered.

the confrontation happened that very same evening, and the universe, in all its dramatic glory, decided to finally break the sky open.

a sudden, violent downpour had trapped you inside the municipal library down the street from the school. it was past 8:00 PM, and the building was practically empty, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights mixing with the heavy, rhythmic thrum of rain against the large glass windows.

you walked out of the study aisles, swinging your umbrella in your hand, when you saw him.

keonho was sitting at a lone table near the back windows, staring out into the dark, rain-slicked streets. a textbook lay open in front of him, but he hadn’t turned a page in hours.

your breath caught in your throat. you gripped your umbrella tighter, your legs moving before your brain could talk you out of it. you walked over, the squeak of your sneakers on the floor cutting through the quiet. you stopped right at the edge of his table.

he slowly looked up. seeing you, his expression guarded over, that exhausting, distant mask sliding back into place. “yn. it’s late. you should be home.”

“you ran away,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. you stepped closer, slamming your hands flat onto the wooden table, leaning in. the frustration, the panic, the weeks of tension finally snapped inside you. “you literally lost your mind this afternoon, acted like you wanted to murder a guy for just talking to me, and then you ran away. you’ve been avoiding me for a week, keonho. what is your problem?”

he stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floor, the loud screech echoing through the empty library as you stepped back. he skirted around the table, cornering you against the bookshelf, his tall frame looming over yours, trapping you in his space just like he had at the playground. but this time, there was no gentle demonstration.

“my problem?” he echoed, his voice a low, furious hiss that vibrated right through your chest. his dark eyes were wild, completely stripping away every single ounce of his usual sarcastic armor. he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. “you want to know what my problem is, yn? my problem is that i can’t think straight anymore. my problem is that i spent the last month pretending to care about seonghyeon’s love life just so i could have an excuse to hold your hand in the middle of the night.”

your eyes widened as you stared up at him, your heart hammering a frantic, drum-like beat against your ribs.

“we won, yn. they’re fine. the operation is over,” keonho whispered, his voice cracking slightly with a raw honesty that made your throat tight. he stepped even closer, his hand coming up to rest on the bookshelf right next to your head, his fingers trembling. he looked down at you, his eyes filled with a desperate, terrifying vulnerability.

“so tell me right now,” he said, his voice dropping into a breathless plea that completely shattered what was left of your sanity. “are we still doing this for them… or is this about us?”

the silence that followed was suffocating, heavy enough to drown out the relentless downpour slamming against the glass windows behind him.

you stared up at him, your lips parted, your brain entirely jammed on the echo of his voice. ‘just so i could have an excuse to hold your hand’. the words played on a loop, short-circuiting every logical defense you had spent weeks building.

keonho was still leaning over you, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the bookshelf. he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling just inches from yours, his gaze locked onto your eyes like he was drowning and waiting for you to throw him a lifeline. the terrifying honesty bleeding out of him was completely uncharacteristic of the boy who usually hid behind dry remarks and a cynical smirk. he looked completely undone. by you.

“keonho…” you breathed, the sound barely escaping your throat.

your hand, acting entirely on its own accord, reached up. your fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against the damp fabric of his school uniform jacket, right over his chest. underneath your palm, you could feel it—the frantic, violent thudding of his heart, racing just as dangerously fast as yours.

“i don’t think it was ever about them,” you whispered, the truth finally breaking through the panic. you looked up into his dark eyes, your own vision blurring slightly with the sheer intensity of the moment. “at least… not for a long time. i was just too terrified to admit it because i thought you were only doing this out of obligation. i thought you wanted your free time back.”

he let out a low, ragged breath, the tension in his shoulders visibly fracturing. a sudden, breathless laugh escaped his lips—a sound of pure, desperate relief.

“you’re an idiot,” he murmured, but his voice was incredibly thick, completely devoid of any actual bite.

before you could react, his hand left the bookshelf. his warm, large palm slid up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jawline, tilting your face up. the touch was so tender, so desperately attentive, that it made your knees feel weak. he leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours, closing the final, unbearable distance between you.

“i don’t care about my free time,” he whispered against your skin, his breath hitching. “i just want you. i’ve wanted you since the first day you dragged me into that convenience store.”

you didn’t answer with words. you couldn’t. instead, you reached up, your fingers tangling into the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down that last fraction of an inch.

the kiss was everything you had imagined it to be—intense, breathless, and heavy with the pent-up frustration of the last month. keonho’s grip on your jaw tightened slightly, pulling you flush against his chest as he kissed you with a deep, consuming fervor that made the rest of the world completely cease to exist. there were no plans, no tactical interventions, and no meticulously engineered scenarios. it was just him, his lips warm and desperate against yours, completely rewriting the rules of the operation you had built together.

when he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes were bright, a slow, genuinely happy smile breaking across his face—the kind of smile he had never given anyone else.

“so,” he murmured, his thumb lazily tracing your lower lip, his voice dropping back into that familiar, teasing cadence you loved. “does this mean operation: true love is officially a success?”

you let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, pulling him right back in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “mission accomplished, partner.”

☆

the problem with officially becoming a couple after weeks of playing top-secret masterminds was that the habit of secrecy didn’t just disappear.

in fact, it became an entirely new game.

“if val finds out we’re together before she and seonghyeon actually figure their lives out, she’ll think we were distracted,” you whispered fiercely, your back pressed against the brick wall of the old equipment shed behind the gym.

keonho was standing right in front of you, his hands resting on either side of your waist, trapping you in his shadow with that lazy, familiar tilt of his head. he looked thoroughly unbothered by the high stakes of your ongoing secrecy. “distracted? yn, i’m highly focused. look at me. i’m the definition of dedicated.”

“keonho, i’m serious,” you gasped, your hands flat against his chest as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “if they catch us—”

“they won’t, angel,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, distracting circle into the fabric of your shirt. “seonghyeon is currently staring at a vending machine trying to decide if buying valerie a green tea is too ‘forward’. we have at least ten minutes.”

you let out a helpless laugh, tilting your head up to catch his lips in a quick kiss. it was chaotic, thrilling, and completely ridiculous. you were hiding in plain sight, sitting at opposite ends of the lunch table during the day, only to exchange lingering glances when no one was looking, or sliding your feet together under the desk during study hall.

but the final push for the original targets couldn’t wait any longer.

☆

the ‘push’ happened on a friday afternoon. 

keonho and you had quite literally engineered a situation involving a malfunctioning classroom door, a misplaced key, and a very deliberate ‘accidental’ lock-in during cleanup duty. you had shoved valerie into the room, keonho had pushed seonghyeon right after her, and you had clicked the lock into place from the outside with a triumphant snap.

through the small glass window of the door, you watched valerie panic and seonghyeon freeze.

“you have one hour!” you yelled through the door. “talk about your feelings or you’re sleeping here!”

“yn! open the door!” val shrieked, her face turning a bright scarlet.

keonho leaned against the wall next to you, crossing his arms and checking his watch. “don’t bother knocking, seonghyeon. i took the spare key from the faculty office. it’s a flawless trap.”

it took exactly forty-two minutes of agonising silence, followed by ten minutes of muffled, tearful shouting, before the window revealed a sight that made you squeal in victory. seonghyeon had his jacket wrapped around valerie’s shoulders, and her hand was firmly, properly tucked into his. they were finally, officially, talking.

the celebration hangout took place at the same late-night diner keonho and you had frequented during your spy missions. the mood was insane, fries were piled high, and val was practically glowing, her hand not leaving seonghyeon’s for a single second.

you were practically radiating pride, leaning back in the booth. “i’m just saying, the locked-door strategy was a stroke of absolute genius. we deserve a medal.”

keonho chuckled, sipping his banana milk. “a medal is standard. i was thinking a monument in the school courtyard.”

val suddenly stopped chewing her fry. she exchanged a long, incredibly knowing look with seonghyeon. seonghyeon cleared his throat, setting his drink down with a slow, deliberate slowness that felt eerily familiar.

“right,” val said, leaning across the table, her eyes darting between you and keonho. "so, are you guys going to stop acting like you’re in a low-budget spy movie now, or do we have to keep pretending we haven’t seen you kissing behind the equipment shed for the last two weeks?”

you froze, your strawberry milk freezing halfway to your mouth. “what?”

“you guys do know everyone knows you’re together, right?” seonghyeon added dryly, a rare, amused smirk touching his face. 0keonho, you literally wore her hair tie on your wrist during gym class last tuesday. you don’t even have long hair.”

your brain completely short-circuited. you whipped your head to look at keonho, whose ears were suddenly turning a very distinct, bright shade of pink. the masterminds had been compromised. you had played yourselves so hard.

“we were… we were being subtle!” you protested, burying your face in your hands as val burst out laughing.

“you really weren’t,” val beamed, reaching over to pat your arm. “but we appreciate the effort. and the locked door.”

an hour later, as the diner started to clear out, keonho caught your wrist under the table, tugging you gently. “come with me for a second.”

he led you down the narrow hallway toward the back exit of the diner, away from the noise of the main room, stopping in the quiet, dimly lit alleyway just outside. the cool night air hit your face, a stark contrast to the warm, fry-scented air inside.

keonho let go of your wrist, but he didn’t step back. he let out a long, slightly breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at you. the cocky, tactical mastermind facade was completely gone, replaced by that raw, honest vulnerability that always made your heart do backflips.

“so,” he started, his voice a little rough, a little nervous. “we’re terrible spies.”

“abysmal,” you agreed, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. “the worst in history.”

keonho smiled, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs gently brushing over your cheekbones. he stared into your eyes, his gaze so intense and steady that it felt like he was looking straight into your soul.

“i wanted to do this right,” he whispered, his breath warm against your forehead. “no more operations. no more schemes. no more using them as an excuse… to be near you.” he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against yours. for a guy who always had a sarcastic comeback ready, he suddenly looked completely struck dumb by how much he cared about you. “even though we’ve been… whatever this is… for the last few weeks,” keonho murmured, his voice dropping into something soft that made your knees instantly melt. “i never actually asked you. properly.”

he leaned down a fraction, his dark eyes searching yours with a quiet, desperate hope.

“yn. will you be my girlfriend? for real. no secrets, no undercover hangouts. just… you and me.”

you smiled, the absolute certainty of the moment washing over you like a warm wave. you reached up, tangling your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.

“oh, keonho,” you whispered right against his lips. “i thought you’d never ask.”

© hyuneskkami ❦

the backstage area of the arena was a chaotic storm of pre-show adrenaline and heavy mechanical noise. bass frequencies vibrated violently right through the soles of your heavy combat boots, and the air smelled like a suffocating mix of hairspray and the expensive cologne the boys had drowned themselves in. you were well-versed in the frantic ritual of getting stage-ready.

but tonight, the weight of the concept felt heavier. the theme was a high-concept, futuristic cyber-punk—sleek, metallic, and sharp. it required a level of effortless, dangerous confidence. and lately, you had been struggling to find that in yourself.

being the late addition to an already established, powerhouse boy group meant battling a silent, constant voice in the back of your head. a voice that whispered you were always a step behind. martin was the perfect leader, juhoon was a natural prodigy, seonghyeon’s presence was commanding, keonho’s energy was magnetic, and james... james was an absolute force on stage. 

and then there was you. sometimes, you felt like a placeholder. a piece added to a puzzle that was already complete without you. the boys tried to make you feel less like that, but the doubts still crept up on you sometimes.

that deep-seated feeling of never being ‘enough’ naturally bled into everything you did, especially the one thing that was entirely yours: your art. secretly, you were a chronic, almost compulsive artist. back home, your bedroom drawers were a literal graveyard of billions of unfinished sketchbooks, crammed with intricate, breathtaking designs that you hid away like a dirty secret. you never finished them because the moment a drawing near-completed, you’d convince yourself it was messy, uninspired, and completely unworthy of being seen.

but tonight, the cyber theme had triggered a rare, persistent vision in your head. a desire to feel like you belonged to the concept. an hour before the show, while the venue was still running sound checks, you had quietly slipped away into a dimly lit corner of the dressing room. resting your left arm flat on the vanity table, you pulled out a pouch of ultra-fine, waterproof black liquid liners.

painstakingly, you began to trace sharp, razor-thin, neo-tribal cybersigilism lines starting right at the curve of your shoulder joint. you let the liquid ink weave down your bicep in aggressive, elegant geometric webs, wrapping tightly around your elbow, cascading down your forearm, and splitting into fine, thorn-like wires that tapered off perfectly at the very tip of your middle finger. to make sure it survived the intense choreography and your own sweat, you had completely drenched your entire arm in three heavy coats of industrial-strength makeup setting spray.

when you finally stepped out into the main styling lounge, your jacket draped loosely off your left shoulder, the head stylist stopped dead in her tracks. she gasped, dropping a pair of safety pins, and reached out to gently hover her fingers over your bicep.

“oh my god, yn-ssi,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “wah, look at this sleeve! where on earth did you buy it? the mesh matches your skin tone so perfectly, i can’t even see the seam at the shoulder. did you order it from that new techwear brand in japan?”

you let out a soft, slightly awkward laugh, instantly pulling the edge of your jacket up a fraction to dismiss the praise. “oh, uh... yeah, something like that. just found it online while scrolling through a random site. it’s actually kind of cheap up close.”

“it looks incredibly realistic,” she muttered, still inspecting it in awe before getting pulled away by a frantic assistant. “make sure it doesn't snag on your wardrobe!”

you stared at your arm in the mirror, a familiar twist of self-doubt hitting your stomach. 

the lines on the forearm are a little shaky, you thought, instantly picking it apart. the stylist is just being polite. if it were actual art, it’d look cleaner. 

to you, it was just a temporary distraction from the pre-show anxiety. you figured keeping the ‘mesh sleeve’ lie alive was just easier than admitting you’d spent an hour drawing something that wasn’t entirely perfect on yourself.

it didn’t take long for the boys to notice.

“whoa,” martin said, pausing mid-sentence as he adjusted the heavy straps on his utility vest. he walked over, his eyes locked on your arm. “honestly, that fits the concept so well. is that for the show?”

“yeah, it looks completely badass,” juhoon added, leaning in so close his nose was practically an inch from your forearm. “the graphic styling is insane. it makes you look like some sort of cyber-assassin. where did wardrobe find that? why didn’t we get those too?”

seonghyeon nodded in approval from the couch, sipping an iced americano. “it works. definitely elevates the silhouette. you look like you belong in a sci-fi film.”

belong. the word twinged in your chest. 

“it’s just a cheap sleeve, guys,” you said softly, offering a tight, small smile. “it’ll probably look totally different under the harsh stage lights anyway. don’t look too closely.”

james, who had been sitting quietly while a stylist tamed his blond hair, caught your eye through the large vanity mirror. a slow, incredibly warm smile spread across his face, but his eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. he knew that tone—he knew the exact texture of your voice when you were trying to shrink yourself down. he didn’t say anything right away, but the intense, unwavering look in his eyes made your chest tighten with a different kind of heat.

then, the illusion shattered.

keonho was hurriedly downing a bottle of water, his mind clearly racing through the opening formation, when one of the stage managers accidentally bumped into his shoulder. keonho stumbled forward, a sudden, heavy splash of water flying straight out of his bottle and landing directly across your forearm.

“oh! shit, sorry! yn, i’m so sorry—” keonho panicked, immediately grabbing a rough paper towel from the table and lunging forward to wipe it dry.

“wait, don’t touch it! don’t wipe!” you gasped, your instincts entirely taking over.

before he could smear it into a giant black smudge, you snatched a soft tissue, slapping it onto your wet arm and rapidly, delicately dabbing at the skin, trying frantically to absorb the moisture without ruining the hour of fine-line work you had put in. but the setting spray could only do so much against a direct splash and panic. when you pulled the tissue away, a section of the razor-sharp lines near your wrist had visibly smudged, leaving a distinct, charcoal-grey streak across your skin and transferring a dark print onto the white tissue.

the dressing room went dramatically silent. keonho’s eyes went completely round, his jaw literally dropping. martin stopped pacing. juhoon physically bent over, staring at the blurred ink on your actual skin.

“wait a second…” seonghyeon blinked, putting his coffee down with a loud thud. he stood up and walked over, his sharp eyes scanning the edge of the design. “that’s... that’s actual ink. you’re not wearing a mesh fabric.”

“yn,” martin whispered, his voice laced with pure shock. “you drew that?”

“you didn’t buy a sleeve?!” keonho yelled, his voice cracking slightly as he looked from the smudged ink to your blushing face. “are you telling me you hand-painted an entire, highly detailed tattoo sleeve on yourself?! and i smudged it?”

your cheeks instantly flushed a deep, burning crimson. a wave of intense humiliation washed over you. you felt exposed, like they had just caught you trying too hard to be impressive. you stared down at your boots, your voice dropping into a defensive, hurried whisper.

“i mean... yeah. just with some liquid liners i had. it’s really not that great, seriously. look, the symmetry near the inner elbow is totally warped, and the lines are way too thick near the top. it’s kinda messy. i only did it because i felt like my stage outfit was missing something and i wanted to fit in better, but i ruined it anyway, so—”

“‘not that great’?” james’ voice cut through your frantic ramble like a knife. he had completely abandoned the styling chair, walking past the hair stylist to stand right in front of you. a disbelieving, breathless laugh escaped his lips, but his eyes were entirely serious. he reached down, his fingers warm and steady as he took your left hand, lifting your arm up into the vanity lights to inspect the sweeping, intricate cyber-vines.

“yn, look at this,” james said, his voice firm, forcing you to look at him. “the line weight, the shading, the tracing... this is breathtaking. you’re a literal genius.”

“seriously, the line work is completely insane,” juhoon whined, his voice a mix of awe and absolute betrayal. “why on earth have you been hiding this from us? you’re so talented! i didn’t even know you could draw like this!”

“i’ve seen professional tattoo artists with shakier hands than this,” seonghyeon murmured, leaning in to track a line that wrapped perfectly around your wrist bone. “this takes serious technical skill. to do this on your own arm? it’s amazing.”

“i’m sorry i splashed it,” keonho said, looking genuinely remorseful but completely amazed. “but oh my god, yn. you’re like... a master artist. why did you lie and say you bought it?”

you swallowed hard, looking at the floor. “because... it’s just a doodle. it’s not perfect yet. you guys are great at music, at dancing, at everything. i didn’t want to show off something that wasn’t actually good.”

martin stepped forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on your shoulder. “hey. look at me. stop that. this is beyond good. you are a part of this group, and your talent is insane. if anything, we should be bragging about you.”

the boys crowded around you in a tight circle, completely burying you in a wave of loud, genuine praise. they didn’t just think it was a cool gimmick; they genuinely loved it because it came from you. for the first time in months, the loud, critical voice in your head was drowned out by the voices of the five boys who genuinely cherished you.

suddenly, martin’s face lit up, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “wait. we have about twenty minutes before our final lineup. yn... can you draw on us?”

“oh my god, please!” keonho begged instantly, thrusting his left arm forward so fast he almost hit you. “we need to match! think about how insane it would look on stage if the whole group had matching custom tattoos on our left hands. it perfectly binds the whole concept together! it makes us look like a real unit!”

“yes! do mine first, please,” juhoon chanted, hopping from foot to foot.

you looked at their eager faces, your chest swelling with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. they wanted a piece of your art on them for a major concert. they wanted to wear your work on stage.

“okay, okay, sit down!” you laughed, the last remnants of your anxiety melting away. “stop crowding me! i can only do quick ones on your hands or wrists, we literally do not have time for full sleeves.”

the next fifteen minutes turned into a chaotic, incredibly sweet bonding session. you perched on the edge of the leather sofa, uncapping your fresh liners, while the boys practically formed an orderly queue. they watched you work in absolute, uncharacteristic silence, completely mesmerised by how steady and precise your movements were.

“don’t move, mars,” you murmured, anchoring his hand with your fingers as you drew sharp, geometric bands mimicking cybernetic rings around his knuckles.

“i’m not moving, i’m not even breathing,” he whispered back, staring intently at your hand. “this is an honour, honestly.”

next was juhoon, who got a sprawling, sharp digital starburst across the back of his hand. “this is so sick,” he whispered, turning his hand back and forth in the light the second you finished. “i’m never washing this hand again. it’s an official cortis artifact now.”

“you have to wash it tonight, juhoon, you have skin oils,” seonghyeon chided calmly, though he was already holding out his own wrist. you gave seonghyeon a sleek, minimalist cyber-bracer that looked incredibly elegant. for keonho, you drew aggressive, venom-like spikes creeping up from his palm to his forearm, which had him flexing in the mirror instantly.

“five minutes to stage, cortis! final wardrobe checks right now!” the head manager shouted, banging loudly on the open door.

the styling room erupted into motion. the backup dancers were lining up in the hallway, and the other four members were already hyped up, high-fiving each other and aggressively showing off their matching left hands to the wardrobe staff, who were all murmuring in disbelief.

you stood up, capping your pen, a small, genuine smile on your face. but a gentle, firm hand caught your wrist. james pulled you into the quiet, shadowed space behind the heavy wardrobe racks, away from the rushing coordinates and shouting managers. the soft smile on his lips had deepened, but his dark eyes were intensely focused on you, holding a depth that always made your breath hitch. he held out his left hand, turning it over to expose the clear, bare skin on the back of it.

“my turn,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that private, low register that was reserved solely for you. “can you draw something specific for me? something that reminds you of... us?”

your heart gave a violent, familiar thud against your ribs. you looked down at his bare hand, then up at his face, the old insecurity trying to rear its head. “james... we only have like two minutes. what if i mess it up? yours should look the best, and i don’t want to give you something ugly right before we go out—”

“hey,” he interrupted softly, stepping closer until his chest practically brushed your shoulder. his right hand came up, his long fingers gently cupping your jaw, forcing you to stop looking at his hand and look into his eyes. “look at me.”

you looked up, your breathing shallow.

“stop doing that,” he whispered, his thumb softly brushing over your cheekbone, careful not to ruin your makeup. his expression was a mix of intense adoration and a slight, protective frustration. “stop talking about your work like it’s a mistake, and stop acting like you’re lesser than anyone else in that room. do you have any idea how brilliant you are? you sat out there and completely transformed the group’s look in fifteen minutes because you’re incredibly talented. you are more than enough, pretty girl. on this stage, in this group... and with me. do you understand?”

a small, breathless lump formed in your throat, but the sheer sincerity in his voice washed over your insecurities like a wave, putting them to sleep. you nodded slowly, a genuine, tear-tinged smile breaking onto your face. “okay.”

“good,” he murmured, his eyes softening as he released your jaw and held his left hand out again. “now, be fast. i want a piece of your art on me before we walk out there.”

taking a steadying breath, you pulled out your finest brush pen. you held his hand securely in yours, your fingers interlocking slightly to steady his palm, and began to ink his skin. but instead of the purely sharp, aggressive cybernetic lines you had given the others, you let your hand flow into something far more intricate.

you drew a striking, stylised butterfly. its wings were composed of sharp, futuristic shards and dangerous, metallic spikes—fitting the concept perfectly—but right at the center, weaving the dangerous wings together, you hid a microscopic, delicate infinity loop. 

it was a silent promise. a hidden symbol of the way the two of you had evolved together, growing wings but staying entirely bound to one another amidst the deafening, chaotic noise of your idol lives.

as you lifted the pen, finishing the final stroke, james looked down at his hand. the contrast of the edgy, futuristic art against the deeply tender meaning behind it made his expression soften completely. his breath hitched slightly, his fingers trembling just a fraction.

“it’s beautiful, love,” he whispered, his eyes lifting to lock onto yours, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. “truly. it’s my favorite thing i’ve ever worn.”

“cortis, let’s go! stage doors are closing!” coco, your manager’s, voice boomed from the hallway, followed by the deafening roar of the crowd through the monitors.

james didn’t care about the rush. his right hand slid back to the nape of your neck, pulling you in firmly as he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. the kiss was deep, lingering, and full of a quiet, possessive love mixed with adrenaline. it sent an electric jolt right down to your toes, completely wiping away any leftover traces of your doubt.

he pulled back slowly, a breathless, confident smirk playing on his lips. he slid his fingers down to your left hand, intertwining his fingers tightly with yours. your matching, hand-drawn cyber art aligned perfectly, skin against skin, ink against ink.

“come on,” james whispered, tugging you toward the roaring light of the stadium. “let’s go crush it, pretty girl.”

© hyuneskkami ❦

TWELVE YEARS AGO. CHILDHOOD — slide away ✫ oasis [wc. 1,394]

if someone were to ask you how you’d met martin, or how your story began, you wouldn’t know where to start. he’d always just been there, like the familiar creak of that swing in your neighbourhood park, or like the chair in your school that has always been a little off-centre since the beginning of the year. his presence had become something steady and expected—something that had been there long enough that you stopped questioning when it started.

your mothers, on the other hand, told the story better. according to them, your first meeting was somewhat amusing.

“don’t touch that,” a small voice said very seriously. your hand paused—the one that was reaching for the glass sitting dangerously close to the edge of the table. you turned around slowly and blinked at the boy standing under the warm restaurant lights with his arms crossed, like he was already tired of you.

“why?” you questioned curiously.

“it’ll fall, and then you’ll cry,” he said in a very scientific and factual tone.

“i don’t cry,” you frowned.

“you will.” he looked entirely unimpressed.

you grabbed the glass anyway, and you almost smirked at him—before it slipped and shattered. you were crying so loudly that everybody in the room turned to look for the source of disturbance.

more than the fact that you—the ’fearless yn’, were crying—you hated the fact that the boy had been right. but he didn’t make a smug comment or anything. instead, he sat beside you awkwardly, his hand hovering near your arm for a second before he decided to pat it, like he had seen adults do.

“it’s okay,” he comforted you—or at least, tried to. “i have snacks.

you sniffled and rubbed your red eyes harshly. “what snacks?”

he pulled his sleeve over his hand before wiping away the snot from your face. “strawberry pocky.” he pulled them out of his pocket with his other hand, and offered them to you.

you looked at him carefully. “the whole thing is for… me?”

“we can share. or if you want it that bad,  you can keep it all.”

“share.” you decided firmly.

“ok,” he smiled. “let’s share.”

“i’m yn, by the way,” you said, as you bit into one of the pocky sticks.

“martin,” he grinned.

‘slide away’ by oasis—a band your father loved—played in the background, marking the start of your friendship with a boy you knew you’d fall in love with.

and after that day, he just… stayed.

“ynnie, stop running. you’re gonna fall!” martin called out while chasing after you as you sprinted across the park. your loud and reckless laughter echoed in the large space.

“nah!” you shouted back, right before you tripped hard. your foot caught on a stone and you turned to try and catch yourself. failing to do so, you fell flat on your ass.

he caught up with you quickly, crouching down beside you with a sigh that sounded too mature and old for someone your age. you were the same age, after all.

“she never listens to me,” he muttered to himself, pulling a decorated hello kitty themed bandage from his pocket.

“you carry bandages?” you blinked curiously at him.

“only when i’m with you,” he said while carefully placing it over your knee after making sure there was no dirt stuck to it. 

“why?”

“you fall a lot.”

you stared at him for a second.

“that means he cares,” you whispered to yourself.

“no, it doesn’t,” he said quickly and defensively, but his ears turned red enough to give him away. you pressed him about it for the rest of the day as you got up and continued running around again, but he didn’t argue anymore.

maybe that’s when you realised you’d fallen for your best friend. maybe it was when he’d made up gibberish words to help you out because you couldn’t pronounce some stuff clearly.

“martin!” you whispered. “pass me the guriguri!”

“wait, which one was that again? green?”

“yes!”

maybe, it was much later. maybe love had always been like that with him—small sacrifices done so quietly that nobody else noticed them.

you were at a fancy restaurant with your family and martin’s, to celebrate something unimportant to you.

there was only one brownie left, and you were both eyeing it skeptically.

“split it equally, okay? don’t fight,” your parents laughed and continued with their conversation.

martin looked up at you once, before pushing the bigger part towards you. “you can have more.”

“why?”

“because you’ll complain if i take it.” “well… true,” you laughed.

maybe, it was when he agreed to marry you even before either of you even understood what love really meant.

“boys and girls can’t be best friends forever unless they get married,” you’d overheard someone say in your class during lunch. you didn’t think much of it at first, but then, the thought kept returning no matter what you did—lingering stubbornly in the back of your mind while you brushed your teeth, while you changed into your soft pajamas, while you lay in bed staring up at the ceiling with your stuffed shark plushie tucked beneath your chin.

so, the next day, you asked martin, your best friend, about it.

“mars,” you called out, turning to your side to look at him sitting on the swing. “if we have to get married to stay best friends forever… should we?”

“okay,” he said without missing a beat.

as soon as you both made the decision, you ran to his house.

he googled ‘how to get married?’ on his mom’s laptop while you grabbed a pen and paper. you sat on the heated floor of his living room with your shoulders and thighs touching.

“what’s taxes?” you frowned, pointing to the screen.

“i don’t know.”

“sounds horrible.”

“yeah. let’s ignore that part.”

eventually, you had redirected your focus to amateur tutorials on youtube for ‘diy paper rings — no glue required!’.

you two sat surrounded by scraps of coloured paper and uncapped markers for the next two hours, completely focused on the task.

“it makes sense,” he said. “what?”

“we already like hanging out together all the time anyway.”

“yeah! and if we get married, then nobody can make us stop being best friends!” you exclaimed. he nodded with enthusiasm.

“you’re a genius, ynnie,” he patted your head. you pushed his hand away and pouted at him.

“don’t touch my head. i’m a grown up girl.”

“whatever you say, pretty girl. you’re, like, six.”

“i’m turning eight this year, thank you very much! plus, we’re the same age,” you defended.

“same thing,” he rolled his eyes knowingly.

you made a ring of orange paper, with red suns and hearts messily scribbled on them. martin’s was much neater in comparison to yours—a light blue paper ring with black and dark blue stars neatly drawn—though, he continuously denied caring ‘that much’ about it.

“stop making yours look better than mine,” you accused.

“i’m not even doing anything.”

“liar.”

he laughed quietly.

you waited for your parents to gather at night, and only then choosing to present your rings in makeshift ring boxes (really, they were old shoe boxes you stole from your parents’ shoe racks) at dinner. your mothers pretended to tear up, and your fathers pretended to give martin a serious ‘boy talk’.

when it was finally time, you grinned at him as you pushed the orange ring onto his ring finger. he slipped the blue one onto yours with full concentration.

“done. now, we’re married,” you excitedly announced.

“we’re staying best friends forever,” he explained to your parents.

“is that so?” his mother asked with a smile.

“yeah. we planned it and all,” martin confirmed.

“we’re skipping the taxes thingie,” you whispered loudly to him and nudged his shoulder with yours. “tell them that too, mars!”

“oh yeah,” he realised and set his expression to a serious one. “we’re not doing taxes.”

everybody laughed like it was a joke, but you were both dead-set about the taxes thingie.

you remembered looking at him then, at the complete certainty on his face, at how easy it had been for him to say yes to a forever with you, and maybe that should’ve been your first clue.

you think now that you didn’t really know what love was, but if someone had asked you back then, you would’ve said it was something like this—something easy and comfortable and eternally beautiful, because no one else in the world would’ve answered you that quickly, if you had asked them to marry you.

TEN YEARS AGO. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL — first love / late spring ✫ mitski [wc. 1,293]

elementary school felt softer in your memories. maybe because you were still too young to understand embarrassment properly, or too young to realise how strange it might’ve looked to other people that you and martin moved through life like a matching set, like separating simply wasn’t an option. or maybe it was because loving him still felt easy back then.

“yn, you’re sitting wrong. again,” he pointed at your chair with the back of his pencil.

“a person can’t ‘sit wrong’, martin,” you rolled your eyes.

“well, you are.”

“how does that even work?”

“your chair is so far from your table. this is why your back pains after class everyday,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly. he stood up and pulled your chair—and you, by extension—closer to your table with an awful screech. your hands moved quickly to cover one of yours’ and one of his ears.

“martin!” someone yelled from nearby. he turned back to smile sheepishly at them.

“ow,” you scolded him for the noise.

“it’s your fault.”

“nuh uh.”

“yuh uh!”

“martin and yn. quiet,” your teacher reprimanded you. you glared at each other and then grinned.

“you can’t attack me during school hours,” he warned, reminding you of an old deal you’d made.

“firstly, it’s not attacking if my foot touches your foot very hard ‘by mistake’. and secondly, you’re calling this shitshow a school?” you mumbled. his eyes widened at the apparently new curse word you’d just used.

“what’s ‘shitshow’ mean?” he asked curiously.

“no idea,” you shrugged. “saw it in some movie yesterday. ‘shit’ is bad, so i’m guessing ‘shitshow’ is… more bad?”

he stared at you in disbelief for a second before laughing, your shoulders shaking as your teacher shouted at both of you to calm down once again.

neither of you listened very well. you rarely did when you were together.

maybe love had never arrived all at once for you. there hadn’t been some cinematic moment where everything magically made sense, no dramatic revelation where your heart raced and you realised oh. this is it. 

instead, it had settled quietly into the spaces between ordinary things, weaving itself into the shape of your everyday life so naturally that you hadn’t noticed it happening until much later. because back then, martin was just… your martin.

your classmate, minho, approached you during lunch one day. martin was away washing his hands.

“do you want to trade snacks?” he asked quietly.

you looked at his pudding cup suspiciously. you really really loved pudding.

“what do you want?”

he looked at the strawberry milk on your table. “that.”

you hesitated. martin always drank the strawberry milk from your lunch because your mom packed it even if you hated it.

“i can’t,” you decided firmly.

“why not?” he asked, disappointed.

“because martin likes it.”

minho blinked at you. “...okay?”

you frowned at his confused face. he was the weird and strange one, because obviously you saved things martin liked. that was just how it worked, right?

martin returned as minho left, pushing you further inside on the bench to sit beside you.

“you didn’t drink it?” he asked, pointing at the strawberry milk.

“i saved it.”

his expression softened in a way you didn’t understand fully.

“oh.”

“here,” you pushed it towards him.

“thanks, ynnie,” he smiled brightly at you, like you’d given him a diamond and not a 1-dollar milk carton.

you watched carefully as he poked his straw through it and took a sip. you felt strangely proud afterwards, like you’d done something important.

since then, you had stopped questioning the way he remembered tiny things about you, or the way your first instinct was always to save things for him too. once you grow used to someone being there in every ordinary moment, they stop feeling temporary. they start feeling essential, like a favourite song you’ve heard so many times that you don’t realise how much you love it until the day it suddenly stops playing. you realised that’s how you felt while listening to ‘first love / late spring’ by mitski.

next, you remember your first fight with martin. well, not exactly a fight, but it seemed quite world-ending at that age.

you couldn’t believe your eyes. he’d eaten your gummy worms. all of them.

“you’re evil,” you complained to him during break, sitting on the opposite side of the bench with your arms crossed tightly, unlike how you usually sit next to each other.

“i said i was sorry.”

“that doesn’t bring them back.”

“i’ll buy you more!”

“it’s not about the gummy worms” you grumbled.

his eyes widened. “what’s it about, then?”

you opened your mouth to bite back at him, but closed it again. you weren’t fully sure either, to be completely honest. you were just… upset. and somehow, being upset with martin felt worse than being upset with anybody else.

“forget it,” you said finally.

you didn’t talk to him for the rest of the day. he didn’t sit beside you during art class, and you didn’t share your crayons with him. you both looked so terribly sad and miserable, even your teacher noticed.

“did you two finally get tired of each other?” she joked.

“no,” you both answered immediately. and then you glared at each other again.

that evening, your mom answered a knock at the front door—revealing martin standing there in his school uniform, awkwardly holding a tiny plastic bag from the convenience store in your neighbourhood.

“hello, miss ln. can yn come outside?” he asked quietly.

you shuffled closer to the door suspiciously. “what?”

he held the bag out to you, filled with three packs of gummy worms. you gasped and your eyes widened at the same time.

“i used my allowance,” he confessed, looking at his shoes with a small pout on his face.

“all of it?” you looked at him carefully.

“maybe.”

you stared at the bag before looking up at him again.

“i forgive you,” you decided. his shoulders visibly relaxed and a triumphant smile stretched across his face. you pulled out one of the packets and handed it to him. “share?”

“share,” he smiled softer.

and just like that, everything felt normal again; because neither of you knew how to stay angry at the other for very long.

the next day, your english teacher surprised you all by giving you a free class with one condition.

‘who is your favourite person?’ he scribbled messily on the whiteboard.

“answer this one by one, and then you can sleep or play, or draw on my face with the new colours i got,” he announced.

after five minutes of shouts and yells from you and your classmates, everybody quieted down.

kids around you shouted answers immediately:

“my mom!”

“cha eunwoo!”

“my dad!”

“spiderman!”

“justin beiber!”

“no, iu is better!”

when it was your turn, you answered without thinking—“martin!”

the class went quiet for a second before erupting into loud ‘ewww’s.

you blinked at them in confusion. “…what?”

“you like him!” leesol, your friend, accused dramatically.

“obviously i like him,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “he’s my favorite.”

the class groaned louder. then, your teacher pointed beside you. “what about you, martin?”

he looked up from his desk. “yn,” he answered immediately.

your class screamed louder this time. you looked at each other, equally confused by everyone else’s reaction, because to both of you, the answer had felt very obvious.

who else would it be?

when someone has been woven into every ordinary corner of your life since childhood, you stop knowing how to separate love from habit, or devotion from familiarity. you just know that every memory of growing up somehow leads back to them, and that somewhere along the way, your heart started treating their presence like it was the most obvious thing in the world. like there was no you without them at all.

SIX YEARS AGO. MIDDLE SCHOOL — call your name ✫ sawano hiroyuki [wc. 3,545]

middle school had been cruel in a quiet way. everything changed without actually changing.

you sat next to martin during classes whenever teachers allowed it. you walked home together after school with your bags bumping against each other every few steps because neither of you understood the concept of personal space around the other. you fought over meaningless things like who cheated during board games or whose turn it was to buy snacks from the convenience store. 

something had shifted somewhere along the way. you noticed it in stupid moments first, like how your stomach suddenly felt strange whenever he smiled at you for too long. or how you started fixing your hair before meeting him after school without fully understanding why. or how hearing another girl say his name too sweetly made something ugly and jealous curl quietly in your chest. it felt horrible, especially because you couldn’t stop it.

“do you like anyone?” wonhee asked you suddenly.

you looked up so quickly from your notebook, you almost broke your neck. “what?”

she leaned closer conspiratorily. “do you like anyone?” she repeated.

“no,” you answered too quickly.

she narrowed her eyes at you instantly. “lie.”

“nope. i just don’t like anyone.”

“it’s martin, isn’t it?”

you choked on air, coughing quickly to cover it up. “what? no!”

“bro, come on,” she smiled. “you look at him like he hung the sun.”

“it’s ‘hung the moon’, not ‘sun’,” you corrected, choosing to ignore the rest of her statement.

“you said he reminded you of the sun, so i thought it’d fit better,” she grinned, clapping a hand on your back. when you didn’t say anything, looking at a spot over a shoulder motionlessly with a small smile, she turned around and immediately groaned. “...and we lost yn to martin. again.”

“huh?” you jolted at the sound of your name.

“nothing. just noting how you stopped listening to me, like, twenty seconds ago, when he walked into the room.”

“shut up,” you said weakly, looking back to where martin was standing.

as cliche as it sounded, the sunlight did look beautiful when it spilled across the side of his face—not harshly, but quite the opposite. his hair was growing longer and slightly wavier, and you had made him promise you that he wouldn’t cut it for a while. you told him he’d looked like a prince, and he’d agreed to keep his hair if you’d liked it.

“you like him sooo bad,” wonhee pushed a hand against your shoulder.

you didn’t say anything, proving her words right. well, you did like him. a lot.

martin paused his conversation with his friend the moment he saw you grinning beside wonhee.

you looked beautiful in a way words couldn’t describe. it was unfair to other girls your age, he thought, because you never had a bad ‘phase’ ever. you just always looked pretty, were always smart, and always right by his side, so obviously, you were the best girl ever. not like he cared about other girls when you were there.

“you like yn,” juhoon’s voice brought him back suddenly.

he looked up from the math worksheet sitting idly on his table, waiting to be filled with nonsensical answers.

“no, i don’t.”

“you literally follow her around everywhere.”

“we’ve known each other since we were babies. obviously we hang out, juhoon.”

“right,” he nodded. “you definitely don’t stare at her during math class like a loser.”

he automatically turned to look at you by the window. he noticed the braid he'd tried on you that morning, and some pieces of your hair fell out of it—framing your face in an unbelievably chest-achingly pretty way.

“i don’t stare at her,” he frowned, while quite literally staring at you.

“sure.”

“i don’t.”

“you’re doing it right now.” a small smile tugged at his friend’s lips.

“i just don’t like math classes. shut up,” martin immediately turned away from you, cheeks warming slightly.

“explains the red cheeks and ears too, i guess,” juhoon noted to himself. “hm.”

“maybe i’m descended from northern europeans,” he deflected.

“what?”

“northern europeans,” he nodded solemnly. “their descendants tend to have more capillaries close to the skin’s surface, which makes flushed faces more visible.” he repeated, just as practiced for situations like this—to explain his quick redness.

“your ears are red too.”

he covered his ears with his hands quickly. “shut up.”

your next most memorable moment with martin was the year both of you discovered you needed glasses. the whole occasion felt strangely intimate.

your school had organised mandatory eye tests, and somehow both you and martin failed badly enough to end up sitting side-by-side in the clinic afterwards while waiting for the eyedrops to work properly before the actual test.

“mars,” you called out blindly. he hummed. “i can’t see shit.”

“language,” he automatically scolded you in a way that was second nature to him.

“you were the one who taught me to swear, just so you know,” you pointed out.

“yeah, but i don’t swear in front of nurses.”

“coward.”

the nurse laughed softly as she gently placed another set of drops into your eyes. you immediately recoiled, nearly blinding her.

“stop moving,” martin quietly laughed. “you almost headbutted her.”

“this is torture. it burns,” you whined.

“dramatic ass,” he whispered lowly so only you could hear.

“oh, now you swear?!”

“just not in front of nurses!”

“i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

you began to say something, to argue again, but realised… you really didn’t hate him. not even one bit.

your vision blurred even further, and you finally opened your eyes. everything looked fuzzy and soft.

“mars?” you muttered quietly. he hummed again. “where are you?”

“right here, pretty girl.” you felt his long fingers tap against your hand before intertwining your fingers. your chest tightened instinctively.

“oh.”

“can you see much?” he asked.

“you’re a blob,” you said truthfully.

“wow, so romantic,” he said dryly, making the nurse nearby laugh. later, when she briefly left the room, you carefully blinked your watery eyes open to look toward him again—his outline was a little blurry and unfocused. still, you recognised him immediately.

you thought then, stupidly and dramatically and very much like a middle-schooler, that maybe you would always recognise martin somehow, even if the whole world became impossible to see clearly.

one day, martin’s voice simply sounded deeper than before. one day, your school uniforms fit differently. one day, your classmates suddenly became obsessed with lip gloss and crushes and who sat beside who during class. and somehow, without either of you noticing when it happened, looking at him started feeling dangerous—not bad dangerous; just the kind that made your chest ache strangely afterwards.

“ow,” martin winced, fingers pressing down against the strings of his new guitar awkwardly. “this hurts.”

you sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, flipping lazily through one of your science textbooks while he struggled through the same three chords for nearly an hour minutes straight.

“then quit,” you suggested dryly.

“no.”

“why not?”

“because i already told dad i’d learn.”

“your dad also said he’d stop eating after midnight and then i saw him eating ramen at three in the morning yesterday.” 

he snorted quietly. “wow, traitor.”

“i’m just saying: lying runs in the family.” he kicked your foot lightly with his own.

“you’re annoying.”

“and yet you like hanging out with me every day.”

“because you invite yourself over every day.”

“details details,” you said in a singsong.

he rolled his eyes before looking back down at the guitar resting against his lap.

you watched him carefully from across the room—middle school had made him prettier in an unfair way. his hair had gotten even longer recently, soft black strands falling over his eyes whenever he looked down too quickly. even his voice had changed enough that sometimes it caught you off guard completely.

you hated how aware of him you’d become. you hated it even more because he seemed completely unaffected.

“what song are you even trying to learn?” you finally asked.

his fingers paused. “nothing.”

“that’s suspicious.”

“it’s not.”

“martin.” he sighed dramatically before reaching for his phone and shoving the screen toward you. your eyes widened immediately. “sawano hiro—call your name?”

he looked away almost instantly. “you said you liked it.”

your chest tightened so suddenly, you swore you could feel your heart beating against your chest. because you did love that song. you had cried listening to it once after finishing an episode of attack on titan and martin had laughed at you for nearly thirty minutes afterwards.

“you cried over giant naked people?” he had asked you.

“they were dying,” you had said, hiccuping.

“skill issue.”

“martin!”

and now he was sitting here with aching fingers trying to learn your favorite song in secret.

“…oh,” you said quietly.

“don’t make it weird.”

“i’m not making it weird,” you defended quickly, even though your face suddenly felt warm. “you’re the one secretly practicing emotional anime songs in your room.”

“it’s not emotional.”

“you looked constipated trying to play that last chord.”

“leave me alone.”

you laughed softly, but your chest still felt painfully full. martin looked back down at the guitar after a second, adjusting his grip before trying again. the notes came out messy at first—hesitant and imperfect. but then slowly, the melody began taking shape. you recognised it immediately, of course. your favorite parts too.

you stared at him silently while he played, fingers fumbling occasionally before finding the strings again.

“you practiced this?” you asked quietly.

“a little.”

“for me?”

he glanced up briefly. “…you like the song.” that wasn’t really an answer, but somehow it felt like one anyway.

you sat there long after he stopped playing, pretending to read your textbook while your heart beat embarrassingly fast. because maybe that was the problem with loving martin. he never did grand things, never anything obvious enough for you to point at and say: there. that means something. instead, he loved you quietly; through remembered details and practiced songs and strawberry milk cartons and paper rings made at eight years old.

and you, unfortunately, loved hard enough to turn every small thing he gave you into something precious.

sometimes, you think that was the first time you understood that yearning could sound beautiful too. like clumsy guitar strings echoing softly through his bedroom while he learned your favorite song by heart just because it mattered to you.

you almost confessed once. almost.

after a lengthy study session after school one day, the two of you sat on the empty bleachers waiting for your parents. the sky was turning pink slowly, cool evening light spilling across the football field while students gradually disappeared one by one through the gates.

martin sat beside you eating chocolate pocky loudly.

“you chew like a dying animal,” you informed, as if making a scientific observation.

“you’re just jealous because i have strong jaw muscles.”

“that is genuinely the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“no, the stupidest thing i ever said was when i told our science teacher, miss eunchae, that birds weren’t real in third grade.”

you laughed despite yourself. “she looked so disappointed in you.”

“she hated creativity.”

“you told her pigeons were government drones.”

“and i stand by that.”

“in third grade,” you pointed out, shaking your head and smiling helplessly. then, your smile faded slightly as you looked at him. because he looked pretty—annoyingly pretty. his hair moved softly in the wind, and the setting sunlight fell against his skin in a way that made your heart beat so fast, so suddenly, you had to look down at your hands. you wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to hold his hand properly—not casually. not because you couldn’t see after eye drops. but intentionally, because he wanted you to.

“martin,” you said quietly.

“hm?”

you swallowed. your heart beat so loudly it almost embarrassed you.

“do you ever think that maybe—”

“martin!” both of you turned immediately. his father waved from the parking lot. “we have to go!”

the moment shattered instantly. you looked back at martin. he blinked slowly. “what were you saying?”

you stared at him for a second longer before forcing a shrug. “…nothing.”

he looked like he wanted to ask again, but he didn’t. and maybe that was the tragedy of middle school. you both kept almost reaching something before pulling away at the last second.

every accidental touch suddenly lingered too long in your head afterwards, and every smile from him seemed to stay with you for hours longer than it should have. it was horrible, because you were thirteen, and thirteen-year-old girls loved deeply and dramatically and silently all at once. especially girls like you—girls who loved so hard it became embarrassing. prom only made it worse… or better. you still couldn’t decide.

you had spent an unreasonable amount of time pretending you didn’t care about middle school prom.

“it’s literally just a school dance,” you told wonhee while she straightened your wavy hair in front of your bedroom mirror. you’d tried telling her it was a lost cause, because it would go back to looking wavier—like it usually did, but she insisted on trying.

“right,” she nodded. “and that’s why you’ve changed your dress four times.”

“i would like you to rephrase it to… strategic revisions,” you said smartly.

“you’re nervous because of martin.”

you immediately pointed your eyeliner at her threateningly. “don’t speak.” she grinned.

your room smelled faintly like hairspray and lotion, your orange dress hanging above your knees while an album called ‘2 cool 4 skool’ by some new korean boyband played quietly from your phone speaker. outside your bedroom door, you could already hear your’s and martin’s parents talking loudly downstairs. your families had insisted on getting ready together. (“because it’s cute!” your mothers had claimed. you thought it was psychological warfare.)

especially when you finally walked downstairs after four outfit changes and stabbing yourself in the eye with a mascara wand twice, you saw martin standing near the entrance adjusting the sleeves of his shirt.

your breath caught embarrassingly fast. he looked older somehow—still unmistakably martin, still slightly awkward and annoyingly pretty in that effortless way he always was, but older and more mature.

his hair was pushed back slightly from his forehead—his dad probably helped with the gel—and the dark navy vest made his shoulders look broader than usual. you hated the way your heart reacted to him.

martin looked up at the sound of your footsteps and froze. actually froze. his tie hung half-undone around his neck while he stared at you for a second too long.

“…oh,” he said quietly, almost whispering to himself.

you suddenly became hyperaware of yourself. “‘oh’, what? was that a bad ‘oh’? or a good ‘oh’?”

“nothing,” he replied too quickly. “you just look…”

your chest tightened painfully. “what?”

he blinked once before looking away awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “…pretty.”

wonhee made the loudest fake gagging sound imaginable behind you. you wanted to kill her, but martin held your attention too well.

“thanks,” you mumbled, looking down at your feet because suddenly eye contact felt impossible. his ears were pink, matching the shade of your blush.

your mothers, unfortunately, noticed immediately, and immediately pushed you both to stand shoulder-to-shoulder before snapping many pictures. “look at them,” martin’s mom nearly cried. “they’re blushing!”

“remember when they got married at eight?” your mom laughed, as if you both weren’t right there. you both smiled for the pictures, relaxing a little bit.

“we were visionaries,” you defended immediately.

martin snorted beside you. “we were planning on skipping taxes altogether.”

your fathers exchanged dramatic looks.

“i can’t believe i’m watching my son go to prom,” his dad sighed.

“not with our yn, though,” your father added teasingly. your smile faltered slightly before you could stop it. right. he wasn’t going with you.

before the silence could settle strangely, the doorbell rang—your dates had arrived.

you tried very hard not to notice the way martin’s expression changed slightly when jaehyun stepped inside holding flowers for you. your nose crinkled slightly at the sight of roses, your least favourite flowers.

“she likes lillies, dumbass,” martin muttered under his breath.

you tried even harder not to feel disappointed when lee-an, a really pretty girl from your grade, arrived for him shortly afterwards.

it was stupid, because really, you had no right to feel jealous. still, the feeling sat heavily in your chest anyway when you all rode together to the school because your parents had insisted.

you ended up squeezed into the middle seat beside martin while your dates sat on either sides of you both, awkwardly trying to make conversation.

your fingers felt strangely restless against your lap. you hated dresses. you hated awkward silence. you hated the fact that martin smelled really good and looked so handsome tonight.

“you okay?” he asked quietly after noticing you fidgeting and thumbing the hem of your dress.

“my toes hurt.”

“you said that ten minutes ago.”

“it still hurts.”

he laughed softly under his breath before his hand moved instinctively toward you, pulling your hand into his lap. he fiddled with your silver rings, stealing one for himself, and replacing it with one from his own hand.

you looked down at his hand. yours. together. and then, you looked at him. he didn’t seem to realise what he had done, or maybe he did. either way, he left his hands with yours, right there on his lap, for another few seconds before pulling away slowly. the warmth lingered afterwards—it always did.

prom itself was loud and bright and strangely disappointing, unlike most of the romcoms you’d watched with martin. the gymnasium had been decorated beautifully of course, soft lights hanging from the ceiling while music echoed through the room, but you spent most of the night painfully aware of where he was, even when you tried not to. you watched him laugh at something lee-an said from across the room and immediately looked away afterwards because your chest ached.

you danced when jaehyun asked you to. you smiled when people spoke to you. you pretended very convincingly that everything was fine. but every few minutes, your eyes found martin again anyway, like they always did.

eventually, you escaped outside for air. the hallway beyond the gym was quieter, the music muffled now behind closed doors while the cool air of the night came in through the open exit nearby. you leaned against the wall with a sigh.

“there you are.”

your head lifted immediately because of course, you’d recognise his voice anywhere. martin stood at the other end of the hallway, his tie loosened now. your heart betrayed you instantly.

“oh,” you said softly. “hi.”

“hi.”

“did you ditch your date?” he asked, walking closer to you.

“…maybe.”

he grinned slightly. “me too.”

you stared at him for a second before laughing. “we’re horrible people.”

“probably.”

soft silence settled between you—comfortable. familiar.

martin walked until he stood beside you against the wall, shoulders brushing lightly. neither of you moved away.

inside the gym, a slower song started playing faintly through the speakers. you looked toward the doors absentmindedly. “they’re probably wondering where we went.”

“yeah,” he replied quietly, like he couldn’t really care any less.

neither of you made any move to go back. you looked at your shoes. he bent down to slip them off carefully, blowing cool air at your red feet.

“i think,” you admitted softly, “i just wanted to be where you are.” the words slipped out before you could stop them. your heart nearly stopped afterwards.

he looked up at you immediately. you felt heat rush to your face, cheeks turning red faster than martin’s usually would.

“i mean—not like—”

“i know,” he interrupted gently, standing up to move back to his spot beside you. his voice sounded strange and careful, like the sentence had affected him more than it should have. before you could say anything else, the gym doors suddenly burst open behind you.

“there you both are!” wonhee yelled dramatically. “oh my god, this is actually insane. your dates are literally sitting together complaining about you guys.”

you and martin jumped apart immediately like you got caught doing something illegal, when you weren’t even doing anything.

wonhee narrowed her eyes. “…suspicious.”

“shut up,” both of you said at the exact same time.

she gasped loudly, clapping her hands together. “that was disgusting.”

martin laughed first, then you did too, and somehow, by the end of the night, you still ended up dancing together anyway—not because anyone asked or because it had been planned, but because somehow, no matter where the night started, the two of you always seemed to find your way back to each other in the end.

now, you think that middle school was the worst kind of almost, because everything felt so important but you were too young to understand it properly, too scared to say anything that might change what you already had, and maybe that was why you stayed stuck there for so long—in that space where everything meant something and nothing was ever said out loud.

( [yn’s prom dress] [martin’s prom suit] )

TWO YEARS AGO. HIGH SCHOOL — call out my name ✫ the weeknd [wc. 4,945]

high school was… fucked, for a lack of a better term. you were old enough to recognise what yearning was, but still cowardly enough to pretend you weren’t drowning in it. so, you had become good at loving martin quietly, which was unfortunate, because he had become devastatingly easy to love.

“you look like you have a personal grudge against the grim reaper and you’re not letting him take you away.”

“good morning to you too,” you muttered tiredly, dropping your bag onto the classroom floor and taking off your glasses before collapsing face-first onto your desk.

martin snorted from beside you. “did you even sleep?”

“track practice started at five thirty.”

“that was yesterday morning.”

“exactly.”

he laughed softly under his breath while you groaned dramatically into your folded arms, nuzzling your face as close to the table as possible. morning sunlight spilled lazily through the classroom windows, warming one side of your face while your classmates slowly trickled inside one by one. somebody at the back of the room was playing music quietly from their phone speaker, probably jihoon and hyun-wook, and the air smelled faintly like addicting coffee and fresh paper nobody used much.

you felt martin poke your cheek with his pen. “don’t die before the first class starts.”

“don’t tell me what to do,” you groaned as you tried to adjust your legs comfortably.

“you have calculus today,” he reminded you with a pessimisting grin.

“oh my god,” you whispered miserably. “i forgot.”

“that’s because your brain is deteriorating.”

you tilted your head just enough to glare at him. “i’m literally smarter than you.”

“academically, maybe.”

“what the fuck does that even mean?”

“you tried to heat metal in the microwave.”

“i was a very curious fifth grader,” you defended.

“you almost exploded the kitchen,” his eyebrows shot up.

“scientific progress requires sacrifice.”

he laughed properly this time, head tipping back slightly. “that’s not what you said when i tried to make a choco lava cake with crayons.”

your chest hurt immediately. it was honestly ridiculous now, because there he was, sitting beside you in the stupid, ugly school uniform that only looked good on him, with messy hair and pretty eyes hidden slightly under his bangs, and somehow you still looked at him like he was something extraordinary.

you hated it—you hated him. you loved him so much.

“why are you staring at me?” he asked suddenly.

your eyes widened. “i wasn’t.”

“you were.”

“prove it.”

“your eyes were pointed directly at my face,” he smirked.

“maybe i was zoning out. because you look weird,” you rolled your eyes.

“wow,” he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “you’re actually so evil.”

“you’ll survive.”

“barely.”

you rolled your eyes, but smiled anyway.

martin looked at you for another second after that, and then another, as his expression softened almost unconsciously, because you looked pretty when you were tired… which was unfair. your hair was messy from practice, and there was pen ink smudged against the side of your hand from where you had fallen asleep drawing fake tattoos on your hand yesterday, but he still looked at you and thought, helplessly, ‘damn. i love her.’ and the realisation terrified him every single time.

during break, you sat cross-legged on your chair, somehow fitting on it without falling off, sketching lazily in the margins of your notebook while the classroom buzzed loudly around you. hyun-wook was being bombarded with jihoon and kyung’s questions about some new karaoke place, while your homeroom teacher gave up on correcting some answer scripts, and instead resorted to watching some music videos on his phone.

martin leaned back in his chair beside you. “what are you drawing?”

“you,” you replied without missing a beat. he nearly choked. your eyes widened immediately before you burst into laughter. “you should’ve seen your face!”

“what the hell is wrong with you?” he coughed, turning red as quickly as he always does. you laughed harder.

“you looked terrified!”

“because you’re insane! who knows if you gave me the ugliest jawline known to man?”

“relax,” you grinned. “it’s just some car i saw a few days ago that looked good, jeez. besides, your jaw’s pretty ugly in real life anyway.”

he narrowed his eyes at you. “you’re demon-spawn.”

“i’m entertaining as fuck, and you love it,” you grinned.

“unfortunately.”

you smiled softer at that, because he always stayed. you turned your notebook around eventually, showing him the sketch. it was rough and unfinished, just a drawing of a porsche 911 turbo s you’d seen downtown. martin stared quietly for a second.

“…that’s actually really good art.”

“i know,” you nodded solemnly.

“the artist is humble too,” he noted, as if he was a curator, looking for art pieces.

“one of my best qualities,” you flashed him a quick smile.

he shook his head fondly before glancing back down at his own notebook. you noticed immediately that his page wasn’t filled with notes like it should have been. instead, messy lines of lyrics covered more than half of the paper.

“you’re writing songs during class again?”

“i’m multitasking,” he said sheepishly.

“you failed your last chemistry test.”

“music transcends chemistry.”

“you sound unemployed.”

he grinned slightly. you tried not to stare at him after that, but you failed horribly, because there was something about the way he looked while writing lyrics that always made your chest ache—his brows furrowed slightly whenever he concentrated, his fingers tapped absentminded rhythms against the paper between sentences.

you wondered suddenly what it would feel like if he ever wrote a love song about someone. then you wondered what kind of girl he would write about. and then you immediately felt sick.

“why are you staring now?” he asked without looking up, like he was peter parker with spidey senses. pretty boys be damned; your heart nearly stopped.

“you have ugly handwriting,” you scrambled for an excuse.

“liar.”

you smiled faintly, because the truth was much worse. the truth was you loved him. and maybe, the saddest part was knowing how little that changed. you could love martin with your entire soul and still sit beside him everyday pretending your heart wasn’t constantly betraying you.

the cruelest part about loving someone for so long is how naturally they become part of your life. martin had been there through every version of you—the loud little girl with scraped knees, the dramatic kid who got upset over gummy worms, the exhausted athlete falling asleep in class—and somewhere along the way, your heart stopped treating him like a person you could lose. so every time he called you his ‘best friend’, it felt less like rejection and more like grief, because loving him had become as instinctive as breathing, while being loved back somehow felt impossibly out of reach.

the bleachers symbolised the pinnacle of every high school love story, but you hated them after that day. they made things feel more dangerous somehow; maybe it was the way everything became quieter there after school ended.

you sat near the top row with your legs stretched across the bench beside you, exhausted after practice while cold water dripped from your hairline down your neck. martin sat one row below, elbows resting against his knees while he waited for you to stop complaining dramatically about life.

“coach park hates me,” you said firmly.

“you say that everyday,” he raised an eyebrow at you.

“because everyday, she makes me run like i committed a damn crime.”

“maybe you did.”

“my only crime is being beautiful and talented and smart as fuck, dude.” he laughed softly.

the track field below glowed gold underneath the setting sun, your teammates gradually leaving one by one until it was just the two of you remaining. always just the two of you.

martin had started staying after school for your practices so naturally that neither of you even questioned it anymore—he carried your water bottle sometimes, helped gather your equipment afterwards, waited beside the field doing homework while you trained. like it was obvious he would. like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

you looked down at him quietly. “you know you don’t actually have to stay everyday, right?”

he looked up immediately. “…yeah, i know.”

“then why do you?”

he shrugged once. “someone has to make sure you don’t collapse from overworking yourself.”

your chest hurt again. stupid heart. stupid feelings. stupid stupid stupid boy.

“you sound like an old man,” you teased, aiming to deflect from thinking of your feelings for him.

“and you sound dehydrated.”

you smiled despite yourself before leaning back against the bleachers. the silence that settled afterwards felt comfortable, until you were interrupted by james—one of your seniors.

“you guys are actually married,” he yelled while passing by. “like seriously. just date already!”

you nearly inhaled your own saliva. martin laughed awkwardly. “we’re just best friends.”

oh. your smile faltered slightly before you could stop it. just best friends. right. of course. it was a very logical line to draw, you supposed. you looked down at your hands quickly.

“yeah,” you forced a dry laugh. “just best friends.”

he didn’t notice the way your voice changed, and suddenly, everything hurt because that was the problem with loving your best friend—sometimes he loved you deeply too, just not in the same devastating way you loved him.

when you were younger, loving martin felt light, and easy. something warm you carried around proudly in your chest without ever questioning whether it would hurt you someday. but high school had sharpened everything into something unbearable. suddenly, every time somebody teased you both about dating only reminded you that you weren’t. every time he smiled at you with that soft, familiar affection, your heart betrayed you a little more, because it was enough to keep your hopes alive while still never being enough to mean anything at all.

the party was loud in the kind of suffocating way only high school parties could be—music blasted so hard the walls practically trembled with it, coloured lights flashing across sweaty faces while people shouted over each other with drinks spilling from their hands. somebody knocked over snacks near the living room entrance twenty minutes ago and nobody bothered cleaning it up (of course). the entire house smelled like smoke, perfume, very cheap vodka, and the awful artificial fruit scent from flavored vapes. you already wanted to leave.

you sat curled into the corner of the couch with your knees pulled slightly to your chest—a very comfortable position, mind you—phone balancing uselessly on your knees while everybody around you seemed louder and happier than you could manage tonight.

“you look deeply unhappy,” iroha observed, dropping down beside you with a drink in hand.

“maybe because i was dragged here against my own will.”

“you literally chose to come.”

“peer pressure is real thing, you know.”

she snorted. “you’ve been staring at martin for the past fifteen minutes.”

your eyes widened immediately and you looked away from him very obviously. “i have not.”

“yn.”

“…maybe a little.”

“bro,,” she sighed dramatically. “you are actually gone.”

gone. yeah. that sounded about right. because martin stood across the room near the kitchen island, laughing softly at something some girl was saying, and even from this far away, you could tell the smile he was giving her wasn’t just fake politeness—he looked relaxed, and comfortable… and  very pretty. you hated how easy it was for him to ruin your entire mood without even trying.

“you know,” iroha started carefully, “maybe… you should just tell him.”

you laughed quietly, like the idea itself was ridiculous. “and ruin everything?”

“you don’t know that.”

“i do.”

because you knew martin. you knew the way he cared about people, the way he stayed, the way he loved quietly and loyally and completely.

but not like you. never like you. becuase you? you had spent years teaching yourself how to survive on crumbs—lingering touches, forehead flicks, soft smiles, him carrying your bag after practice. him remembering your cafe order, him texting you to get home safely even when he was exhausted himself. 

and the horrible thing was that he loved you deeply—just not enough, or maybe not correctly.

you looked away from him first because you always did whenever your feelings became too overwhelming to carry.

“i’m getting another drink,” you muttered.

“you hate alcohol,” iroha snickered.

“exactly. maybe it’ll kill me this time.”

“dramatic ass.”

you wandered toward the hallway mostly to escape your own thoughts, shoulders bumping roughly against strangers while somebody yelled lyrics off-key nearby. your chest already felt tight in that familiarly awful way—and then you saw him. martin stood near the hallway wall with that same girl from earlier standing close enough to touch him… too close. your footsteps slowed instinctively. the girl smiled up at him and said something you couldn’t hear over the music, but it couldn’t have possibly been romantic enough for him to turn red. for a second, he looked like his body was there but his mind wasn’t.

and then his eyes lifted straight toward you. your breath caught. for one horrible second, neither of you moved—you saw it then; something sharp and conflicted flickering across his face so quickly you almost missed it.

and then? then, he kissed her. your entire world went silent. 

well, not literally because the annoying music still blasted through the walls. people still laughed somewhere nearby, somebody dropped a bottle in the kitchen and shouted loudly afterwards, but none of it reached you anymore.

because martin was kissing another girl.

martin.

your martin.

the boy who carried pretty bandages for you in elementary school.

the boy who waited through every track practice.

the boy who knew exactly how you took your favourite drink and what songs you listened to when you were sad and what flowers you really liked.

the boy you’d loved so long that your feelings for him no longer felt separate from yourself.

the boy you loved more than you loved yourself.

he kissed her like he was trying to force himself to mean it… and maybe that hurt even worse.

you felt so sad. and mad. at everybody and everything. at yourself. but not at him. never at him. fuck.

your throat burned violently, and you turned around before he could see your face—before he could see what he’d done to you and your heart that was too big for your chest; before you started crying right there in the middle of some stupid stupid party surrounded by people who would never understand why this hurt like grief more than rejection.

you shoved past bodies too quickly on your way outside, ignoring confused complaints while tears blurred your vision embarrassingly fast. 

cold night air blew against your face the second you stepped outside, but it didn’t help. nothing helped. because all you could think was—of course. of course he didn’t love you like that. how stupid had you been to hope or believe otherwise?

meanwhile, martin pulled away almost immediately, his brows furrowing as something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. it didn’t feel right—it didn’t feel like anything.

“‘m sorry,” he said quickly, stepping back. “i—i shouldn’t have—”

he stopped. his gaze shifted across the room, instinctively searching for you, but you weren’t there. his stomach dropped, panic rose sharply and suddenly. he didn’t hesitate; he left.

“yn!” martin’s voice echoed behind you. you almost kept walking. 

he caught up quickly, turning you around by your wrist gently—so gentle, that you could’ve broken away if you wanted to. but of course, even in such moments, you were quite selfish. because all you wanted was to feel him close to you, no matter what. so you didn’t pull away.

“wait, please,” he said breathlessly. 

you looked at your shoes, the road—anything that wasn’t his face. “what?”

the moment he looked at you, his expression shifted completely. your eyes were red-rimmed, watery and destroyed. he loosened his grip without his own knowledge.

“shit.”

you laughed weakly, because at least one of you understood what had happened. 

“yn… i can explain,” he started. 

“don’t.”

“please.”

“why?” your voice cracked embarrassingly, but you went on anyway. “so you can tell me it didn’t mean anything? because honestly, martin? that would be a hell of a lot worse.” he stood silently in front of you. and somehow, even his silence hurt. “you can kiss whoever you want, man.”

“that’s not the point,” his jaw tightened. 

“then what is?”

his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “fuck, yn.” you watched his face carefully as frustration flickered across it, like he was fighting himself internally and… losing. 

because to him? the truth sat right there. he loved you. he loved you so much, it terrified him. but he thought it was wrong, somehow, dangerous and too important to ruin.

so instead, he tried constantly to kill his feelings by trying to replace you with other girls—girls who were easier to want. girls who weren’t you. but it never worked. 

you didn’t know any of that, though. 

all you knew was heartbreak.

“…you’re my best friend,” he said finally, voice quieter now, choosing his words carefully. “i don’t want this to become weird between us.”

there it was—‘best friend’. the two words hit you so hard it physically hurt. 

you smiled after a second, but it felt crooked and miserable and completely wrong. “right.”

he frowned instantly. “why do you keep saying it like that?”

“like what?”

“like it’s hurting you.”

because you were hurting. you always will. because you love him so so much, you didn’t know what to do with all that love anymore. 

instead of saying any of that, you just shook your head. 

“forget it,” you whispered tiredly.

he looked at you helplessly for a long moment, like he wanted to say something else… something important. but he didn’t. and maybe that was what finally broke your heart properly.

that night, you cried in the shower as quietly as possible, which felt humiliating, because girls in movies cried beautifully over heartbreak—mascara streaks, trembling lips, soft music playing in the background. but real heartbreak was uglier: sitting on your bathroom floor afterward wrapped in a towel staring blankly at nothing while everything physically ached; realising that loving him had quietly become the center of your entire life without you noticing; understanding suddenly that one day he really would fall in love with somebody else.

and it wouldn’t be you.

the next morning, you pretended so hard it almost worked. you arrived at school earlier than usual, mostly because you hadn’t slept enough to risk falling back asleep again. your head hurt, your chest hurt, and worst of all, your eyes still burned from crying in your bathroom at two in the morning while trying not to make any noise.

the classroom was quieter in the mornings. sunlight stretched lazily across empty desks, and the whiteboard still had half-erased notes from yesterday written across it. somebody had left a jacket hanging off the back of a chair.

martin was already there. he sat slouched in his chair with one earbud in. his notebook was open in front of him, untouched. he looked up the second you walked in, and his face fell immediately.

he looked awful; his hair was messy like he’d been dragging his hands through it repeatedly all night, and there were dark circles under his eyes that definitely weren’t there yesterday. his hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands slightly, and he kept tapping his fingers anxiously against the desk like he didn’t know what to do with himself. you hated that part of you still noticed things like that; still loved him enough to notice.

“good morning,” you greeted casually while sliding into your seat beside him. your voice sounded almost normal.

he stared at you for a second too long before answering quietly. “…morning.”

you busied yourself immediately, pulling your books from your bag and flattening loose worksheets against the desk so your hands would stop trembling. your pencil case slipped from your fingers slightly, which martin noticed.

“why do you look like roadkill?” you asked lightly, refusing to look at him.

his brows furrowed. “why are you acting normal?”

you shrugged, keeping your eyes focused on your notebook. “because i am normal.”

“yn.”

“martin.”

the silence stretched. you could feel him staring at you properly now—not casually, but carefully, guiltily, and worried, like he knew you were lying and hated that you felt the need to. you kept your face neutral anyway, because if you looked at him for too long, you genuinely thought you might start crying right there.

finally, he leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh, rubbing a tired hand down his face. “skip practice today.”

you blinked slowly, processing, and finally looked at him. “what?”

“i’m taking you somewhere after school.”

“does this plan end with me getting kidnapped and my organs harvested by the end of the night?”

“just trust me.” your chest twisted painfully at that: ‘trust me’. like you hadn’t been doing exactly that your entire life.

you looked away first. “…fine,” you muttered.

his shoulders loosened slightly after that, like he’d been terrified you would say no, and somehow, that hurt too.

you smiled too easily that evening. 

the aquarium glowed blue around you both. soft light reflected across the glass tunnels overhead while pretty fish drifted lazily through the water above your heads. children pressed their hands excitedly against the tanks nearby while couples wandered slowly through exhibits shoulder-to-shoulder, speaking quietly underneath the dim lights.

everything felt strangely underwater—muted and far away.

you walked beside martin silently, your hands shoved into the sleeves of your hoodie while cold blue lights flickered across his face every few seconds.

it should’ve hurt more than it already did. instead, standing beside him just felt painfully familiar, like muscle memory. like home.

you stopped near one of the jellyfish tanks automatically, eyes following the soft floating movements inside the water. the lighting painted everything blue and silver. “…you remembered,” you said quietly.

martin looked at you immediately. “of course i remembered.”

your chest hurt instantly, because of course he did. martin remembered everything about you, which was part of the problem. he remembered your favorite places, your favorite snacks, the exact tone your voice got when you were close to tears, which hoodie was yours even when it got mixed into his laundry somehow, how you hated pulp in orange juice and how you got headaches after practice if you didn’t drink enough water. he remembered everything except the fact that you were in love with him.

“you cried right here—literally in this spot—when we were ten because a stingrey ignored you,” he added after a moment, smiling faintly.

you scoffed immediately. “it was being rude. on purpose.”

“yeah,” he nodded solemnly. “the stingrey definitely had personal beef. with you, specifically.”

“thank you for understanding me during this difficult time.”

he laughed softly under his breath. and god, you hated that you still loved hearing him laugh. even now; even after last night. the sound still settled somewhere deep inside your chest like it belonged there.

you continued walking after that. martin stayed close beside you naturally, accidentally bumping his shoulder lightly against yours whenever somebody passed too close. like always—like nothing had changed, which almost made it worse.

eventually, you both settled near one of the larger fish tanks with shared cookies ‘n cream pocky packets and redbulls sitting untouched between you. differently sized manta rays drifted overhead slowly, their shadows passing across your faces every few seconds.

the silence between you wasn’t awkward… just heavy.

martin picked at the edge of the pocky box absentmindedly before finally speaking. “…about yesterday.”

your stomach dropped immediately. you stared down at your hands resting in your lap. “you don’t have to explain.”

“i want to.” 

you swallowed hard but stayed quiet.

he rubbed the back of his neck slowly before speaking again. “i didn’t even like her.” that hurt too… because if he didn’t even like her, then why had he kissed her so easily?

“okay,” you answered quietly, not knowing what else you could possibly say.

he exhaled shakily through his nose and leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees. “i thought maybe if i kept trying hard enough, eventually i’d…” he stopped abruptly. your heart nearly stopped with him. ‘eventually i’d stop loving you’, is what you hoped he was going to say, because a tiny part of you still wished he loved you as a woman, not just as a best friend. the possibility of that unfinished sentence hung painfully between you. you looked up sharply, but he was already looking away, jaw tightening like he regretted saying even that much.

“…forget it,” he muttered.

the silence afterward felt unbearable. children laughed somewhere nearby. water swished softly against the glass tanks. an announcement echoed faintly overhead. meanwhile, your entire world felt like it was balancing on the edge of a terrifying cliff.

martin finally looked back at you, and his eyes looked softer… sadder too. “…i’m sorry,” he whispered quietly.

you stared at him for a second before looking away again, blinking too hard, and you realised then that apologies were cruel sometimes, because they implied there had been something to save in the first place.

you didn’t talk about it again after that—not properly, at least.

the conversation dissolved somewhere between shared pocky sticks and tired glances, both of you pretending not to notice the unfinished sentence still lingering heavily between you. martin didn’t push further, and you didn’t ask the question burning through your chest.

eventually, the aquarium lights stopped feeling painfully blue. eventually, you started breathing normally around him again. sort of.

you stood quietly beside one of the smaller touch tanks while children crowded around excitedly, dipping their hands into the shallow water.

“don’t push,” an exhausted employee, with a nice red cap and a name tag that read ‘shin yun-je’, repeated for the tenth time.

martin leaned against the railing beside you, nudging your shoulder lightly. “you wanna touch the starfish or are you scared?”

you gasped in offense. “i’m not scared.”

“you screamed when a fish brushed against your ankle at the beach.”

“it felt slimy!”

“fish live in water, yn. what else did you expect?”

you narrowed your eyes at him before reaching into the tank dramatically. “watch this.”

he watched carefully, with a small smirk on his face, as you confidently dipped your fingers into the water only to flinch immediately when something moved beneath your hand.

“oh my god,” you hissed, jerking back violently.

he burst into laughter so suddenly that nearby kids turned to look at him.

“shut up!” you whisper-yelled, horrified at both the starfish and at the number of people looking at you both.

“you looked genuinely betrayed,” he laughed harder, clutching the railing slightly. “your face—”

“martin.”

“you almost jumped onto a child.”

“martin!”

he kept laughing anyway and the stupid thing was that the sound fixed something inside you a little. just a little. because this was the version of him your heart knew best. him laughing too hard at you, teasing you until you got annoyed,looking at you like spending time with you was the easiest thing in the world. you hated how quickly your anger weakened around him, or maybe you hated that it never stayed properly in the first place.

later, you both ended up sitting outside the aquarium, near the harbor, while the evening sky slowly turned purple above the water. your legs stretched across the bench beside his while he picked absentmindedly at the label on his soda cup, like he learnt to do from your past journalling habits. 

the wind was colder now, and even if you personally didn’t feel too cold, you tugged your sleeves over your hands instinctively.

martin noticed immediately—he always did, so, without saying anything, he shifted slightly closer until your shoulders touched and warmth bloomed in the space between your bodies. you stared quietly at the water ahead of you while a few boats rocked gently near the docks.

“…i was really mad yesterday,” you finally admitted.

he went still beside you. “i know.”

“but mostly sad,” you sighed. he swallowed hard. you glanced down at your hands. “and i hated that i still wanted to go home with you afterward anyway.” the confession slipped out more honestly than intended.

martin looked at you immediately after that—really looked at you. his expression softened in that awful way that always made your heart beat painfully faster. “…yn.”

“don’t,” you interrupted quietly, shaking your head once. “please.” because if he apologised again, you thought your heart might genuinely split open.

he stared at you for another second before nodding slowly. “okay.”

the wind moved softly through his hair, and you leaned your head against his shoulder before you could overthink it. he froze slightly in surprise, then relaxed immediately. his head tilted gently against yours for one quiet second as neither of you spoke.

cars passed somewhere behind you. waves crashed softly against the docks below. the city lights slowly blinked awake one by one around the harbor. everything felt strangely suspended in that moment, like the world was giving you both a few extra minutes before things became complicated again.

now, you think that maybe that was the problem with you and martin. no matter how badly you hurt each other, loving him still felt instinctive afterward—like muscle memory. like returning home after getting lost.

© hyuneskkami ❦

— ᨳଓ . PAIRING. best friend!martin edwards 𝔁 fem!reader 

— ᨳଓ . FEATURING (in order of appearance). leesol (kiikii), wonhee (illit), juhoon (cortis), eunchae (le sserafim), jaehyun (boynextdoor), lee-an (h2h), james (cortis), park jihoon (whc cast), choi hyun-wook (whc cast), hong kyung (whc cast), shin yun-je (the instructor from ‘silence of idol’ <3), yunjin (le sserafim), heeseung (enhypen), jeongin (stray kids), seungmin (stray kids), karina (aespa), kazuha (le sserafim).

— ᨳଓ . GENRES. angst/no comfort | fluff | non-idol au

— ᨳଓ . WARNINGS. all chapters are written ONLY. mild swearing, non-idol au, idols/actors mentioned are aged down/up to suit the fic and timeline as needed, drinking (not underage! dw), sooo much tension, kissing & slightly making out, mentions of cheating (neither martin nor reader, dw)

— ᨳଓ . TAGLIST. perm&series tls open (comment to be added!)

— ᨳଓ . SKYE’S NOTE. the number of times i cried while writing this is crazy 😭 the first few chapters are fluffy asf tho, so enjoy while you can (: ok but fr on a serious note, every word of this series is so so dear to me 😭 i poured my heart and soul into this for no reason whatsaoever for nearly half a year because i was working on an angst fic and then got two similar requests later too 😭 (i’ll show the asks after this series ends to avoid spoilers 🥹) anywayayyy, i hope ygs like it 💞 the third (and last) part will release on……. cortis first anniversary day……. 🚬🚬

— ᨳଓ . MASTERLIST. [ total wc: 54,860 ]

PART 1

✦ ݁˖ i. twelve years ago (childhood) 𝄞 slide away — oasis. [1.39k wc]

✦ ݁˖ ii. ten years ago (elementary school) 𝄞 first love / late spring — mitski [1.29k wc]

✦ ݁˖ iii. six years ago (middle school) 𝄞 call your name — sawano hiroyuki [3.43k wc]

✦ ݁˖ iv. two years ago (high school) 𝄞 call out my name — the weeknd [4.94k wc]

PART 2

✦ ݁˖ v. one year ago (first year of uni) 𝄞 about you — the 1975 [17.08k wc]

PART 3—on 18th aug.

✦ ݁˖ vi. present day (second year of uni) 𝄞 snooze — sza [14.29k wc]

✦ ݁˖ vii. two years later (last year of uni) 𝄞 the cut that always bleeds — conan gray [10.46k wc]

✦ ݁˖ epilogue. (flashforward) 𝄞 every single song is about you — mars [1.98k wc]

— ᨳଓ . PERM TL. here » comment under this post to be added!

— ᨳଓ . SERIES TL. comment under this post to be added! ☆ @somber-reads @rosieposiediditagain @here4dafics @fluffyuniccornn @mkissed @phoebebridgerstwin

there were certain things that people in your school accepted as universal facts. the sky was blue, the bell rang at three fifteen on fridays, and ahn keonho belonged somewhere within arm’s reach of you at all times.

it had been that way for as long as anyone could remember. long before high school hallways, long before senior year lockets and varsity jackets, there had just been the two of you. in kindergarten, keonho was the boy who would sit beside you in the sandbox, patiently building tiny earthen fortresses around your shoes so the incoming tide of running toddlers wouldn’t scuff them. in middle school, he was the boy who sat on your porch until the sun dipped beneath the trees, helping you memorise vocabulary words while tossing pebbles into the garden hedge. and by high school, he was simply keonho—your shadow, your light, your permanent companion.

if he was the sun, golden and radiant and impossible to ignore, then you were the moon. he moved through the crowded hallways with an easy, effortless warmth that drew people into his orbit without him even trying. his laugh was loud, quick to ignite, and bright enough to clear out the gloom of a rainy monday morning. you, on the other hand, were the quiet tide that kept him anchored. you were cool where he was warm, steady where he was impulsive, reflecting his bright energy back into the world in soft, gentle glimmers. he was the day that made everything feel vivid, and you were the night that gave him a place to rest.

and yet, despite how naturally you fit together, nobody in your school could ever make sense of what you actually were.

it was an ongoing debate among your friend groups, a mystery that lived permanently in the margins of high school gossip. were you childhood best friends who were so comfortable with each other that romance seemed redundant? or were you secret lovers who simply didn’t feel the need to broadcast your relationship status to the rest of the world?

no one could ever say for sure. because the things you did with keonho did not align with how normal best friends behaved, but you also never gave anyone a straight answer when they asked.

the physical boundary line between ‘childhood best friends’ and whatever you two were simply didn’t exist to you both. it wasn’t a needy kind of proximity; it was an atmospheric necessity, like gravity. 

if keonho was standing in line at the cafeteria, you were leaning back against his chest, his hands lightly holding your waist so you wouldn’t get bumped by the chaos of the lunch rush. if you were studying in the library, your knees were bumped together under the small wooden table, your feet tangled carelessly beneath the chairs.

if you were sitting together on the bleach-stained benches of the gym during fifth period, keonho would naturally lean over and rest his head right in the crook of your neck, his eyes closing while you absentmindedly ran your fingers through his messy, dark hair. if you were cold during third-period history, he would reach down, pull off his hoodie without a word, and hand it to you before you even had to ask.

take any given tuesday, for instance. you would be sitting on the crowded floor of the choir room during lunch, surrounded by a dozen other seniors arguing about spirit week themes. space was tight, so keonho would simply pull you back between his legs, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and resting his chin comfortably on top of your head while he chimed in with ridiculous suggestions that made you snort and add on to. you would spend forty minutes leaning entirely against his chest, feeling the vibration of his laughter right against your spine, casually holding his wrist and tracing the faint blue veins on the back of his hand while he talked.

or take the nights when you were crammed into the backseat of seonghyeon’s car after getting late-night diner food. exhausted, your eyes burning from a week of late-night studying, keonho would lift you by your waist without a word, settle you directly across his lap, and tuck your head under his chin. he would wrap his denim jacket around your shoulders and hold you tight against him the entire drive home, his fingers gently rubbing your lower back until you fell asleep.

and then there were the nicknames. it started somewhere in middle school, a soft slip of the tongue during a late-night study session over geometry homework that somehow stuck forever. keonho called you ‘sweetheart’. he said it naturally, casually, his deep voice smoothing over the vowels as if it were the most natural word in the world. “sweetheart, move over, you’re taking up the whole blanket.” or “sweetheart, did you drink enough water today or should i check cookie’s nanny cam since you’ve been with him the entire day?”

and you called him ‘love’. it fell off your tongue with the same unthinking ease, spoken softly into the space between you whenever he was being particularly endearing or stubborn. “hold still, love, your collar is crooked.” or “thanks, love, you’re a total lifesaver for helping me figure out that 45 plus 45 makes 90.”

your classmates spent entire semesters analysing your behavior.

“do best friends hold hands while walking across the football field?” ian had asked one afternoon, squinting through the classroom window as she watched keonho weave his fingers through yours while you both walked back from the track. “he literally fed her a piece of sliced apple off his fork yesterday during lunch! and then she wiped a drop of juice off his chin with her thumb! and he didn’t even flinch! he just smiled like a golden retriever who got praised for existing.”

“they’re just close,” seonghyeon had shrugged, though even he sounded entirely perplexed. “i mean, i don’t hold my homies in my lap like a victorian prince mourning his tragic bride, but it’s them. it’s yn and keonho, y’know? they’ve been like that since kindergarten.”

“they’re an enigma,” ian concluded with a heavy sigh. “don’t try to study them, hyeon. it’ll ruin your gpa.”

whenever anyone worked up the courage to ask—whenever a curious classmate leaned across a desk and whispered, “wait, are you guys dating?”—you both would just look at each other, blink, and laugh.

“we’re just yn and keonho, dude,” he would say, flashing that warm, brilliant sun-ray smile of his that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. and you would just nod, offering a quiet smile of your own, leaving the rest of the world to scratch their heads in absolute confusion.

on rainy afternoons, that confusion only amplified inside the privacy of his bedroom.

the sun had long abandoned the room, leaving behind only the soft, ambient purple of twilight filtering through the window blinds. you were sitting on the edge of keonho’s bed, leaning back against the wooden headboard with a heavy textbook resting open in your lap. outside, a steady, rhythmic rain was tapping against the glass, making the warm bedroom feel like a tiny island floating in the middle of a quiet sea.

keonho wasn’t studying. he had given up on his history notes roughly forty-five minutes ago, declaring that his brain had reached maximum capacity and that his only remaining duty for the evening was to serve as your personal heating pad.

he was currently lying sideways across the mattress, his long frame draped over you without a single care for personal space. his head was buried against you, his nose tucked right into the warm crook of your neck. one of his heavy arms was wrapped tight around your waist, while his knee was hooked lazily over your thigh, anchoring you to the bed exactly like an anchor drops into the sea. he was heavy, warm, and entirely unbothered by the fact that he was crushing roughly sixty percent of your ribcage.

“love,” you murmured, holding your head back slightly so you could try to read line forty-two of your psychology chapter. “you’re kinda squishing me.”

he didn’t move a single millimetre. instead, he let out a low, contented hum that vibrated right against your collarbone, his arm tightening around your waist just a fraction more.

“nuh uh,” he mumbled into your skin, his lips brushing against your throat as he spoke, sending a tiny, involuntary shiver down your spine. “i’m currently recharging my battery, and you are my charging port. do not unplug the charger.”

“you’ve been charging for an hour,” you laughed softly, setting your highlighter down on the pillow and letting your hand sink into his thick, wavy hair. your fingers traced gentle, absentminded patterns across his scalp, untangling the soft strands. he let out a soft, breathy sigh, his shoulders relaxing completely under your touch. he shifted just enough to turn his face, pressing his cheek flat against your chest so he could look up at you with heavy, sleepy eyes.

“it’s cold,” he reasoned softly, his voice thick with sleep. “and you’re warm. and you smell like that sweet vanilla soap. why would i lie on the cold floor when i can lie on you?”

“because normal best friends don’t use each other as human furniture,” you pointed out, though your hand never stopped petting his hair.

keonho blinked, a faint, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “who said we were normal?”

you closed your textbook and slid it onto the nightstand. the moment you moved, keonho shifted, pulling the heavy duvet up over both of your shoulders to create a warm, dark little cocoon beneath the covers. he pulled you down until you were lying flat on your back beside him, his legs entangling tightly with yours under the blanket. one of his hands reached up, his long fingers finding yours in the dark and threading together, resting your joined hands over his heart.

he lowered his head until his forehead rested against yours in the dim light filtering through the sheets.

“yn?” he whispered, his voice dropping into that quiet, reverent tone that always made the rest of the world fall away.

“yeah?”

“ian asked me something today,” he murmured, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the back of your hand. “she asked if we… if we ever got confused. about where the friendship ends.”

you felt a soft flutter in the pit of your stomach, cool and sweet like butterfly wings. “what did you say?”

“i told her there’s nothing to be confused about,” he breathed, his lips hovering mere millimeters from yours. “because there was never a line to cross in the first place. i’ve just… always been yours.”

he moved his head just an inch, pressing his soft lips gently to the corner of your mouth—a slow, lingering press that felt like coming home after a long journey in the cold.

“do best friends do this?” he whispered softly, a little dimple appearing in his cheek as a tender, teasing smile broke across his face.

you let out a soft, breathless laugh, reaching up to wrap both of your arms around his neck, pulling him down against you. “no idea,” you whispered into his ear, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

that lingering heat carried straight into the weekend.

the party happened on a crisp friday night in late autumn. it was hosted by one of the senior athletes at a sprawling house at the end of a quiet suburban cul-de-sac. the front yard was already lined with parked cars by the time keonho and you walked up the driveway. the cool night air was sharp and fresh, smelling faintly of fallen oak leaves and woodsmoke, but inside the house, the atmosphere was thick with loud music, thumping bass, flashing strobe lights, and the hum of dozens of teenager voices overlapping all at once.

as was customary, you two arrived together—you always did. keonho had picked you up from your house earlier that evening, waiting patiently in your living room while you grabbed your jacket, chatting with your parents like he was already part of the family (which he technically was). when you came downstairs, his eyes had brightened instantly—that sudden, golden flare of light that always hit his gaze whenever you entered a room.

“ready?” he had asked softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear before offering you his hand.

“mhm,” you had hummed, sliding your fingers into his warm palm.

now, inside the crowded living room, the two of you moved through the sea of people like a well-rehearsed dance. you were great at mixing up friend groups. keonho was friends with everyone—the athletes, the theatre kids, the debate team, the kids who sat in the back of art class—and you were the quiet thread that seamlessly connected him to every conversation.

for the first hour, you drifted between circles together. keonho would sling a heavy, warm arm over your shoulders, pulling you against his side while he laughed at a joke someone made about the upcoming basketball season. you would rest your palm against his lower back, feeling the steady heat radiating through his soft shirt, chiming in with a witty remark whenever the conversation lulled.

people watched the two of you with the usual bewildered curiosity. you would lean up to whisper something in his ear over the blaring pop music, and keonho would bend down instantly before you could speak more than two words, his ear pressed close to your lips, a soft, indulgent smile spreading across his face. when you pulled back, he would brush his thumb over your cheekbone, completely unfazed by the fact that three different people in the circle were staring at him with wide, questioning eyes.

“are you two going to get drinks or what?” someone shouted over the music, pointing toward the kitchen where red plastic cups were being stacked into messy pyramids.

“not yet!” keonho called back, his voice smooth and bright. “we’re taking our time tonight.”

neither of you had ever drank alcohol before. it wasn’t out of some strict moral stance; it was just something you hadn’t gotten around to trying yet. high school parties were fun for the music and the socialising, but you both had always preferred staying clear-headed enough to remember every second of your time together.

around eleven o’clock, the party reached its loud, chaotic peak. the living room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, the bass from the speakers vibrating right through the hardwood floor and up through the soles of your shoes.

keonho leaned down toward you, his warm breath fanning across your temple. “hey,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, meant only for you. “it’s getting pretty loud in here. want to get some air, sweetheart?”

you looked up into his dark, bright eyes. the house was suffocating, but he looked like a breath of fresh spring air. “i’d love to.”

he took your hand, his long fingers instantly interlacing with yours, and gently navigated a path through the crowded kitchen, slipping out through the heavy glass sliding doors that led into the back garden.

the moment the glass door closed behind you, the chaotic noise of the party muffled into a soft, distant hum. the garden was quiet, illuminated only by the faint glow of fairy lights strung along the wooden fence and the cool, silvery light of the full moon hanging high in the clear midnight sky. the air was crisp, sending a tiny shiver down your spine as the cool breeze hit your cheeks.

keonho noticed immediately. before you could even register the chill, he had pulled you toward the wooden bench tucked away in the quietest corner of the yard, under the sprawling branches of an old maple tree. he sat down and immediately drew you into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you close against his chest, burying his face into the side of your neck to shield you from the wind.

you let out a soft, breathy laugh, relaxing into his warmth. it was so familiar, so effortless. you rested your head against his shoulder, looking up at the bright moon overhead.

“you’re warm,” you whispered softly, leaning your cheek against the soft cotton of his jacket.

“i’m always warm when i’m with you,” he murmured into your skin. his voice was low, smooth, and gentle, stripped of the playful boisterousness he wore indoors. out here under the night sky, he was entirely yours.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. out here, under the pale glow of the moon, time seemed to slow down until it was just the two of you, sitting on a wooden bench in the quiet chill of autumn.

he stirred slightly, his arms tightening around your waist. he shifted so he could look down into your face. the silvery moonlight caught the deep dark tones of his eyes, making them shine with a soft, golden radiance that felt brighter than any sun.

“yn?” he called your name softly. not sweetheart. just your name, weighted with a sudden, beautiful reverence that made your heart skip a beat.

“yeah, keon?” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper.

he looked at you for a long time, his gaze trailing over your eyes, the bridge of your nose, the soft curve of your lips. his thumb reached up, gently stroking your jawline with a touch so light it felt like a feather drifting on the wind.

“everybody keeps asking me questions,” keonho said quietly, a soft, fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “seonghyeon asked me earlier if i was planning on taking you to prom as a date or as a friend. even the guys on the team were nudging me, asking when i was finally going to ask you out.”

you tilted your head slightly, feeling the warm pulse of his thumb resting against your skin. “what did you tell them?”

“i told them the truth,” keonho murmured, leaning closer until his forehead rested gently against yours. the warmth of his breath brushed against your lips. “i told them that there isn’t a word in the dictionary that fits what we are. because ‘dating’ sounds like something that has a beginning and an end. and you… sweetheart, you’ve been my whole life for as long as i’ve been alive.”

your chest tightened with a sweet aching. you reached up, your fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a millimeter closer. “keonho…”

“i’m serious, yn,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut for a second as he felt your touch. when he opened them again, they were swimming with so much affection it made your breath catch in your throat. “i love you. i’ve loved you when we were seven and playing in the dirt. i loved you when we were fourteen and terrified of high school. and i love you right now, sober as a judge, under this somehow bright moon.” he chuckled softly, a quiet, rumbling sound in his chest. “you’re the moon, you know that? everyone thinks i’m the bright one because i talk too much and make a scene, but you’re the light that keeps me from getting lost in the dark. i don’t want to live in a world where i’m not orbiting around you.”

a soft, breathless giggle escaped your lips, a tear of pure, overwhelming happiness brimming at the corner of your eye before you brushed it away. “you’re such a dork, ahn keonho.”

“i’m your dork,” he corrected softly, his smile blooming wide and radiant, like the sun breaking through the clouds. “so... can i kiss you now? properly? not just on the corner of your mouth, and not because of a label, but just because i can’t spend another second sitting this close to you without doing it?”

when he finally pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours again, both of your breaths were shallow and uneven. he was grinning so hard his cheeks were dimpled, his eyes sparkling with absolute delight.

“wow,” he breathed, his thumb smoothing over your lower lip. “best friends definitely don’t do that.”

you laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing a quick, sweet kiss to the tip of his nose. “definitely not.”

he let out a low chuckling sound, shifting slightly as if to lean back and take you in—putting a few teasing inches of distance between your faces. but the sudden loss of his warmth was entirely unacceptable to you. before he could fully retreat, you leaned right back in, chasing his lips with a desperate kind of impatience that made him gasp in surprise.

his chest rumbled with a bright, melodic laugh as he ducked his head back just an inch further. “wait, wait—are you, like, addicted to me already? because i’m pretty sure there’s a strict rule about best friends—”

“shut up and just kiss me, you fucker,” you cut him off, your voice a breathless command.

you grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling him down and closing every last bit of space left between you. the sudden force brought him flush against you, and his laughter instantly melted into a soft sigh against your mouth. this time, as your arms wrapped tight around his neck, he gave in completely—his arms wrapping firm around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t an inch of air left between you.

for a long time, you just stayed there on the bench, exchanging soft, silly little kisses between bursts of laughter. every time keonho looked at you, he seemed to find a new reason to smile, leaning in to press his lips against your cheek, your jaw, your forehead, making you squeal and hide your face in his jacket while he snickered warmly.

“okay, okay,” you gasped softly, pressing your palms against his chest to push him back a fraction, though you didn’t really want him to leave. “my heart is physically going to burst if you keep being this cute.”

“i can’t help it,” he grinned, kissing the back of your hand. “i’ve been holding that back for like… twelve years minimum. i have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

“we have all the time in the world,” you reminded him softly.

he beamed, his chest expanding with a deep, happy breath. then, he blinked, looking back toward the glass sliding doors of the house where light and sound were still spilling out into the yard.

“hey,” keonho said, an adventurous glint suddenly lighting up his eyes. “you know what we’ve never done?”

“what?”

“gotten drunk.” he pointed toward the house. “everyone in there is taking shots and drinking weird coloured liquid out of red cups. we’re seventeen—which is basically almost eighteen—we just had the greatest moment of our entire lives on a garden bench, and we are ninety-nine percent clear-headed to make this decision. don’t you think it's time we try alcohol for the first time ever? together?”

you stared at him, eyebrows raising in amusement. “are you serious, love?”

“one hundred percent serious,” he said, hopping up from the bench and extending a hand to pull you up into his arms. “come on! let’s go be chaotic. if we’re going to try drinking, i only wanna do it with you.”

you looked at his eager, golden face, completely incapable of saying no to him, and also wanting to try it out anyway. “fine. but if we throw up, you’re cleaning all that shit up.”

“deal!” he laughed, grabbing your hand and pulling you back toward the house.

what followed over the next two hours was a masterclass in chaotic, legendary foolishness. neither of you had any idea how tolerance worked, what drinks tasted like, or how to mix anything properly. you approached the kitchen counter like two mad scientists entering a lab with zero safety training.

“okay, what’s this… yellow stuff?” keonho asked, picking up a half-empty bottle with an illegible label while squinting at it like it was an ancient artifact.

“i think that’s lemon vodka,” ian said, walking into the kitchen and pausing when she saw the two of you standing side-by-side near the punch bowl. she squinted at you both suspiciously. “wait... why are you two looking at each other like that? why is keonho glowing more than usual? did something happen?”

“nothing!” keonho said a little too quickly, his face flushing bright pink as he immediately poured a generous splash of the yellow liquid into a red cup. “we’re simply exploring the culinary arts of adult beverages!”

“you guys are weird,” ian muttered, grabbing a soda and walking away.

keonho turned to you, holding up the red cup with grand ceremony. “to our first drink.”

“to our first drink,” you agreed, taking a tiny sip from the cup while he took a huge gulp.

the reaction was instantaneous.

keonho’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. his throat convulsed, his face turned bright red, and he immediately bent double, coughing violently while clapping a hand over his mouth. “oh god—” he coughed. “—that tastes like hand sanitizer mixed with battery acid! why do people drink this for fun, what the fuck?!”

you weren't faring much better. the sharp, burning sensation recoiled down your throat, making you pull a face so horrific that keonho stopped coughing just to point at you and burst into hysterical laughter.

“your face!” he wheezed, leaning against the kitchen counter for support, tears of laughter prickling his eyes. “yn, you look like you just bit into a raw lemon that was soaked in kerosene—”

“dude, this is awful!” you squeaked, fanning your mouth frantically with your hand. “why is it burning?! is it supposed to burn?! this is so disgusting!”

“i don’t know!” he giggled, grabbing a carton of orange juice from the fridge and frantically pouring it into the cup to dilute the taste. “here, let’s fix it. to science!”

he stirred the concoction with a plastic spoon, added a splash of cranberry juice, a drop of sprite, and—for reasons known only to him—a sprinkle of crushed potato chips that happened to be sitting on a plate nearby.

“keonho, no!” you shrieked, laughing so hard your belly hurt as he proudly held up the light-red, slightly floaty liquid. “you cannot put potato chips in alcohol!—”

“it adds salt,” he defended passionately, taking a tiny taste test. his face contorted into absolute horror again before he began giggling hysterically. “okay, nope! that made it worse. it tastes like soggy sea water.”

within forty-five minutes, the alcohol you had managed to force down after the stupid lemon vodka—combined with the pure, unadulterated high of your earlier confession—had both of you completely, utterly giggly and lightheaded.

you weren’t dangerously drunk, but you were definitely tipsy for the first time in your lives, and the results were pure comedy. keonho became profoundly emotional about inanimate objects.

at twelve thirty, you found him standing in the hallway, staring intensely at a medium-sized potted cactus plant sitting in the corner near the stairs. he had his hands on his hips, his head tilted at a dramatic angle, looking down at the leaves with immense concern.

“love, what are you doing?” you asked, stumbling slightly as you walked over and rested your head against his arm, your fingers looping through his belt loop for balance.

“yn,” keonho whispered gravely, leaning down to whisper in your ear like he was revealing a top-secret state security matter. “this plant… it’s being excluded from the party.”

you blinked up at the cactus. “it’s a plant, keon.”

“it has feelings, yn!” he insisted, his eyes wide and terribly earnest. “look at it! everyone is in the living room dancing, and this little guy is just sitting here in the dark corridor! it’s heartbreaking!”

before you could stop him, keonho picked up the heavy ceramic pot, cradling it in his arms like a newborn baby, and solemnly marched into the crowded living room.

“everyone!” keonho announced loudly over the music, holding the cactus plant high above his head like rafiki presenting simba on pride rock. “i would like you to meet our new best friend, injang! treat him with respect!”

the entire room broke out into cheers and laughter. someone handed keonho a pair of sunglasses, which he promptly put onto the plant’s branches, while you sat on the arm of the sofa, wheezing with laughter until you literally slid off onto the carpet.

“he’s out of his mind,” seonghyeon said, shaking his head as he watched keonho carefully place ‘injang’ on a side table and start teaching the plant how to do the robot dance. “what did you guys give him?”

“orange juice and battery acid,” you wheezed from the floor, clutching your stomach. “and potato chips!”

“yn, get up off the floor,” seonghyeon laughed, reaching down to pull you up, but before he could touch your hand, keonho suddenly materialised out of nowhere, swooping in with the speed of a protective mother hen.

“hands off my moon!” keonho declared dramatically, wrapping both arms around your waist from behind and pulling you flush against his chest, dropping his chin onto the top of your head. “she’s delicate! she’s lunar! you can’t just pick up lunar bodies, seonghyeon, let alone my favourite one!”

seonghyeon stared at keonho, then stared at you as you were currently giggling uncontrollably while pressing a messy, sweet kiss against keonho’s jawline.

“okay,” seonghyeon said slowly, raising his hands in defeat. “i’m officially not asking any more questions. you two are on an entirely different planet tonight. and no alcohol for you both till we teach you how tolerance works.”

“we’re on the moon!” keonho corrected loudly, tightening his hold on you and nuzzling his nose into your neck, making you squeal with laughter. “and i’m the sun! we have an eclipse going on right now! please respect our astronomical privacy!”

by two in the morning, the party was winding down, and the peak of your tipsy adventure had faded into a soft, cozy exhaustion.

keonho and you were sitting side-by-side on the bottom step of the front porch, wrapped in a giant plaid blanket that you had somehow acquired from inside the house. the cool night air washed over your warm cheeks, helping clear the remaining haze from your minds.

keonho had his arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. your head was resting contentedly on his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath his shirt. his free hand was holding yours, his thumb absently tracing small, soothing circles over the back of your knuckles.

“my head feels like a bouncy ball,” keonho admitted softly, letting out a breathy, quiet laugh that ruffled your hair. “drinking is strange, sweetheart. i don’t think i like the taste, but i definitely like sitting here with you while the world spins a little bit.”

“me too,” you murmured, closing your eyes and pressing a gentle kiss against his collarbone through his shirt. “though i think we should stick to fruit punch next time. minus the chips.”

“agreed,” he giggled softly. “the chips were a mistake. a delicious, terrible mistake.”

the front door opened behind you, and ian stepped out, wrapped in her winter coat as she waited for her ride. she looked down at the two of you huddled together under the blanket, looking for all the world like two sleepy kittens curled up in a basket.

she sighed, a fond, helpless smile touching her lips. “so… are you guys going to finally tell us what’s going on with you two, or are we going to have to guess forever?”

keonho looked up at her, his golden eyes soft and completely untroubled. he looked down at you, his thumb gently caressing your hand, and then looked back up at ian.

“what do you mean?” he asked innocently.

“i mean!” ian threw her hands up in amusement. “you spend your lives tangled together, lying on top of each other, holding hands, kissing her cheek, calling her ‘sweetheart’, making speeches about her being the moon, and tackling seonghyeon because he tried to help her off the floor! are you guys dating now or what?”

you tilted your head up to look at keonho. he looked down at you, and in his eyes, you saw everything. you saw years of shared laughter, late-night phone calls, shared umbrellas in pouring rain, cozy rainy days tangled under duvet covers, secret smiles across crowded classrooms, and the gentle, sweet weight of his lips against yours under the maple tree. you saw the past, the present, and every unwritten day of the future stretched out like a starry sky.

‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ were nice words. they were neat, tidy boxes that people used to organise their feelings so everyone else could understand them. but what keonho and you had didn’t fit into a box. it was too big, too deep, too bright. it was the sun and the moon—two celestial bodies bound by gravity, moving together through the void, belonging to each other simply because that was how the universe was made.

keonho smiled—a soft, quiet, radiant expression that belonged only to you.

“we’re just yn and keonho,” he said gently, repeating the same line he had spoken a hundred times before. but this time, when he said it, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss right to the corner of your lips, his fingers tightening in yours.

ian stared at the two of you for a long moment, blinked twice, and then let out a long, wheezing laugh. “you guys are unbelievable. totally hopeless.”

“goodnight, ian!” keonho called out cheerfully as her ride pulled up into the driveway.

“goodnight, you weirdos! get home safe!” she called back, waving as she ran down the steps.

when the front yard finally emptied out and the night returned to its quiet, still rhythm, keonho and you slowly stood up from the porch step, keeping the plaid blanket wrapped around both of your shoulders like a shared cloak.

the walk back to your house was slow and peaceful. the streets were empty, illuminated by the pale yellow glow of streetlights casting long, intertwined shadows ahead of you on the pavement.

you walked close together, your hip bumping against his with every step, your hands locked tightly inside the warm pocket of his jacket.

“yn?” keonho murmured softly into the quiet night air as your house came into view at the end of the street.

“yeah, love?”

“do you think people will ever stop asking about us?”

you smiled, leaning your cheek against his shoulder as you walked. “probably not. they like labels, keon. they like knowing where things start and where things end.”

keonho stopped walking under the soft light of the streetlight right in front of your driveway. he turned to face you, stepping close so that there was no space left between you at all. he reached up, gently taking your face in his warm hands, his thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone.

“well… then let them ask,” keonho whispered, his voice full of that quiet, unconditional warmth that had been your home for as long as you could remember. “we don’t need a label. we just need each other.”

“always,” you whispered back.

he leaned down and kissed you again—a long, sweet, lingering kiss under the yellow light of the streetlamp, tasting faintly of sweet orange juice and the crisp autumn night. it was quiet, gentle, and utterly perfect.

no words could ever encompass what you meant to each other. no title could ever hold the weight of how deeply you belonged to him, or how completely he belonged to you.

you were the sun and the moon. day and night. best friends, lovers, and everything in between, living in a world built for two.

and as you stood there in the quiet stillness of the late-night street, wrapped in his arms under the glowing sky, you knew that no matter what tomorrow brought, you would always be right here—exactly where you belonged.

© hyuneskkami ❦